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.

Last Thursday

I am thinking about last Thursday, which seems like such a long time ago now.  Years ago.  But really, this is just Tuesday evening, and Thursday was not so long ago.

We slept in our new house for the first time Wednesday night.  We had moved in a lot of things (but not everything) the weekend before.  It was extremely hot and I was so grateful for the help of many people from our church.  We moved a few more things (but not everything) and Wednesday we stayed at our house for the first time.  We didn't have our bed yet, or our kitchen table, or our washer and dryer, but we had enough.

So on Thursday morning I had a funeral.  It was a funeral for some Lutherans I didn't know before, who didn't have a church, but needed a pastor.  I had met with them the week before, and apologized for being disorganized because I was in the middle of moving.  A week later, I was still in the middle of moving.  The plan was to finish off on the weekend.  You know, Friday and Saturday.  But there were these rumblings about a disturbance called "Harvey" which might become a hurricane.

On Thursday morning I had a funeral for a woman named Geneva, who was not terribly old.  She was in her sixties and she died of heart disease, leaving a husband and two grown children.  It was a small memorial service, and people were sort of murmuring about Harvey, and people were telling me that I need to be prepared, to make sure (for example) that I had enough water and food for if we lost power.  One of the funeral director assistants was pretty adamant that I should take this seriously.  She could tell I wasn't from there.

At the funeral I noticed a few people who wore butterflies on their lapels.  I said something to one gentleman, something like "I like your butterfly pin."  And he said to me, "Geneva told me, last time I saw her, 'Next time you see me, I'll be a butterfly.'"  And I thought, "I am the resurrection and the life.  Even though we die, yet we shall live."

And I thought, is this what transformation looks like?

Last Thursday, I came home from the funeral, feeling like I had done something that I am good at:  I spoke words of hope at a funeral.  And I also came home feeling like I had listened and learned something about the hope of the person whose family I had ministered to.  The hope did not go in only one direction.

Last Thursday, I came home from the funeral, and took off my funeral clothes and put on my "moving out of my apartment clothes."  I was thinking about what I would say in my sermon on Sunday, but between moving and the funeral and what I was saying about hurricane Harvey, I was finding it hard to concentrate.  I wasn't that I was terribly afraid; I just felt scattered in all directions.  People came to help move more things from our apartment to our home.  And we stayed in our apartment for the second night, trying to believe that this was now our home.

And last Friday, someone from my church came one more time over to our apartment.  We knew that Harvey was coming.  No one was whispering any more.  One of our neighbors got us more water, and brought us a casserole.  We also were the proud recipients of leftover Mexican food.  We brought a couple more loads of our possessions from our apartment to our house.  There were boxes everywhere.

And Last Friday night we sat down and waited for Harvey, not really knowing what to expect.  I have been through my share of blizzards, a couple of them scary.  I get blizzards.  I am smart about blizzards.  I am not smart about hurricanes.  I admit it.   But I have heard stories of people who knew just what to do:  offering shelter, helping evacuate neighbors, bringing food.

And now it is Tuesday night.  We are fine.  Houston is not fine.  Just south of us.

Last Thursday.  And now.

The world looks so different.  Transformed by water, devastation, mud -- and mercy.

Communion

I held two small first communion classes for a few students from the church.  It had been awhile since I organized a class like this, so I felt a little rusty.  The book that I used to use (and that I loved) had gone out of print.  I cobbled together some resources and we talked about baptism and sacraments and words along with things that you can touch.  We drew pictures and watched a scene from the movie "Holes", and read a couple of stories about meals in the Bible.  We talked a little bit about the Passover, and we ended up talking about trusting God, that God comes to us in this meal.

It was not everything but it was something.

Holy Communion is a meal with many names, I said.  There is more than one meaning to it.  It is life and forgiveness, communion with God, bread for the journey, and even more.  Someday you will know.

We made tiny individual cups at a place called the Potter's Wheel.  We did not bake bread.  I made note to include bread-making the next time I have a first communion class.

And then on Sunday at church two of the three young people were invited to put out their hands and eat the bread and drink the wine.

Then, today, I sat down with two women from my congregation and we talked about taking communion to shut-ins and people in the hospital.  We want to put together a workshop so that a few people from the church can engage in this ministry along with me.  One of the two women talked about how it was important to know who can receive and who can't receive communion.  Her words brought back a memory.

