This Burden

 One of the first people I told that I was going to retire (after the council president at my church) was a woman I meet with occasionally for prayer.  The first thing she said when I told her was that she was not surprised.  The second thing she said was, "You've borne this burden for a long time."

I admit, when she first said those words, I felt seen.  I have felt the burden here in this call.  It has more than one component.  There's the burden of preaching and teaching and living the truth, as well as any flawed saint-and-sinner can, by the grace of God, in this place.  There's the burden of listening and understanding, of walking with people through dark places, through the valley of the shadow of death.  There's the burden of knowing that people will come to you with questions for which they want answers, and the realization that sometimes there are not really answers but only the mystery and the love of God.

And there is the burden of walking with a congregation that is declining, and feeling the pressure to know what to do to "turn it around", to "bring in the young families," to be this magnetic presence that brings people into the church.  There is the burden of feeling like I have to know the right strategy, talk to the right person, read the right book, figure out the right steps.

Truthfully, we have been through a lot here in the last ten years.  Personal tragedies that broke the hearts of this small community.  COViD lockdowns.  Broken relationships.  Steep learning curves, and also (I admit) things we didn't really want to learn.  I suppose these are part of the burden.  A heavy load.

But as I thought about this sentence, I grieved.  I thought of all of the times I sat with someone at their home, or in the hospital, or in a nursing home, and held up a small piece of bread, and said, "The body of Christ, given for you."  I thought about the stories I heard around kitchen tables, and in coffee shops, the joy of hearing the story of how you fell in love, the sorrow of leaving home, what it was like to be a small child moving to a new town where there wasn't anything yet, and seeing it built up before you.  I have heard stories of failure and victory, I have experienced the heartbreak of unanswered prayer, and have witnessed small miracles.  I have seen lightbulbs go on in Bible studies, heard young people pray for one another, and seen parents gasp at the wisdom of their children.  I have eaten at homeless shelters, and been prayed for by people who sleep in church fellowship halls.  

How can it be a burden if I will miss it so much?  How can it be a burden if I will miss them so much, the child who didn't want to be baptized, the pre-schooler who asked why Jesus had to die, the man who thought I was a terrible pastor, the widower he said he joined the church because of me?  How can it be a burden to witness the woman in the back of the church singing "this little light of mine" like her life depended on it?  

Maybe burden isn't the right word.  

Maybe the right word is "weight."

I have felt the weight of ministry.

But in my best moments I know that it is really weight of glory.

It is the weight of the glory of the light of Christ, shining in the darkness, shining in our imperfect lives, lives joined in faith and sorrow.  Our lives are joined to his life, and our lives are also joined to one another's lives, whether we know it or not.

Often we don't know it.  Then it becomes a burden.

So, as I prepare to retire, I pray that my congregation will be able to see -- even briefly -- the glory -- the glory in one another, the glory in the stranger, the glory in their neighbor.  And I pray that we will be able to bear one another's burdens, which is the weight of glory.

The Gift

  I got a call on Monday night from the church administrator at a neighboring congregation.  I knew that their pastor was traveling for ministry so I had an idea why she might be calling me.  

She told me that someone connected with their congregation had had a stroke, and was entering hospice, and they wanted a pastor to come out the next day.  I said I could come.  

It's not so common any more for me to do a ministry visit with someone I don't know.  I've been at my congregation for a few years, so my ministry calls are usually for people that I have known for a long time.  They are people with whom I share some history.  My colleague and I often say we will cover for each other while we are gone, but frankly, it hasn't been that often that we have had to make good on our offer.  I spoke with a daughter in law, and prepared to go to the hospital and meet the man.  

Also, I had a brand-new communion set, that I had not used yet.  I packed it up in the morning, and was looking forward to using it for the first time.  It is cedar, and it smells so good when I open it.  The smell reminds me of the verse in the Old Testament, "let my prayers rise before You as incense."  The cedar smells like prayer to me.  And this one has a place for anointing oil  I have never had anointing oil in my communion set before.  

I will be retiring in just a couple of months.  So perhaps it seems like an odd time to buy a new communion set.  But I got an unexpected gift, and decided that this was the way I would use it.  I'm not sure what this says about me.  I will still have a couple of months to visit people and give communion, to sit with people and pray and read scripture and talk about our lives.  It is all communion.

And then there was Tuesday.  I got to the hospital at about noon.  I introduced myself to the man.  His son had not arrived at the hospital yet.  I introduced myself to him, and we tried to have a conversation, but his stroke made it difficult for either of us to understand the other.  I tried to tell him what church I was from.  I asked him about himself.  Once in awhile I understood something.  He did keep saying, "Open the door."  The door was open, but I opened it wider.

I did sing a couple of songs:  "Amazing Grace, "What a Friend in Jesus," "Jesus Loves Me."  It is one of the things I do when I don't know what to do.  

Then his son arrived.  I introduced myself, and asked what would be most helpful.  His dad was on a feeding tube but he could be anointed.  I could read scripture and pray.  His son said, "He is afraid.  Help him to know he doesn't have to be afraid."  I asked, "Is he afraid of leaving you, or is he afraid for himself?"  "For himself," he said.  "He knows we will be okay."

I remembered how my dad worried before he died.  He worried about his salvation.  Even though he had believed his whole life, now he was worried he was not good enough.  And how I asked my dad, "Do you trust Jesus?" and he said, "Yes."  And I told him, "Then you are okay."  And my dad said, "You mean it's that simple?"

So I said to the man who had had the stroke, "Do you believe that Jesus loves you?"  He nodded.  I said, "Don't be afraid."  And I stretched out my arms and said, "He is ready to welcome you, just like this."  And I read from Isaiah 43, and John 11, and prayed.  And then I opened up my brand new commuion set, and took out the vial of oil.  It smelled a little like balsam.  

And when I anointed him, the oil got all over my hands, like the oil running down Aaron's beard, and it was messy and smelly and wonderful.

All the way home I thought of how the man said, "Open the door", and I wondered what he meant.  The door was open.  And of course I don't know, but suddenly I thought of how Jesus said, "I am the door."  

May Jesus the door be open to him.

May Jesus the door be open to us, all the days of our lives.

It is this I am called to do -- to make the sign of the cross with oil, and remind people who are dying that they are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever.  

For two more months and forever -- I am called to remind people they are marked by the cross of Christ.  I am called to remind them of the door that is open, the grace that is wide, the oil running down the beard of Aaron.  The gift.

The Blue Ridge Parkway

 The first stop on my short sabbatical this summer was Atlanta, where we could spend some quality time with our grandchildren (oh yeah, and the kids) over a couple of weekends.  But during the week, we drove up to Asheville, North Carolina.  Part of me wanted to do something new, but there's another part that always wants to go back to that part of the world, the roads, the hills, the mountains.  We have visited a few times since our son moved to Atlanta for work.  We enjoy the street musicians in Asheville, the food, the Famous Bookstore, and we always drive a little part of the Blue Ridge Parkway.  I think at first I wanted to go there because of the history of how it was built.  One year we drove to Mount Mitchell.  Another time we found Mount Pisgah.  This year we looked at the tourist information and decided to find Linville Falls.