I came with communion to a woman in hospice care.  Her daughter and her daughter's best friend were there.  So were other members of her family.  Her husband was there too.  He had been pretty open with me about his questions about the Christian faith and about his exploration of other spiritual traditions.  So, when we all gathered around in a circle to begin the communion service, I did not know what he would do.

I was surprised when he joined the circle and decided to have communion with us.

It was a long while later that I found out two things:  he was getting remarried, and he was re-commiting to the Christian faith.  He was becoming Catholic, in fact.

What was it that drew him back?

It was the Mass.  Holy Communion.  That's what he said.  There was something about taking communion.  What was it?  Was it life or forgiveness?  Was it bread for the journey?  Communion with God?  Or even more than that?  A foretaste of the feast to come -- all of us sitting in a circle, hands outstretched, the borders between life and death erased?

Someday you will know.

In the meantime, take and eat.

It is Holy Communion.

It is everything, in your hand.

In Memory of Jean

I was going through boxes in my office this morning, and a sermon fell out.  It was from a funeral I officiated at one year ago today.  Jean was a member of my church, a friend, a reflection of Christ.  I loved how she would stop by my office to ask me questions about a particular passage of the Bible.  I loved how she and her family would all help with communion together.  I still miss her.  Here is the pastoral reflection I wrote for that day:

          July 2, 2014

            My last pastoral visit with Jean was a week ago Monday, at her home. 

            She was sitting in a chair near the hospital bed you had put up near the back window.

             The back yard was so green and full of life, and when I remarked on the view, Jean said, “Well, it’s Honduras out there.” 

            We had a good conversation, talking about her decision to start hospice care, the peace she had,  what she was still seeking, life in general. 

            We talked about big things, some little things, how glad she was that Allison was home, that her family was together.  

            She asked about my family too – she did things like that.   

            After awhile I asked her if she wanted to have communion, so she and I and Gary sat down and shared communion together.

            I remember having this little conversation with myself – what scripture reading should I share? – and I immediately thought, I didn’t want to share the Sunday gospel, which had been some of Jesus’ hard sayings about discipleship.

             “So have no fear of them,” Jesus begins. 

            He is talking about discipleship and persecution  and hard times and division, and I thought those verses just couldn’t be applicable on this particular day.

             I just didn’t want to read those words. 

            But then I remembered that there were those verses about God watching over the sparrows, so I decided to read part of the Sunday lesson anyway. 

            I remember getting to the part of the gospel reading where Jesus says, “Do not fear those who kill the body, but cannot kill the soul….”

            Right after this Jesus reminds his disciples about the sparrows…. And says again, “Do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.”

            Well, we talked about that for awhile; we talked about death and life and not being afraid, and about always being in God’s hands.  

            We talked about sparrows and how much God loves us and numbers the hairs on our heads. 

            We talked about the fact that Jesus doesn’t promise us that nothing bad will ever happen to us.  He just doesn’t. 

            But when I left, I still thought that I would see Jean again. 

            I was surprised and heart-broken when I got the message that she had died on Thursday morning.

            In the gospel reading that you chose, Allison, Jesus tells his disciples, “I came  that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” 

            I can’t think of any verse more appropriate for your mother – for our sister in Christ, Jean, than this verse that reminds us of Jesus’ promise of abundant life.     Appropriate and heart-breaking, because we are here today to celebrate Jean’s life and to mourn her death. 

            We are here today to remember her, to give thanks for her, and to give thanks for the promises of God for her. 

            And one of those promises, a promise that Jean embodied, is this one:  “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

            How can I say this? 

            How can I say it about one who I am sure died too soon? 

            She died even though I am sure if she had her way she would still be baking bars for funerals, still be working in her garden,

            still be giving good advice to her children,  

            still be working and living together with her good husband, still be helping to nurture healing with patients,

            still be discussing scripture in Bible studies with good friends.  

            She loved you and she treasured her life, and she knew what was important, she knew what was precious. 

            “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

             It’s hard to read this and not to think, just a little, that this particular life should have been a little longer, a little more abundant. 

            It’s hard to read this and not wonder a little about what Jesus means by abundance.

             I will tell you one thing:  it is not exactly what our culture often means when we talk about abundance.

             It’s not just about “more” – whether it’s more space, or more ‘stuff’, more success or more popularity. 

            Abundant life is not about what you can acquire. 

            But it is about loving and being loved.  It is about believing you have a purpose in life, and that your purpose is to reflect your creator.

             It is about living not for yourself, but for something bigger for yourself – for other people, for God.

             It is about knowing that each day, each moment, is a gift – both that you receive – and that you give.

            Perhaps Jean came by it naturally – as she was raised on a farm near Stewart Minnesota, and surrounded by life in many forms. 

            She entered nursing school, where she learned both the skill and the compassion needed to be a healer, and where she developed enduring friendships.           She practiced hospitality (I have a couple of her recipes), she nurtured gardens of beauty and deliciousness (raspberries, yes?), and she treasured relationships above everything – with her parents, her husband, her children, her extended family -- her friends.

             A good conversation was worth its weight in gold to her.  

            Jesus said, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” 

            Right before, he calls himself the gate – the gate for the sheep, where they can go in and go out and find life. 

            He calls himself the gate – but the sheep don’t just follow him into the pen – they follow him out into the world, where there is adventure and pasture and life and freedom.

            They follow him out into the world, and they go where he is – because the truth is – wherever he is – there is life. 

            Where-ever he is, there is life.

             Abundant life.  Eternal life. 

            Here in this world that Jean loved, that Jesus loves so much, there is life. 

            And there, in the world where he welcomes us, in the new world where there will be no more cancer and no pain, no hunger and no homelessness.  

            Where-ever he is, there is love.  Abundant love. 

            Eternal love. 

            Love that looks to the horizon and counts the cost and never looks back.  Love that knows the value of sparrows and sheep and every single one of us.   

            Love that is willing to die.  Love that is willing to live.

            About a year ago, I visited Jean in the hospital. 

            She was there to receive a stem cell transplant.  It was a Sunday afternoon and I brought a church bulletin, again. 

            We visited, talked about the future, the present.  She talked about what was going to happen to her, the risks, the possible outcomes.

             It was all very technical to me, and I didn’t understand a lot, but I knew one thing:  once you begin, you can’t go back. 

            You begin the course of treatment, and your put your hopes, and your life, in other hands. 

            You can only go forward, putting your hope, your trust in those hands. 

            And talking to Jean that afternoon, I realized the truth:  this is what the life of faith is like. 

            It is putting our lives in God’s hands, trusting the one who loves sparrows, and us, knowing that our hope, and all of our healing in his hands. 

            This is what the life of faith is like, day by day, until we, like Jean, stand in the presence of God.

            “I came that you have life, and have it abundantly,” Jesus says to Jean today.  And then he opens his arms and raises her up to join the feast, the abundant and eternal feast of light, of love, of home.

AMEN

The Scenic Route

It seems like a long time ago now, but it was really only two or three weeks ago, on a Friday.  I had just gotten back from an overnight trip to another congregation in another state, where I met a lot of people and had conversations and ate dinner.  On Sunday morning, they would decide whether they wanted to call me as their pastor.

But that Friday morning, after traveling south and meeting the people and coming home again, I officiated at the memorial service for the son of a member of my congregation.  I didn't know his son well; he had lived in another state.  But I had known this man and his wife for many years.  They were old friends of my parents.  I used to bring his wife communion.  She had died two years earlier.

After the memorial service, and after the luncheon, a few members of the family drove up to the cemetery, on the north end of town.  It is the same cemetery where my Swedish grandparents are buried, although I haven't been out there in many years.  I rode with the father of the man who died and his daughter.  It was a beautiful afternoon.

After the committal service, we walked around the cemetery a little bit.  The family got me a map, so that I could come back and find my grandparents' graves, if I wanted to.  We walked around and talked about who was buried next to whom.

Then we got back in the car and headed home.

The daughter said to her father, "How should we get home, dad?  Which way should we go?"  She had lived away for many years, and genuinely needed directions.  Her father, sitting in the back seat, told her she should turn right instead of left.  He wanted to avoid the highway.