We knew we could get there simply by taking the Parkway, but the problem was -- we didn't know how long it would take.  At least, that SEEMED like a problem at the time.  So I did what I have learned to do over the past several years -- I turned on GPS.  All I wanted to do was get an arrival time.  

But GPS had something else in mind.  It gave me directions that took me OFF the Parkway and back on the regular roads.  We decided "oh well" and we went with it.  We were running late anyway.  But we knew that when we got to the area, we would want to find the Falls and the Parkway again, which was slightly challenging, as GPS didn't work some of the time.

I told a clerk at a convenience store my problem, and she said, "GPS doesn't like the Blue Ridge Parkway."  I thought about that.  In other words, GPS will not tell you that you should take the Parkway from Asheville to Linville Falls.  It will give you another route (there were some interesting things on this route as well, thankfully).  

When we finally found the Falls, we hiked around a bit, and decided that we didn't have time to take the Parkway all the way home.  If you have to BE somewhere, it is definitely not the fastest road.   There are many places to stop and get out and look around.  And if you don't do that -- if you don't stop and look -- what's the point?  So for most of the way we took the highway.  But for a little while I wanted to be on the Blue Ridge.  

I just wanted to BE there.  And I thought, as we were driving, and stopping and looking -- maybe that's why GPS doesn't like it.  You don't take the Parkway to GO somewhere.  You take it to BE somewhere.  The road itself is a place.  

There is something holy about that, about considering a road which is not just a means to an end, but an end in itself.  There is something holy about wandering the Blue Ridge Parkway (they call the whole 469 miles "meandering').  So much of life is getting somewhere else -- and not paying attention to where we are right now.  I'm learning about mindfulness, and the Parkway seems like a place to be mindful.

After all, God is where we are right now, as well as up ahead of us, and behind us, and below and above us.  Maybe it's all right to turn off the GPS and just be, pay attention, listen and wonder.  Maybe it's all right to stop at the scenic outlooks, not to be in a hurry all the time.  

I meant to write this earlier but I was too busy, and now my heart is heavy with the devastation that I'm seeing from hurricane Helene, lives and places wrecked, catastrophes everywhere.  But God is where we are right now, here as well.  In grief and work and love.  May we pay attention.

Lost in Translation

 It was back in April, right after Easter, and we were traveling home from Brenham to Montgomery.  Even though we've lived here for awhile now, we still take notice of the geography and the names that we encounter, so different in some ways from the geography and names in our homeland of Minnesota.  I noticed at some point that we were in Brazos County, and that we had traveled over the Brazos River.  We both wondered what "Brazos" meant.  My husband thought that maybe brazes meant brown, because that seemed to be the color of the river, at least from where we could see.  So I did what people do these days:  I googled it.  I googled "Brazos" and discovered that it did not mean "brown."  It was Spanish for "arms."  I thought of all the other words derived from this one:  brace, embrace, bracelet, bracket.  I'm sure there are more.

And then I learned more:  that the full name of the Brazos River is this:  "Rio de los brazos de Dios" -- the River of the Arms of God.  That's what the Spanish explorers called it.  They didn't simply see a body of water, flowing -- they saw something of God -- wide, embracing, stretching out.  Somehow it made the river seem alive to me.  What else was I not noticing?

*****

Then it was July, and I was in Minnesota, a place I know well, or so I think.  We were staying a little north of the Twin Cities, near the City of Anoka, a small historic town that rests on the place where the Rum River flows into the mighty Mississippi.  We walked around the town and peered over the bridges, and drove along the edge of the Rum River, where there were flowering bushes and trees and picnic tables and swings.  I got out of the car and looked around.  I didn't know anything about the Rum River, although I had lived in Minnesota all of my life and knew plenty about the Mississippi and the Minnesota, the St. Croix and the Root Rivers.  So I did what people do these days:  I googled it.  I discovered that the Rum River flows from the great Mille Lacs Lake in north central Minnesota to the Mississippi.  Mille Lacs is French for "thousand lakes".  The Ojibwa people called it "Zaaga'igan" (grand lake), and in Dakota it was called "Bde Wakhan" (Spiritual/Mystic Lake.).  It was a place of spiritual importance, as was the river that flowed out of it. 

The Rum River.  The name is a mistranslation.  When explorers first heard its name, "Spirit River", they thought it meant "spirits" -- like rum.  But it really meant Spirit, as in God.

*****

The River of the Arms of God.  The Spirit River.  The water flows, and shimmers, and gives life.  It is true, what Jacob said.  "Surely God is in this place, and I -- I did not know it."

Contemplative Prayer

 One of the most consequential experiences of my short sabbatical this summer happened almost at the end of my time away.  I had spent a good deal of necessary time with family, both in Atlanta and in Minnesota.  I had finished my certification in Spiritual Direction course in South Carolina, had hiked in areas along the Blue Ridge Mountains, listened to music, and spent a week on the North Shore of Lake Superior, writing and hiking and just being near the water.  There is something about being near water, isn't there?  

At the back of my mind was something I wanted to do in July:  go to contemplative worship one Saturday night at Lake Nokomis Presbyterian Church, in Minneapolis.  They offer the Saturday night service twice a month, as part of an emphasis on sabbath.  I had first thought about going on the second Saturday in July, but somehow we got distracted by a River Festival in a small town near my brother's place, so we went there instead.

Kara Root is the pastor of Lake Nokomis Presbyterian Church.  Back in 2020, I had read her book "The Deepest Belonging".  Then, this year, she published a follow-up, Receiving This Life, which also tells stories but offers prayers and faith practices as well.  Somewhere along the line I learned that her church offers a contemplative service, and I was genuinely curious.  My time was running out.  I knew I couldn't put it off again.

So we set out for this little church (she often describes it as a "tiny congregation").  Maybe that's one of th reasons I was a little nervous.  I couldn't be anonymous there.  Would they notice us?  How would it feel?

We got to the church a little bit before 5:00 when worship would begin.  I discovered that, due to the heat, they were meeting in their small fellowship hall.  The sanctuary did not have air conditioning.  

And it WAS a small group.  I didn't count, but I think that there may have been twelve people, including us.  We were greeted warmly, and initial awkwardness disappeared during the first few minutes.

I noticed that the small room was filled -- with a couple of floor murals (one was a map of the world, one, I think was a large heart), a stand with candles, a table with notebooks, paper, crayons, playdoh, and some other things.  There were coloring sheets, and there was at least one art display.  There was also an outdoor labyrinth if anyone wanted to go outside in the heat and pray by walking.

The service opened simply, with a few instructions, a prayer, and a little singing without accompaniment.  They were simple songs, and some people sang in harmony (including us!).  The pastor read scripture, someone lead a responsive prayer, and then there were directions about how to use the next half hour for prayer and meditation.  There was one particular station that was new and related to praying for either a current event or based on a sermon theme for the summer (I don't remember which).  