He's legally blind, but he's lived in this community all of his life, and he remembered exactly which roads to take.  He gave us directions all the way home,  around familiar parkways and through some of the beautiful city parks.  "Just keep going," he said, whenever his daughter asked a question.

We began to drive around some of my city's chain of lakes.  I hadn't driven by Cedar Lake since I was a child, when my parents would take us swimming there.  But there we were, and after that we drove around Lake of the Isles too.  We came to Lake Calhoun, and another of the beaches where I used to swim, as a child.  I took my first swimming lessons at one of those beaches.  I got an ear infection afterwards, too.  But I learned to float, so there's that.

I thought to myself that this was just the right thing to be doing this afternoon:  taking the scenic route, after the funeral.  I couldn't tell them that in a couple of months I might be moving away from the lakes and rivers and parks that had been my home for so many years.  I couldn't tell them that this just seemed like the right way to spend the afternoon.

I couldn't tell them why it was such a gift, taking the scenic route.

I have always thought that I was formed, at least in part, by this particular geography -- the city lakes.  I have been formed by the water, this particular water.  There's a great river that runs through my city,  but when I lived in Japan, I didn't particularly miss the Mississippi River.  I missed the lakes.

So we took the scenic route that day.  Because I wasn't driving, I could take time to notice things I never noticed, and to remember.  I could remember the earache and what it was like to learn to float.  I could remember picnics on the beach, and walks around the lake, and the time (when I was a young woman) that a single dad sent his two young daughters over to where I was sunbathing to ask me out (so long ago that was).

Most of the time, I confess, I do not take the scenic route.  I am anxious to get where I am going, and I am afraid that I will be late.  But every once in awhile, even during these past two weeks, I will take a small detour, and pay attention, and remember.  I will look at a picture, or some words on a page.  I will hear a few notes of music, or hold a construction paper heart in my hand, and for a moment, I will allow myself to float.  I will take the scenic route.

Hidden With Christ in God

There were just a handful of people at the visitation and funeral, but two of them were adults with Downs' syndrome.  One was a member of our congregation who was 101 years old.

Her family was small:  just two children and their spouses, four grandchildren and their significant others, a few cousins.  She was well over ninety, so many of her friends were already gone.  Her husband had preceded her over forty years ago.

Her family was small, but it had been bigger.  Her tall son and smiling daughter told me that she had borne five children, actually.  One of them I knew about:  a daughter born with cerebral palsy, who lived in a facility for adults with disabilities.  She had died just a few years ago.  I remember that she would speak of her daughter.  The other pastor officiated at her funeral.

She had had two other children.  One was born with a hole in her heart, and died when she was 9 months old.  The other had Downs' syndrome, and died when he was four years old.  "It seemed like he was always sick," her daughter recalled, with sorrow.

She loved piano and singing, and especially men's voices.  Her husband had a wonderful singing voice.  She was proud of her Norwegian heritage, and her Korean grandchildren.  She loved to cook and bake, and she always made too much.  She had a good sense of humor, and could laugh especially at herself. She had a calmness and a light about her.

She always wondered why.  Why did she have so many children who died, who had special needs?  Did God ever answer her question?

She was an elementary school teacher.  It was her vocation, her calling.  Being a mother was her calling too, a mother who laughed and cooked too much food and made her children take piano lessons and go to college.  She took time off when her children were young, and when she went back to teaching, she decided to study Special Education.  She taught many children with Downs' Syndrome.

Did God ever answer her question?

I don't know if she would ever had said she was passionate about her work, her vocation.  I know she loved the children, and she was good at what she did.  We often use the word passionate to indicate the fire and enthusiasm with which we work.  But there is another side to passion.  Passion also means suffering.  Her suffering was a part of her vocation.  She loved her children who had died, and she loved these children who lived.

There were just a handful of people at her funeral.  She was 90 years old, after all.   And she had a small family.  At least the ones you could see.

Now I am sure, though, surer than I am of many other things, that her life is hidden with Christ in God. And that her family is so big, so much bigger than the eye can see, so much bigger than the heart can hold.

"What language will we speak in heaven?"

 I wrote this for the funeral of a church member.  I was not able to be at the funeral.  Writing this helped some.