I wondered what to do for a half hour, but my husband settled in quickly with colored pencils and a coloring page with the word "Alleluia" on it.  I walked around for a few minutes, stopping to light a candle at one station, putting a couple of candles on the map for places I wanted to pray for.  I noticed a large heart and then small pieces of paper with names of people and occupations on them -- words like "EMTs", "single parent families", "abuse survivors", "nurses", "teachers","clerks".... and many more.  The large notebooks that I saw earlier had many directions for ways to pray during this free time.  Afterwards, Pastor Kara said that the book had developed organically over time, as they discovered, learned and incorporated prayer practices that worked for them.  There were sheets of papers and pens; one of the options was simply to journal your prayers.  So, for the rest of the time, that is what I did.  I simply wrote my prayers, my worries, my hopes, to God.

Somewhere during this time it occurred to me how odd and wonderful this was:  I wasn't rushing through prayers to get to the next thing.  I was simply allowing myself to sit, and to be, and it didn't feel lazy, it felt full.  I was simply allowing myself to be in the presence of God.  Why don't I do this more often, I thought?   

A bell called us back together for closing prayers and a closing song.  A few people stayed to help clean up the room.  Some people said it was nice to have a couple of Lutherans worshipping with them (possibly because of my husband singing the bass parts).   I introduced myself to Pastor Kara, and told her I had just completed a spiritual direction program.  She said that she was a spiritual director too.

Just one hour.  That's all it was.  But somehow, in just being, in listening, in prayer, God found me.

Openings

 Last week we headed up to the North Shore of Lake Superior for a one part of my sabbatical.  Most specifically, our destination was my friend Anna's retreat, called, "The Spent Dandelion", a place she created to offer respite and reflection time to clergy (and others, I suspect; we all need respite and reflection).  Her place is right on the border of Two Harbors, Minnesota, in the forest and close to the greatest Great Lake.  Besides reflection and respite, one of the virtues of Two Harbors in the summer is a break from the summer heat.  It rarely gets above 75 degrees Fahrenheit and almost no one has air conditioning.

When we drove in Sunday afternoon, Anna was standing in the driveway, waving her arms and pointing us to our designated parking space.  Her husband and their four dogs were also there to welcome us (their cat, not so welcoming).

Almost the first thing Anna did was apologize, though.  It was not 75 degrees.  It was unusually warm for the area that week, and was around 90 as we spoke.  In fact, we had been commenting as we drove north, that we were expecting it to cool down any minute, and it didn't.  Like everyone else, they didn't have air conditioning, but all the windows were open and the fans were going, and they were expecting some "weather" that would cool things off.

Living just north of Houston as we do right now, we are used to hot weather, but also to air conditioning.  So it was a slight disappointment, I'll admit, to go to bed hot, with the fans on and the windows open on both sides of the apartment.  Only the dog didn't mind.  She delighted in looking out the window, and curled up on the bed to sleep.

But during the night, something magical happened.  Indeed, it was just as my host promised.  Some kind of weather came in (although not a huge storm), and the breezes coming through our open window were cool and refreshing.

I remembered this experience from childhood, although I had not felt it for a long time.  In our house growing up, there was no air conditioning, and I remember the windows open at night, box fans in the windows, sleeping with just a sheet on those steamy night.  Then, sometime in the night, the wind would turn, and the air coming in would  be cool and refreshing.

These days it seems like we keep the windows closed most of the time; in the winter, to keep it warm, and in the summer to keep it cool.  I didn't realize how much I  miss the feeling of air coming through open windows.  I didn't realize how much I needed cross-ventilation.

We keep the windows closed for many reasons -- excessive heat and cold, certain noises, the highway is too close, we are distracted by the neighbors, their music and their conversations.  (I remember hearing through the wall a very loud telephone conversation in the middle of the night in my first apartment.)  But I forgot how much we need fresh air, not just cross-ventilation, but cross-fertilization, to be stirred up by the breeze or the music or conversations that float through the air (well, some of them anyway).  I forgot how much I needed fresh air, open windows, open eyes, and ears.  

The open windows reminded me of something else too:  they reminded me of a childhood enchanted with God's presence, in the mysteries of the world, of nature, of all the things I was thirsty to know, and didn't yet.  They reminded me of the stories of scriptures, and the stories in fairy tales, and the stories from the books that I was starting to learn to read.  When did I close the window and learn to live in artificially comfortable temperatures almost all the time?  

I am thinking about this.

I just completed a course on spiritual direction.  Theoretically, I can go and be a spiritual director now.  I am still learning what that means, though.  I am by no means an expert.  I need spiritual direction myself, someone to remind me that the Spirit is out there, and in me, and to open the windows that are closed in me and catch the breeze.  I need someone to remind me to be open to the enchantment that is already in the world.

I think, in its most basic form, this is what spiritual direction is.  It is to remind each other to open the windows in our lives, open the windows to the voice of God in scripture, to open the windows that point to God's presence in tears and shouts, in maple leaves in fall, in red-tailed hawks circling, in the wind.

Turn

 We haven't been up on the North Shore for ten years, I think.  I moved down to Texas in 2015, and although we have visited our family in Minnesota, there hasn't been the time to drive north.  But we used to go, every summer, for three or four days, and take our dog along.  Part of my sabbatical this year was one week on the North Shore at a theological retreat center run by my friend Anna.  It is a place to unwind and relax and get inspiration from the forests and lakes and the cool breezes.  

Of course, it was 90 degrees when we arrived on Sunday afternoon --with no air conditioning, because no one has air conditioning around here.  They promised that the weather would change, though and sometime during that first night, coolness rolled in through the open windows.  It was a feeling I hadn't experienced since my childhood, pre-air conditioning.  Fans in all of the windows, my mom coming into our rooms late in the night and changing the direction of the fans so that they would blow the cool air in instead of blowing the hot air out.  

On Wednesday we had planned to go to Grand Marais.  We had so many good memories there -- hiking trails, eating at restaurants (with our dog), the local artists, the World's Best Donuts (really!).  But some of the places we remembered weren't open (although the fabulous Drury Lane Bookstore was).  However, I couldn't decide which book to buy and ended up leaving empty-handed.

On the way home, we kept looking for places to stop and hike and get good views of the lake.  Inspiration.  That was part of the reason I came, right?  As Anna's tagline goes "Retreat Reflect Restore".  But retreating reflecting and restoring is not a straight line.

We stopped at Tettegouche State Park but decided that wasn't the right place, at least not on Wednesday.  So we continued driving, debating where to stop, until we remembered a Scenic Overlook close to "home", at Silver Creek Cliff.  That is where we stopped, and that is where we walked.  We walked part of the way up and back, because we were already tired.  There is a tunnel there, but it wasn't there until 1994.  Before that, the narrow road ran right along the cliff.  There were spectacular views, but with some unfortunate downsides -- for example, sometimes falling rocks would close the road for days (or perhaps longer.  I don't know).  The tunnel opened in 1994 as well as the walking path, so you can get close to the edge of the cliff (without rocks falling on you).

I walked with my camera out, because I always want to take pictures of what I am seeing, but I was disappointed in every picture I tried to take.  They just weren't spectacular enough, I guess.  But the walking was good, and I did see a monarch butterfly and some milkweed.

Then we got to the part where we decided to turn around.  I don't remember if it was right away, but in my memory it seems like it was.  I turned around, and there it was.  The Lake.

All I had to do was turn around.  Which doesn't seem like such a hard thing to do, but, at the heart of it, that is what repentance is.  Turning.  Turning around.  Returning.  I don't know about you, but when I usually think of repentance, I think of it in my head.  My brain.  My heart. Thinking, or feeling, differently,  But somehow I think that repentance, like faith itself, is really a whole body experience.  No offense to Paul, but we don't just change our minds.  We turn our heads, our bodies, our lives, in a different direction.  

Turn.  That is what Jesus asks us to do, and not just once, but every day.  You never know which moment it will be, when you will turn, and see something different, or see something, or someone, in a different way.  We will be astonished by beauty, by vastness, by grace.  

That is what repentance, that is what turning, does.  It is re-orienting ourselves to God.  But not just our minds.  Our faces, looking up into rain or sunshine. Our backs, leaning over a garden.  Our whole bodies, our whole selves, repent.  And it seems to me that this turning is also at the heart of our lives.  Again and again and again -- we turn.

The Kingdom of heaven has drawn near.

The Power of “Amen”

 It was Saturday afternoon.  I was ready for Sunday, and getting ready to go out of town with my husband on Sunday afternoon, for a quick anniversary trip.  Just overnight. 

I got a text from one of our new members.  If there is such a thing as a “desperate text”, that is what this was.  Her good friend, the man who used to attend church with her and her granddaughter, was dead.  Heartbroken was not a strong enough word for what she was feeling.  I called her.  She wanted to know if it was possible for us to have a funeral the next Friday, even though he had not joined the church.

I said yes.  It didn’t even seem like a hard decision.  She was hurting; how could we not do this for her?  He was her best friend, had been like a father to her granddaughter.  It was even more than that.

And, she said, he had taken his life.  When we met together to discuss music and scripture readings, the first thing she said to me was, “What is a scripture reading that lets people know that a person took his life but he is in heaven?”

I knew my task then.  We chose his favorite songs, and sang Amazing Grace.  I chose Psalm 130, and parts of Romans 8.  And I started to write, or tried to write, a sermon.  I felt the weight of saying the right thing, and not saying the wrong thing.  I didn’t know anyone else who would be there, but this heartbroken, grieving woman.  

I wrote and rewrote and rewrote again.  I think I was afraid of naming the reality because there have been times when people have not wanted the reality named.  The most important thing is to tell the truth.  But it seemed hard.  

So there we were, at 1:00 in the afternoon.  There were a respectable number of people there  on time, but they kept coming during the first part of the service, slipping in and taking a seat.  These were people that this man had worked with at two different jobs.  All of them thought it was important to be there for him, for his family, for each other.  

I remember that my parish member wasn’t sure about having remembrances.  She couldn’t think of anyone who would be able to speak.  I decided to do something a little risky, and invite people to share something they remembered.  Five people raised their hands and stood up and said gracious words about their friend.

Then it was time for me to speak.  By this time our little church was pretty full.  I began.  I shared a couple of memories.  I acknowledged this man’s struggle with depression, and how depression lies, and we were here to tell the truth.  And then I came to the hard part.  I said these words:

“And I am glad you have come here to the church as well, to T’s church, to the place she and K and her granddaughter worshipped.  Because, I am sad to say, there was a time when the church would not have had his funeral in the sanctuary.  There was a time when the church believed that people who took their lives were somehow beyond God’s mercy.  We preached judgment then, instead of grace.  And that makes what you are all dealing with even harder.  

“And so today I want to be very clear — that K was and is a child of God, and that God loves him, knew his pain, and received him as his own.”

It was then I heard it.

AMEN.  

A chorus of voices from the pews.  They said Amen and they kept saying Amen, whenever the grace and mercy of God was proclaimed, whenever words of eternal life invoked.  

AMEN

This is not a common practice in the denomination to which I belong.  But I felt the power of this one word.  The Amen of agreement, the Amen of encouragement, the Amen of radical mercy.

In that moment I felt that the words I was saying were not mine alone, and that the ministry I was offering was also not mine alone.  All of these people who came — they came to grieve, and to receive hope — but they also came as ministers and witnesses to the power of the gospel.

AMEN

After the worship service, the congregation shared food and stories, hugs and tears.  So many people said to us, “Thank you for letting us come here.  Thank you for your welcome.”  The gratitude overwhelmed us.  

But also — I heard so many stories, from this man’s co-workers, stories about all that they shared with one another at work.  These people who worked together were a family, bonded together both by the work they did, but also by dinners and stories and lives they shared.  

I have worked as a pastor for so long that I have forgotten the kind of bonding people can do at work, the ways in which our coworkers can become our family, and even — our church.  A community of support — and faith.

A community of “Amen.”

We can be that for one another.  When we are afraid to tell the whole, hard, and merciful truth.  When we need to name the pain, but also the love.  When we need the mercy of God to be shown in each other’s arms, and eyes, and voices.

Amen.

May we say it, and hear it, and be it, for one another.

  

Make America Godly Again

 It was back in June, and I was shopping for clothes to take on a retreat.  I suppose it was an excuse — do I really need more clothes? — in a nice women’s shop. I had picked out a couple of sale items, when I turned and saw her.  She was wearing a t-shirt that said, “Make America godly Again.”

And immediately I wondered, I wonder what godliness would look like to her?

I didn’t ask.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to get into a theological discussion right then, and, it was June, and out of the corner of my eye I also spied what I THINK was their tasteful and sort of understated Pride-themed shirt.  It was white but had all kinds of colors woven into it as well.   

The woman’s “godly” t-shirt:  gray.

Maybe this was a coincidence, but it did make me think.

I posted about the incident and my question on facebook.  Some people did ask me why I didn’t ask HER.  Maybe I should have.  But I thought possibly it would have been a longer conversation.

On facebook though, I did get a response that made me think.  One of my friends talked about godliness and how people just went to church more back in the 1940s and 1950s (and even 1960s).  The church where I grew up was full, and, I will admit, I sort of wish that the church was full like that again.

It got me nostalgic for awhile, thinking back on the crowded Sunday School Rooms, and youth group (although I didn’t really like youth group, but that’s another story).  I thought about every Sunday worship and what it sounded like when a lot of people are singing hymns they know and love, together.  Most of the stores weren’t open and there wasn’t much on TV.  If you asked people, almost everyone said they believed in God.

The Good Old Days.

But was that godliness?

I’m older (and still Christian, by the way), but I know some things about the “good old days” that I didn’t when I was growing up.  The good old days weren’t good for everyone.  I just didn’t know about it then.  I didn’t know about segregation.  My northern suburb didn’t really have any people of color.  I didn’t know about lynching.  I didn’t know that people thought it was somehow godly to bar the doors of their churches and not let people of color worship with them.  It was considered godly to have separate schools and separate water fountains.  