Someone posed this question in an on-line conversation group, “What language will we speak in heaven?”  There were several good responses, I thought.  One person said that we will speak “with one voice”, another that we will speak the language of the angels.  Someone else said that we will not need language, and yet another person said that we will speak the language of love.  But the answer that most stuck with me is this one, ‘Music.”  In heaven we will speak music.

I suppose this answer stuck with me because last Thursday afternoon, I went to visit C.and A (his wife), and members of their family at Nursing Home, where he lived.  It was immediately obvious when I walked in the door that this was a place where C was known and loved; it was familiar and beautiful and filled with people he loved.  And I must confess that, though I have been in many nursing homes and many hospitals rooms, and I’ve prayed with many people, I had a moment of shyness when I saw C.  What kind of prayers should I pray?  What should I say?  Because of his Alzheiemers, C had not spoken for a while, and I didn’t know what he would understand.  I realized how much I depend on words to communicate.   What language will we speak in heaven?

For some strange reason (perhaps the Holy Spirit) I had picked up my small red hymnal when I left the church.  I sort of wondered if we should sing.  A thought we should sing.  So we sang – A's choice – “Beautiful Savior”  -- and everyone was singing, in harmony.  And about halfway through the song C was singing too.  After that we sang “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” in harmony, and some other hymns.  We closed with ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” although I do believe that there were a couple of encores.

I thought I was hearing the language of heaven that day.  Just a few people, gathered around a bed, singing songs of love, and C was singing along on every one.  You can forget a lot of things, but it turns out that music, like God’s love, gets so far down inside you that even if you forget, it won’t let you go.  It’s an imprint on our soul, like the sign of the cross is an imprint on our foreheads, “Child of God, you are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever.”

I thought I was hearing the language of heaven that day.  I came to minister to C and A, and they ministered to me.  I thought about all of the times I have heard C and A sing duets, at Sunday worship, for funerals, at Matins.  I have been humming some of those songs these past few days, the language of heaven, which, as it turns out, is also the language of love, imprinted on our souls, that God won’t let us forget.

Yes indeed, music is the language of heaven, and, as it turns out, that is a language that C spoke well.  He spoke it so well he taught it to his family and he taught it to many, many children, including children in this congregation.  He taught it to me, too.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you….”

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

What language will we speak in heaven?

Praise God from whom all blessings flow

Praise him all creatures here below

Praise him above you heavenly host

Praise Father Son and Holy Ghost.

"Blessed Saints" -- a funeral sermon for Harriet Wrolstad

I meant to post this back in April

I thought I knew Harriet Wrolstad pretty well:  she was one of the first people I met when I arrived here several years ago, and she didn't waste much time having me over to her house for coffee.  Perhaps it was because at the time, we were both single women; perhaps it was the fact that I had lived in Japan for a while.  Whatever it was, I thought I knew Harriet pretty well, but in these last few months I discovered something I hadn't known before, a devotional practice that she had:  every day she would always take the time, usually before she went to bed, to recite ten blessings.  I discovered this because Cathie made sure that I knew, so that I could do this with her when she was at the Augustana Home and at Mount Olivet Care Center.  Perhaps some of you who visited her also took the time to name ten blessings of the day.  I remember that she often named her friends and family -- and her birthday -- and her home -- among her chief blessings, although there was one time in December we had to give thanks for a Christmas present, a nice box of chocolates.

Today we are gathered to say goodbye to our sister in Christ, Harriet.  We are here to celebrate her life and to mourn her death, to name the blessings that came our way because she was in our life.  We are here to remember the promises of God for her, to give thanks for her presence with us, and to grieve her absence from us.  One of my favorite writers, Gerhard Frost, once said that to mourn for someone is to pay them a great compliment; it is to give meaning and significance to their life.  So, today, we say about Harriet, "You were an important person in my life.  I'm different because I knew you."

So today we give thanks:  of the pastor's daughter from Granite Falls who ended up traveling all over the world.  We give thanks for a sister, daughter, aunt godmother and friend respected businesswoman and volunteer. We give thanks for Harriet's work with the Ebenezer Auxiliary, where she insisted that they sing "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing," because of the line in verse 2 -- "Here I Raise My Ebenezer".  By the way, the word "Ebenezer", which always causes many people to wonder, means "stone of help," and is a story from the 1st book of Samuel.  It is a story of how the Israelites returned to God after a period of wandering, and how God gave them victory over their enemies, the Philistines.  To remember this victory, and God's help, the judge Samuel had the people set up a stone -- called Ebenezer -- to remind them of God's victory, God's faithfulness to them.   (There was a stone for each person who came to the luncheon.)

Today we give thanks for Harriet -- who would think to have a stone for each of us to carry back home with s today so that we can remember that God is faithful to us.  That was the teacher in her, I suppose, I didn't know this, but she did teach English for a few years before she started her long career at Northwest Airlines.  We give thanks for Harriet -- who valued education and wisdom, faith and learning, Norwegian and Lutheran heritage, family, friends, colleagues.  We give thanks for Harriet, who was generous, loyal and opinionated, and who let me know more than once that she valued smartness in a pastor more than she valued niceness.  We gives thanks for Harriet, who was faithful here in worship on Sunday morning and for Wednesday matins, and who counted her blessings.  We give thanks for Harriet -- who was proud of the fact that she was the only employee of Northwest Airlines to have stayed overnight in every city to which the airline flew.

She was part of the communion of saints throughout the world, but, unlike many of us, she got to experience a little bit of it, and she LOVED to tell stories about it.  And I think Harriet would say that she was blessed, not just blessed by world travel and opportunities, but blessed by friends and family -- and faith.  She was blessed to be able to I've in Granite FAlls and in Tokyo, she was blessed in large ways and in small ways.

***

To be blessed -- to be a saint -- it's the same thing:  did you know that?  So if you are ever at a loss to describe what a saint is, here's the absolute truth:  A saint is someone who is blessed.  It's why we read the Beatitudes on All Saints Sunday.  Blessed are the poor in spirit; blessed are the merciful.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.  Blessed... when Jesus first spoke these words, at the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount, some of them might have been a great shock to the people who heard them.  They would be thinking that you could tell those who were blessed by their material abundance, by the ease of their lives, by their success in worldly terms.  But Jesus spoke and began ty lifting up the poor in spirit.  I like how another translation puts it:  "Blessed are those who know they need God."  They are the saints.

Saints are the ones who knows they need God, who know they need the word of God, who know they need the promises of God in their lives.  Saints are the ones whose stomachs are growling for a good word from God, and who are thirsty for the water only God can give.

A long while ago I visited with an old woman from my congregation.  She was dying, and I came to give her communion.  This woman was mostly past speaking at this point.  She would fall asleep, and we would wake her up again.  We read scripture and said prayers.  And after communion, I raised my arms and I said the benediction,  "May the Lord bless you and keep you/ May the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you/ May the Lord look upon you with favor/And give you peace."  And this woman looked up at me with a twinkle in her eye, and she said, "he did!"  The Lord DID bless me and keep me all these years, she said.  The Lord had blessed her through the hard years of the depression, and even in the time of the death of one of her children.  The Lord had blessed her in times through times of scarcity and times of abundance.  The Lord had blessed her.

She was a saint.

She was part of the communion of saints -- and so was Harriet and so are you and me.  We are blessed. We are blessed not because of anything we have done and not because of anything we have accomplished, but because of God's goodness to us in Christ Jesus.  We are blessed whether we have traveled around the world or spent most of our lives in Granite Falls, because of Christ's victory over death for us.  We are blessed whether we are wise or foolish, in our grieving and in our joy.  We are blessed because Jesus came here, and walked among us, healing and forgiving and feeding us.  We are blessed because Jesus gave his body and blood for us.  We are blessed because he is our "Eben-ezer", or stone of help, forgiving us and giving us new life again and again.

We are blessed because we are here today, singing together and praying together (and later on, eating together) and because God has given us to one another.  And we are blessed because we will see one another again, when we gather at the throne of the Lamb, where our tears will be wiped away, where the table will be set, where God's arms will be open wide to us as they are open wide today to our sister Harriet.