But everybody went to church.  And believed in God.

So “Make America Godly Again?”  How do we know we were godly before?  How are we even defining godliness?  What is our criteria for godliness anyway?

When I think back on my childhood, (and frankly, even parts of my adulthood), I think I defined godliness as what I wasn't supposed to do -- drink, smoke, swear, be too familiar with the opposite sex before marriage,  My grandparents also included dancing and playing cards (they believed it was a sin to use face cards and we only played Rook.)  So godliness was a sort of respectability, although that turned out in some cases to be outward respectability.  And perhaps, in some cases, that included going to church.  

I still remember my aunt telling me once, when I talked to her about the "good old days" in her hometown and home church, about men being active in church, that she replied, "And then they went home and beat their wives."

So, "make America godly again?"  I have mixed feelings.  I would want to know what the definition of godliness was.  I would want to know what the criteria was.  I would hope that rather than barring the doors and keeping people out, true godliness would include mercy and wide welcome.  It would include seeing the image of God in one another, and even the stranger.  You know, like Jesus, who hung around with sinners and accepted dinner invitations from them.

I think as well that I would be careful about wearing a "Make America Godly Again" t-shirt.   If I did, it wouldn’t be gray.  It would be all the colors.  Godliness would be vibrant, with open arms.  Godliness would rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep.  Godliness would laugh, and sing.  And be humble.  Godliness would have room for more people, not fewer, because it would be based on the huge surprise of grace.

What makes a church good?

 Early one steamy morning my husband and I were walking our dog around the common areas of our community.  It was early enough that the lawn workers were out, mowing and weeding and beautifying, and as we walked along the circle, one of them paused mowing to let us pass.  I thanked him, and asked him how he was.

“I want to quit!”  He said.  

“How long have you been doing this?” I replied.

“Three days.  But I know I don’t want to do this the rest of my life.  I think I might want to go to college.”

I asked him which college, and he quickly named a well-regarded college nearby.  I offered that one of the young people from my church would be attending that college this fall.

He asked if I attended the church down the street, and I said, No, and I named my church (Grace) and where it was located.

Then he asked, “Is it a good church?”

Before I could say anything, my husband responded, “SHE’S the pastor!”

The young man looked surprised.  “YOU’RE the pastor?”

Sometimes it is difficult to imagine that after all these years (women have been ordained for over 50 years in my denomination) people are still shocked that I exist.  And yet, it’s not his final comment that reverberates; it’s his question:  “Is it a good church?”

It made me wonder what a “good church” would look like to him.  Maybe that’s why I hesitated to say “yes."  I think that my church is good (after all, I’m the pastor), but in what way is it good?  Would he think so?  And even though I think we are “good” (whatever that means), I don’t think we are a perfect church.   There are times that I am amazed by our love and generosity — I still remember the Spirit I felt when our congregation blessed our two high school seniors and gave them quilts that our quilters group made.  On that day, I thought, “This is a great church!”

One of our newer members lives alone; when he had medical appointments, some of our other members gave him rides to and from the doctor’s office.  And when the son of a friend of the congregation needed to get married over a weekend leave, members of the congregation made sure he and his fiancé were welcomed, and made the celebration happen.

When an older member of the congregation died suddenly, almost 30 members of the church attended her funeral, even though it was at another venue about forty miles away.

But, if I am honest, there are other moments too:  times when someone (even me) said the wrong thing at the wrong time.  There have been moments when the livestream failed, or the sermon fell short.  The music isn’t always perfect.

But, what makes a church good?  That’s what I am thinking about.  I don’t know what this young man thinks.  I don’t know if a good church for him is large, and has a band, or small, and has prayer groups.  I don’t know if a good church for him is sure about everything, or leaves room for doubt.  

For me, this is what makes a church good: a church that listens to the children and the shut ins.  A church that hears the voice of God, in scripture, but also in outcasts.  A church that practices forgiveness.  A church that knows Jesus, and wants to know him better.  A church that cares for one another, and for others.  This church doesn’t need to be large, but there is always room for more.

What makes a church good?

Practice Resurrection: Doubt and Trust

 Since our service didn't broadcast this weekend, I thought I would share my sermon here:

Alleluia!  Christ is risen!

            He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

 

            I’ll be honest.  I thought I wasn’t going to have a sermon series for the season of Easter.  I’ll just preach week to week, I thought – and then, I came across a poem by a man named Wendell Berry.  

            Wendell Berry is a Christian, a farmer, and a writer.  I believe he lives in Kentucky.  The poem is called “Manifesto:  The Mad Farmer Liberation Front”  -- promise, I won’t read it to you – 

            Throughout the poem are strewn odd words of advice like these:   “Love the Lord.  Love the world. Work for nothing.”  “Ask the questions that have no answers.”  “Love someone who does not deserve it.”  “Plant Sequoias.”  “Laugh.” “Be Joyful though you have considered all the facts.”             The last two words of the poem are these:  ‘Practice Resurrection.”

 

            How do you “practice resurrection”?  

            It’s not a bad question to ask throughout the season of Easter  -- not bad to consider for these 50 days.  How do you practice resurrection?  

            Isn’t it something that is Just given to you?  It just happens.  You can’t do it.  

            You can’t resurrect yourself – God has to do it.  

            And yet—in some ways we CAN practice – by – well – planting sequoias (or bluebonnets) , or being joyful though you have considered all of the facts.  

            So this Easter we are going to practice resurrection – and I hope you will also send in your ideas as well.

 

            And I can’t think of any way better to begin to practice resurrection than with the story of Thomas. 

            Thomas, the great doubter.   “Doubting Thomas.”  

            I feel a little sorry for him, being stuck with such a nickname.  After all, if you read the gospels carefully, that’s not ALL that Thomas was.  

            In John 11, Thomas was brave – he was the one who said to Jesus – when he said he was going to Lazarus, “Let us go, that we may die with him.”  

            And we have Thomas to thank for asking that great question in John 14, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going.  How can we know the way?”  

            for Jesus answered him by saying, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”  Where would we be without Thomas’ question?  

 

            But “doubting Thomas”, that’s what we remember – that’s what sticks -- but that’s not even really true. 

            I know our translation has Jesus saying, “Do not doubt but believe” – but in reality Thomas wasn’t just doubting – he was unbelieving.  

            He didn’t say “I doubt it”.  He said. “I don’t believe it.”  Or, “I won’t believe it – unless I see.”

 

            Maybe that’s even worse. But it’s honest.  And You know what?  I’ll take that honesty.  I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be honest when you are standing in front of Jesus. 

 

            So maybe that’s one part of practicing resurrection.  

            No platitudes.  Be honest.  

            Be honest about your doubts, your struggles, your questions.  Like Thomas.  Put it out there.  

            It’s risky and vulnerable because there are always people out there who might think you are not a good enough Christian if you have any questions, or if you are struggling with something.  

            But I admire Thomas’ honesty – that he is willing to come out with it right in front of the disciples and say, “Unless I see the nail holes – unless I can put my hand in them – I will not believe.”  