Today, each day, we name ten blessings, the ones we can see:  a box of chocolate, Swedish meatballs, Norwegian coffee, faithful friends, a smooth stone, water.  Today we name ten blessings:  our homes, our families, our faith, the mercy of God.  But those are only the ones we can see with our eyes.  With the eyes of the heart, we can see many more, as the old Norwegian song so well expresses:

O Blessed saints, now take your rest;
a thousand times may you be blest.
For keeping faith firm unto death and scorning worldly trust
For now you live at home with God
and harvest seeds once cast abroad
in tears and sighs, See with new eyes
the pattern in the seed.
The myriad angels raise their song,
O saints, sing with that happy throng.
Lift up one voice, let heaven rejoice
to our redeemer's song.

Go with God Harriet Sophia.  May God's light ever surround you.

AMEN

Liturgy Is Not The Problem

At least, I don't think so.

In some circles, it seems like the word "liturgy" has a connotation somewhat like the word "liberal".  "Liturgy" is a code word for everything that is wrong with the church:  ritual and repetition without meaning, doing the same thing over and over again.  Liturgy is boring and not spontaneous.  It is right up there with organ music and hymns written before 1980.  In many many church growth books out there these days, at least one of the steps is something on the order of "get rid of liturgy".

But, is this really the problem?  All worship has to have an order to it, just like most of us, when we travel, travel on roads.  Sometimes it is exciting to travel on rough terrain in a jeep, and at other times, the most important thing is simply to get there.  Absolutely, the journey is important, but I am not with those who say that the destination doesn't matter.  At the end of the day, the most important thing is that I arrive at home, and not somewhere else.    In the same way, I have been moved and fed by many different kinds of worship services, from high liturgies to Pentecostal praise services.  Liturgy is not rote repetition to me; it contains the richness of art and poetry and beauty.

One of the problems with liturgy, I think, is that those of us who are used to it take it for granted.  We travel this particular road from week to week; we're used to it.  Some of us are aware of why we take this road and the specific scenery to watch out for; others don't know why, and we have never taught them.  We may hold to liturgy too rigidly, using it to keep the presence of God away instead of to draw near.  We may hold to liturgy too loosely, not recognizing the beauty of the structures in the same way we don't always recognize the beauty in a sonnet.

Not everyone has grown up with liturgy, it may be argued.  But not everyone has grown up speaking in tongues, either, and I don't see Pentecostals casting that element of their faith aside, believing it to be odd and a stumbling block. 

Last week, I presided at several funerals.  The first one, on Monday, was for a dear man who had grown quite deaf.  Yet he came to church every Sunday, even though he could not hear one word of the sermon or the music of the songs.

He was fed by the words of the liturgy, which he recited week after week.  He was fed by the words of the Creed, and by participating in the Lord's Supper with his community of faith.

Liturgy may be a barrier for some, but for others, it is a door to the presence of God.  Some day, it may even be so for you.

Rev. Clarence Solberg: 1917-2012 "By Heart"

Today was the funeral of our beloved former visitation pastor, Clarence Solberg.  I didn't preach, but I wrote a few words that I shared at the funeral.  Here they are:

"By Heart"

A year ago at Christmas I was making a visit to my friend and colleague Pastor Clarence Solberg and his wife Jeannette.  I will tell you that sometimes there was a challenge when I would go to the Masonic Home.  the challenge would be to find them, as they did not stay put much.  They might be playing Bingo (which Clarence often won), they might be joining a sing-a-long, they might simply be out in the front lobby, where Pastor Clarence liked to shake hands and greet everyone he met.  This day, however, they were across from the chapel, sitting at a little round table.

Since it was almost Christmas eve, I decided to read from Luke 2.  For some reason, I had brought my confirmation Bible, the OLD Revised Standard Version, that day, and as soon as I started to read, "In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled"  -- Pastor Solberg began reciting right along with me.  Once in awhile he would drop out for just a few words, but he would come right back with the next phrase, all the way to the end of the Christmas story.  He was especially strong whenever I came to the phrase about the b aby, "wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger."

All of those many years, repeating that story again and again, had gotten the words of Luke, chapter 2 deep into his heart.  All of those years telling the story to his many  congregations meant that he knew the story by heart.  "God is with us."

That wasn't the only thing he knew by heart of course.  Sometimes he would recite the words of institution with me, or raise his hands and say the words of the benediction.  "The Lord bless you and keep you/the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you/the Lord look upon you with favor/and give you peace."  He was such a pastor; he lived and breathed his vocation, and knew it by heart.  His calling was to speak the Word, and those words were deep within him.