 

            But I can’t help thinking that this isn’t just about Thomas.  

            It’s about the other disciples too – what they did and didn’t do.      When Thomas wasn’t there with them on Easter evening – they went out looking for him.  

            And whatever flaws there were in the relationships between the disciples – and I am sure there were some 

            -- he felt that he could be honest with them – tell them what he was really feeling – and they wouldn’t cast him into the outer darkness.  

 

            So a community willing to listen and walk with one another – in both joyful and painful times – is practicing resurrection.

 

            There’s another thing I would like to thank Thomas for – if it wasn’t for his unbelief – we wouldn’t have Jesus’ words, “Have you believed because you have seen me? 

            Blessed are those who have NOT seen – and yet have come to believe.”

 

            Because like the words, “I am the way the truth and the life,” those words are for all of us.  

            They are for those of us who have not seen – and yet – somehow – for some reason – have come to believe.  

            They are for those of us who were not blessed with those literal, first-century resurrection appearances – although I will say they must have been as terrifying as they were amazing. 

            Blessed are we who believe that Jesus rose – even though we weren’t there.  

 

            Or maybe a better word than believe is this “ Trust.”  

            Blessed are those who have not seen – and yet have come to trust.”  

            Because trust is not just about what you know in your mind – but trust has to do with relationships – and it is active.  

            For example – I’m thinking about when we stayed in an AirBnb one time on travel – and we stayed in a stranger’s home – in one of their extra bedrooms.  

            I didn’t think about it at the time, but that took a certain level of trust – both on our part – and on the part of our host.  

 

            Doubt AND Trust – both a part of practicing Resurrection.  Because we live in a world where both Good Friday – and Easter – are real – and are happening at the same time.  

            I couldn’t help noticing a news story from Ukraine last week that churches in Lviv were full on Easter Sunday.  Why?  

            They are living in a time of violence and struggle and suffering – which might seem so contrary to our proclamation of the resurrection.              They are looking around and seeing death, and fear.  

            And at the same time – they are proclaiming with their lives the hope of the resurrection – the things they do not see – but trust – the victory of the love of God.

 

            In you life there will be times you will know – that God is holding you close.  

            And there will be times when you will ask the question, “Where is God?  Why is this happening?”  

            Embrace both of these realities.  They are both true.

 

            They say that Doubting Thomas eventually travelled far – all the way to India. 

            There are very old Christian churches in India that date themselves back to doubting Thomas.  And who knows whether any of the legends are true. 

            But I like to think that – if he indeed went – that went both with trust and with questions – with struggles and with faith. 

             He opened a door not knowing what was on the other side – except that Jesus was there.  

 

            He went -- practicing resurrection.

 

            May we trust that – Christ is risen – every day – and practice resurrection in our lives.

 

            AMEN

 

Loving the Questions

Lately I have been noticing that I LOVE questions.  Sometimes (I'll be honest) I love questions simply because I know the answer and knowing the answer makes me feel smart and even useful.

For example, on Sunday at confirmation one of the student's mothers asked a question about our worship service that morning.  We had Palm Sunday and included just a portion of the story of Jesus' suffering and death.  On the way home her husband had asked, "Where does Judas come in?"  She said, "I'll ask Pastor tonight at confirmation."  And I felt a surge of pastoral usefulness as I told her that Judas comes in before the section of scripture we read -- he had betrayed Jesus earlier in the story, and he's already out of the picture.

The week before I went to visit a woman with communion in her home.  She was ready for me with "questions for the pastor".  I realize that I love these moments -- she wanted to know the meaning of the phrase, "By his stripes we are healed."  And I could do that.  

I love questions.

But I realize that there is more than one kind of question -- there is another kind of question, and sometimes I am privileged to hear it.  It's not a question that makes me feel smart, or useful.  It is a kind of question that makes me feel humble, and (I'll admit) a little uncomfortable.  It is a question that makes me feel like I am walking on holy ground.  The question is bigger than I am.

Last week, someone asked me a question like that.

He was four.

The question he asked was, "Why is Jesus so important?"

How do you answer a question like that?  That is not a question to be answered (not really), but a question to be lived.  It is a question that I hope will follow this boy his whole life, and I hope he will discover different answers to it at different ages.  I wonder what he will discover by asking why Jesus is so important.

A little while later, someone else asked another question, "Why did Jesus have to die?"

She also was four.

And you may disagree, but I believe that this is the same kind of question.  I do not know the answer to that question, not really.  I know some people say they know, but I don't.   In the same way that I don't really know why anyone "has to" suffer -- but they do.  

And yet

This is Holy Week, and I can't help thinking that this is the week for these kinds of questions.  The second kind.  The kind that humble you, and make you realize that you are standing on holy ground.  The kind that you live with your whole life.  

This is Holy Week.  The week for questions that are bigger than I am.

Wheat and Weeds, Redux

On Sunday I preached the parable of the wheat and the weeds, the one where there is good seed sown by a good sower and an enemy that mucks things up by sowing weeds while everyone is sleeping.  And before that, on Tuesday evening, when we had read this parable and its explanation at an online Bible study, there was silence afterward we finished reading.  And someone said, "I don't like this parable." And I think that part of it was just that the parable itself ends with the image of the weeds being burned and the wheat being gathered, and the explanation has that line about casting out evildoers and the weeping and gnashing of teeth.

So, it's not (in some ways) what you would call a "feel good" parable, although I wrestled a blessing out of it, pointing out that God lets the wheat and weeds grow together because God doesn't want to lose even one shock of wheat, and as well pointing out that the presence of the weeds does not mean God has abandoned the field.

Afterwards my husband asked me why I had not used our own yard as a sermon illustration:  with our many weeds that we struggle to control, and our St. Augustine grass (which we had never heard of up north) which we THOUGHT was a weed, and were merrily trying to pull out.  I said that I had thought about it but I had way too much material for one sermon.  So the St. Augustine grass did not make it into the sermon.

But he also told me afterwards that the one thing I mentioned that he had never noticed before was that the reason the sower doesn't want to dig up any weeds is that the wheat would be uprooted at the same time.  In other words, their roots are too close together, even entangled.  He had never noticed that.  Frankly, neither had I.  I had always focussed on the interesting idea that this particular weed looked a lot like wheat.  But the fact that it might not even be possible to uproot weeds without uprooting some wheat along with it -- that never made an impression on me.

But I'm thinking more and more about that entangled wheat these days.  Maybe it's COVID 19 and our attempts to quarantine and protect ourselves from the virus.  Maybe it's the fact that there are many gated communities around me, or the fact that we seem to live in bubbles defined by our race or class or even our politics.  We surround ourselves with people who think like us, whether or not they look like us.

But the truth is, we are all tangled up in each other, and our fates are intertwined.  Even if we live in gated communities.  Even at our most segregated.  I remember that some people would say:  why should I care about the public schools?  My kids are grown up now.  And someone else would say:  I care, because the children who go to those schools will be the teachers and police officers, and custodians and politicians in my community, and I want them all to be well educated.  We touch each other's lives, whether we want to or not.

Our fates are intertwined.  We belong to each other.   That's God's honest truth, although some days it may make us weep and gnash our teeth.

But someday, when all of the weeds inside us are burned, perhaps we will rejoice in this.  Perhaps we'll see the beauty in the dandelion and stop trying to dig up the Augustine grass, and notice that the wheat is springing up and bearing fruit, to share.

Singing, in and out of Church

My dad always sang in the shower.  He sang in the car, too.  And, he sang in church, standing right next to me.  He sang all of the hymns, and all of the liturgy, and even the bass part on the three-fold amen.  Sometimes, in the quiet of my heart, I can still hear him, singing in church.  Because he sang, I sang too.  I learned Beautiful Savior, and What a Friend in Jesus, and Children of the Heavenly Father, and Immortal, Invisible, God only Wise.

It wasn't just church, of course. My mom played a little bit of piano, just enough so that we could sing a few of the old standards.  And of course, there was always the shower, and the car.  There was always a lot of singing, and singing along.

So during this season that we have not been in the church building, it has been the singing together that I have missed.  I wanted to make sure that the services that we provided included some singing -- not just music, but singing, even if it was just one person, or two people.  Maybe nobody would sing along.  But maybe someone would.  Maybe even a few people would.  I hoped so.  I imagined just one person, maybe, sitting at their computer, singing along to a familiar song at worship.  I imagined that perhaps a family or two would not just stare at the screen, but sing along as we were singing a hymn, or a contemporary song.

We went to church every single Sunday when I was a little girl.  I mean it.  Neither rain nor sleet nor snow would ever keep us from missing Sunday morning worship (although I think that measles did, once).  We did not travel much, back when I was a little girl, so church was like clockwork; we never missed.  So I have a very vivid memory of the one time that my parents decided to sleep in, and not go to church one Sunday morning.  I have no idea what possessed them, but it did not catch on.  But what I remember is that my sister and I stood in the middle of the living room floor, holding my dad's old hymnbook, and we sang the liturgy.

I'm not sure why we did it.  Nobody told us we could; and nobody told us we couldn't.  But we decided we wanted to do something holy that Sunday morning, even though we weren't in the church building.

So we sang.

These days, I am heartbroken.  I have heard that during the current pandemic, it is not safe to sing in church.  It is not safe to sing together.  That's what they say.  So when we finally do gather, we won't be singing.  And it will feel strange.  Because church has been one of the few places left where we still sing together.

I can't help but think, though, that perhaps this is a time to find our voice, not just in our church buildings, but out of them.  In the middle of the living room, for starters.  To learn to sing, and to speak, even when we can only imagine the other people singing along.

I heard recently from a friend whose church worships on Zoom.  The choir director there tells everyone to mute themselves when they begin a hymn.  Then, he tells them, "you can sing as loud as you want to!"

I love this.  When I think of it, I think of my dad, singing in the shower, or in the car, or in his whole life.  And I think of my immigrant foremothers and fathers.  They didn't have many books, but they had their Bibles, and they had their hymnals.  They carried church with them.  They had home altars. They lit the candles, and they sang.

Every once in awhile, someone from my church will post a picture of their home worship space.  their candle, or their Bible, or whatever it is they need to set the space apart.  It gives me a little bit of hope.  Maybe the children are standing in the middle of the living room, singing.  Maybe they are having a conversation about God.  Maybe they are praying out loud, even when they are alone.

So, let us sing. Alone, for now
.  Loudly or softly.  Whether we sing in tune or not.  And let us sing of a love wider than we can imagine, stronger than death, greater than our national interests, bigger than the whole universe.

Oil and Ashes

On Sunday evening, I got a phone call from a member of our congregation.  She wanted me to know about another member of the church who was dying.  She wanted to make sure I knew, and that I would go out to see her as soon as possible.

A little later I got a text from someone else with the same message.  It was already late, so I resolved to go over early the next morning.

That Sunday morning we had been on the mountaintop with Jesus.  It was a brief, shining encounter; we raised up brightly colored Alleluias and shouted and then put them away for Lent.  That morning we remembered the words, "This is my beloved son, with whom I am well-pleased."

Then, on Monday morning, I drove over to the assisted living center where this 101 year old woman lived.   I considered that she had faithfully attended worship almost every single Sunday, but not the day before.  One of her daughters-in-law was at the door of her apartment when I arrived.  She was sleeping peacefully.  I prayed and sang and spoke in her ear; I sang Beautiful Savior and What a Friend we Have in Jesus.  I told her how important she was; how much the children loved her. Her daughter-in-law told her that her husband was waiting for her, that everyone would be all right.

Then I got a small container of oil out of my purse.  It was something I had just received; a hand-me-down from a retired pastor.  I hadn't used it before.  I unscrewed the lid; there was not much balm left, but there was enough to put on my finger, and on her forehead, and to say the words, "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit, and marked by the cross of Christ forever."

And I remember that after that, her daughter in law took the container from me for a moment and she smelled the fragrance of that small amount of balm.

It was two days before Ash Wednesday.

On Wednesday morning at 7:30 I was standing in the lobby of our congregation's pre-school.  Parents came in with babies and toddlers, and I was there to offer ashes and strange words to anyone who stopped.  "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."  And although not everyone stopped, some did, expressing thanks, some silently.  One man told me that he was raised Catholic, but hadn't been for awhile.  Several brought their children to be marked as well.

And even though I do this, I offer the words and the ashes, I have to wonder what it is that draws people to the ashes and the words, "Remember that you are dust"?  It seems like the last thing we would want to remember.

A little later, I held a chapel service for the children over in our sanctuary.  We heard the story of Shadrach, Mesach and Abednego in the fiery furnace, and how the fourth man was with them in the flames, so that they were not burned.  And afterwards, two of the teachers and several of the older children also wanted ashes on their foreheads, in the form of a cross.

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

After the chapel service, when I arrived at the church office, and I learned that my 101 year old member had died that morning.

"You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever."

Oil and ashes, we are marked.  We are born and we die.  We die, and we are born again.

At the end of the day I got a message from a young mother from my church.  She said they had really hoped to come to the noon service, but they didn't make it.

But before she went to bed, her daughter went to the fireplace, and found ashes and marked her parents with the ashes.  With the sign of the cross.

You are dust, you are marked with oil and ashes.  You are born and you die.  You die, and you are born again.

A Tale of Two Funerals

A week ago on Monday afternoon I was here for the memorial service of one of my parish members.  That's probably not an unusual thing for a pastor to say.  I've held a lot of funerals through the years.  But, until recently, i have not had many in this little congregation.

I remember meeting with the family the Thursday before.  She wanted to have two hours visitation starting at 12:00.  The service would be at 2:00 p.m.  They chose two hymns; I urged them to include one more.  They had two friends as eulogists as well.  The man's wife and children spoke so warmly of their husband and father, memories of family events and things that he had done in the communities where they lived, including (I remember) that he liked to read to the children at Head Start.  And I remember that she was concerned that our church would be large enough.  They had heard from many people who planned to attend.  We had extra chairs ready for the narthex and the balcony, just in case we would need them.