Memory work has fallen on hard times these days, but I can't help thinking how important it is to know things by heart:  the verses of a song, a piece of scripture -- who we are.  Clarence Solberg knew who he was -- he was a pastor, he knew it by heart.  (Of course he wasn't just a pastor, he was also a husband, father, grandfather, and proud owner of Toyotas).  I heard someone say that he tried his hand at farming -- he was even good at it.  But he wasn't a farmer.  He was a pastor.  He could be opinionated:  he let me know on a few occasions when he disagreed with me (just a few!).  And I remember early on that he told me he wasn't quite convinced about women pastors, "but you're ok", he said.  I think he finally came to the conclusion that the most important thing was to preach the gospel.  Gender:  not so much.

Pastor Clarence and I shared a fair amount of funeral ministry, so I can't help thinking that some of the words that we have heard -- and will hear -- were some of the most dear to him.  "When we were baptized in Christ Jesus, we were baptized into his death."  "What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear."  Saying them again and again, he came to know them by heart.

By heart:  it's also how many of us know Clarence.  We know him by heart.  There are many stories we could share.  I hope we do.  Memory work has fallen on hard times these days, but we know how important it is to know "by heart" -- not just words, but to know one another "by heart".   It is, after all, how God knows us.

"Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth peace, goodwill to all."

Some Good Words for my Friend, Who I Didn't Know was a Gardener

(I presided, but did not preach, at a recent funeral.  The other pastor preached.  Instead, I said these words.)

In this world where there is so much loneliness, one of the best gifts God has given us is one another.

What I want to do today, mostly, is tell you a story.  It's a story I didn't know about H and G and this church, until we met with one another on Friday.  But it's story that some of you may know, already.  It's a story about roses, community, and hope.

I will tell you, I thought I knew H pretty well.  After all, I've been your pastor for a few years now.  I knew H and G as a devoted couple, devoted to one another.  When I see H, I often picture him in the church office, eating lunch with his wife, whenever she was working.  Or, I think of him with a stack of bulletins in his hands, sometimes, standing at the back of the church.  Of, I think of him as a man who loved worship, and especially the liturgy.  I knew that he loved his congregation, and had been a leader in many efforts throughout the year, but I didn't know all of the things he had done.  I also knew that he was attentive to the wider church, the work of the church colleges and the synod.  But I didn't know that he was a gardener, and how much he loved roses.  I didn't know that he had such a green thumb.

So, on to the story:  Several years ago, in the fall, H was out in his garden, covering his roses, getting them ready for the winter.  He was working hard when he had a heart attack, what would be his first heart attack, and was taken to the hospital.  But, the work was not finished.  Not all of the roses were covered.

That's where some of you came in, some of his brothers and sisters in Christ from this congregations.  A whole host of you came over and went to work, completing the work that H had started.  You worked side by side, getting the garden ready for the winter, a community of friends on a common mission.  But, I imagine that it was also fun.

In this world where there is so much loneliness, one of the best gifts God has given us is one another.

Brothers and sisters in Christ, we grieve together, we rejoice together, we step up for one another.

One of the things I knew about H was that he was hoping and expecting to get back to the work of the congregation, and that he was disappointed when his energy did not return.  I also knew how much he was blessed and honored by the support and presence of his friends in his life.  This congregation was a gift to him -- really both to him and to G.

When you called and left the message in the church office, G, I was expecting to hear you say, "H is in the hospital."  I wasn't expecting to hear you say that he had died.  I always thought that I would a chance to have one more conversation with you both.

The promises of Easter, the promises of eternal life, comfort us today.  But God has given us many gifts today, including the gift of one another, the gift of community.  When Jesus rose, he rose to give us life, and he rose to give us one another --

We are bound together, united by a common hope, by a common mission, by our songs and by our prayers.

And by roses.

We share our mutual woes, our mutual burdens bear,
and often for each other flows the sympathizing tear.


From sorrow, toil, and pain, and sin we shall be free;
and perfect love and friendship reign through all eternity.  (Blest be the Tie that Binds)


P.S.  at the funeral were several refugees who had been sponsored by this couple throughout the years. I didn't know about them, either.