As it turned out, we did need them.  This little church of ours was packed that Monday afternoon.  I have never really seen anything like it before.  I have been to a few other large funerals, but it felt like people just kept coming, squeezing into every nook and cranny, singing "Beautiful Savior" at the top of our lungs.  I did not see this, but i was told that there was a line of cars stretching down the highway waiting to get into our small parking lot.

It is not very often that you get a glimpse of the impact that one life can have.  One ordinary life.  This man, though beloved, was not in any way famous.  He did not have an especially large family. He was active in his church and he was active in his community.  There was something humbling about trying to squeeze all of those people into our little building that day.    It felt like God was shouting at us to have faith -- that though we are small, God is mighty.  Just look around.  Look at all of the people.  Look at how God works in the world.

That is how I felt that day.

Inevitably, though, I thought back.  It was early December, the beginning of Advent.  I was preparing for a funeral that day too.  We had gotten word that an elderly member of our congregation had died on Thanksgiving Day.  Her daughter called and asked if we could have a small memorial service in our church.   Of course we could.  This woman had been a faithful member of our congregation for many years.  I remembered where she always sat, every single week.  I remember that she wore a sweater, even when it was hot.  I remember how her son started bringing her to church, when she became ill.  During the last several months, people asked after her when she was not able to come to church.

On that day in early December, there were not many people in the church.  A few family members, a few faithful members of my congregation, who had looked out for her.  My heart warmed to see them.  One woman who came expressed dismay at the small group of people gathered.  She was as shocked to see this small group of worshipers as we were shocked to see the great crowds last week.

I don't remember much about the funeral, except that her granddaughter gave a lovely solo.  I remembered a particular sermon I had given, when I asked members of the congregation to share their favorite Bible verses, and this quiet unassuming woman had raised her voice and quoted Isaiah 59:1, "The arm of the Lord is not too short to save, nor is his ear too deaf to hear."  Her family shared stories of her love and faith and strength.

And it was no less true that day in December -- though we are small, God is mighty.  Look around.

This is how God works in the world.

Following Jesus

It's that time of year again:  it's the time of year that we hear Jesus calling disciples as he walks alongside the sea.  It's the beginning of his ministry.  He has gotten baptized, and gone into the wilderness, and now here he is, saying "Repent, the Kingdom of heaven is at hand!"  And he walks along, and he sees Peter and Andrew, and simply says, "Follow me, and I will make you fish for people."  And they follow him.

Immediately.

This blows my mind.  I mean, simply the word "immediately" blows my mind.  They don't have to think it over?  They don't have to make a list of pros and cons?  I just can't imagine "immediately."  They just leave everything they know in order to "fish for people."

They are fisherman, and some people think this is what is so attractive, this is the thing that intrigues them.  They fish for fish, and Jesus says they will fish for people instead.  Jesus has used exactly the right words to catch them.

Right now, though, I'm thinking about this.  All they know about Jesus is one phrase:  "Repent, for the Kingdom of heaven has drawn near."  That's all.  He hasn't healed anyone.  He hasn't preached.  He hasn't multiplied any loaves or cast out any demons.  He has said this one sentence, and it is "Repent, for the Kingdom of heaven has drawn near."  And then he calls them.

And they follow.  Immediately.

He gives them no details.  They don't know where he is going.  There is no "strategic plan", no monthly goals to meet.  I'm not saying that Jesus doesn't know where he is going, but he doesn't tell them, at least not at this point.  Later on, he will let them in on the secret of his death and resurrection, but the words will not sound so clear to the disciples as they do to us.

I keep looking for something that will explain the disciples' eagerness to follow.  Immediately.  Perhaps when they heard the words "Kingdom of heaven" they saw a vision -- maybe those words conjured up a dream.  What kind of dream could it have been?  What did they think the kingdom of heaven was, that made them want to get up and start fishing for people?

What could someone say to you that would make you want to leave everything behind?  What is so good that you will risk everything for it?

The Kingdom of heaven.  A place where there is enough.  Where you don't have to lock your doors.  Where the leaves of the trees are for the healing of the nations, or for you.  A place where those crushed by life will be restored.  A place where they would finally be out of debt, forgiven, free.

Is that what it was?  Is that what made them follow?

What could someone say to you that would make you want to leave everything behind?  What is so good that you will risk everything for it?

Just Mercy

Last Friday my husband indulged me by going with me to the movie "Just Mercy", which had just opened up in our community.  It's not that he didn't want to see the movie, but that I had read Bryan Stevenson's book in 2015, shortly after moving to this community from Minnesota.  I remembered the strong emotions the book elicited, and its stories that put a human face on many death-row prisoners -- some of them guilty, some of them innocent.  I remembered its main story well, about Walter McMillan, framed for a murder he did not commit, and the irony that his story took place in Monroeville, where Harper Lee wrote "To Kill a Mockingbird."

Very near the beginning of the movie is this small vignette, which I remembered from the introduction to his book.  Bryan Stevenson is still a law student, and he is going to visit an inmate on death row for the first time.  He doesn't know the young man, and he doesn't have good news.  He is anxious about the contact on many levels.  He wonders if this inmate will be bitter and abusive to him.  But when he goes to the prison, that's not what he finds.  He finds a young man who is much like him, who had a similar church background, sang the same songs, lived in similar kinds of experiences.  He tells the young man that he will not be executed in the coming year, and he reacts as if it's the best news he ever heard.  Now, he says, he can invite his wife and children to visit him, because there's no danger that he will be inviting them on the day of his execution.

They ended up talking well over the one hour limit (which raised the ire of the prison guard).  As the angry guard pushed the prisoner back out of the room to his cell amid Stevenson's protests, the young man suddenly burst into song, "Higher Ground."  He sang with conviction in a deep baritone voice,

Lord lift me up and let me stand
By faith in Heaven's tableland
A higher plane, that I have found
Lord, plant my feet on Higher Ground.

Stevenson says that in that moment he experienced grace.  He did not expect to receive hope from this young man on death row.  He wondered how many people we meet, in how many circumstances, we do not really see.

The words Jesus speaks in this week's gospel are his first recorded words in John's gospel.  They are all provocative in their own way.  "What are you looking for?"  "Come and see."

But today I am thinking that it is the third time that is the most powerful.  Andrew brings his brother Simon to meet Jesus.  Jesus looks at Simon and sees him, and says.  'You are Simon, son of John."  But that's not all he says.  He continues, "From now on you will be called Cephas" (which means Peter).  Jesus sees Simon, and he sees a Rock.

Bryan Stevenson has spent his life working for justice for those many of us do not see.  He sees people battered by life experience, struggling against disability, some wrongfully imprisoned, some trying to rise above the worst they ever did.  But before he could help them, he had to see them.  It's not as easy to do as it is to talk about it.  But it is a moment of grace.  Both to see -- and to be seen.

How many people do we meet, in how many circumstances, that we do not really see?