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.

  

"Holding on, Loosely" -- a sermon on Generosity, for All Saints Day

John 11/Psalm 24

            Today is All Saints Day – and I can’t help thinking that every one of us has at least one person we are remembering today 

            -- at least one person for whom we will light a candle, at least one person for whom we give thanks because they were ‘saints'  for us

            – they let the light of God’s love shine through them in some way or another. 

            Today is All Saints Day – a day when it has become our custom to name those who have died in the past year – and also to light candles for others who we remember, who we call saints. 

            Saints.  No matter how many times I say it, it still seems odd, at least I some ways. 

            Because we associate the word ‘saint’ with those extraordinary heroes of the faith.  “I’m not a saint!”  Are you a saint?

             It can be a problem, this word.  What is a saint, anyway?  

            Whatever you think, today is a day to remember people in our lives that have been gifts to us, in one way or another. 

            We call them ‘saints.’ 

            But what is it about them that makes them a saint…. I have been thinking about that this week, and I have been thinking about my dad.             

He is one of my saints, even though he would also be someone who would claim, “I’m not a saint!” 

            He is one of my saints, because his life is a gift for which I give thanks, because he taught me so much:  about faith, about love, about holding on, loosely.   

            He loved to laugh, to tell jokes, and to sing, even though he didn’t know all of the words. 

            His favorite Bible passage, he liked to tell me, was from John 11:  “Jesus wept.”

             He said it with a twinkle in his eye. 

            Not only did this verse say a lot about Jesus – but it also was short and easy to remember.  My dad.

             He used to stand next to me in church, singing with strong baritone, helping me find my place so that I could sing along.  My dad.      He and my mom told us Bible stories, and taught how to pray.        Except that my dad had a special way of teaching us. 

            He would sit down at the edge of our beds, and he would talk to us in this creaky old voice, and say, “I am Methusalah, the world’s oldest man.” 

            He would claim to know Abraham and Moses and David.

             But he was sooo old that he would forget or fall asleep during the Lord’s prayer, so that we had to supply the missing words.  My dad. 

            “I’m not a saint,” he would probably say.  He belonged to God, and the light of God shined through him.

            You might wonder, on this day, why we are reading Psalm 24.        John 11 makes sense.

             It is about the hope we have as Christians, what makes us saints.  But why are we reading from Psalm 24 as well? 

            Probably it is assigned for All Saints Day because of the verse about having clean hands and pure hearts, but I can’t help noticing the verse first verses today. 

            They are good verses for All Saints Day too.

             “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it, the world and those who live in it.” 

            Everything belongs to God – and we belong to God too. 

            We come from God, and we go back from God.

             In the middle – is the gift.  We are gifts to one another. 

            We are gifts to God, too.  Hold your life, loosely.

             My dad did that.  He took Jesus very seriously.  Himself – not so much. 

            When I first learned that we would be in the middle of our stewardship campaign on All Saints Day, I worried. 

            I didn’t’ want something like “Stewardship” to get in the way of remembering the saints and giving thanks for their lives.

             I didn’t want something like money getting in the way of talking about saints as those who trust Jesus and hold their lives loosely. 

            But the more I thought about it, the more I had to wonder why.     What is it about money that makes me want to avoid the subject?            Is it because I have to admit that there are times when I have been good at giving – but there have also been times when I have been bad at giving?

             Is it because I know that money is a touchy subject for all of us, including me?

             I almost have an easier time confessing when I haven’t been so good at prayer – than I do my failures in financial stewardship.

            But you see -- giving – whether money or time or talent – but we are talking about money right now – is a spiritual discipline, like prayer.  We don’t do it so that God will love us more – God couldn’t possibly love us more than God already does. 

            We don’t do it because we have to – but we do it – we give – because God already holds our lives so tightly, because God weeps with us, and rejoices over us, and when we give – we are able to hold our lives a little more loosely. 

             And the two things – that are important in the spiritual discipline called giving are that we give regularly,  and that we give proportionately. 

            We give regularly so that it becomes a habit.  We just get used to it. 

            We get used to it in the same way as we get used to opening our hands and receiving the bread and wine for communion:  Jesus’ life and forgiveness, for us. 

            We get used to it in the same way we get used to folding our hands and bowing  our heads in prayer.   And when we get used to it… it gets down into us, so that, when a young man who grew up in this church got a bonus from his company recently, the first thing he thought of was to share a portion of it with his faith community.

            The second discipline involved in giving is that it be proportional – that is we give according to what we have, not what we don’t have.

             I know a woman who was very intentional about giving more – because she knew her congregation – her church family – well enough – and loved them well enough  -- to know that she could do it while others  – could not. 

            She gave proportionately, according to what she had.

            And the third discipline – did I say there were only two? 

            The third is joy.  Give joyfully. 

            Because your names are written in the book of life. 

            Because God holds your life so tightly.

             Because the whole world, and everything in it, belongs to God.  Because life, in all its terror and all its beauty, is a gift. 

            Because you get to hold babies, to wade in oceans, to break bread, to sing, to hear the stories of your parents, your children, your grandchildren.

            Because this is your church family – because we belong to one another --

             Because the sign of the cross is marked on your forehead.    Because Jesus wept, and rose from the dead. 

            And because God promises – that God will take your life – your whole life – every single part of you, including your finances – and used it to proclaim the glory of God. 

            And the light of Christ will shine through you – through us – as a congregation. 

            Give regularly.  Give proportionately.  Give joyfully.  Joyfully.

            I can’t help thinking today as I am remembering – there was this time I was a young adult, and I was just out of the nest.  And this terrible (I thought it was terrible) thing happened one night.

             It was dark, and I was trying to lock my car out on the street, and the key got stuck in the lock. 

            And I pulled and I pulled and I pulled and the key broke in there.  I went up to my apartment and I called my dad.

             What else could I do?  I explained my dilemma and said I didn’t know if I could afford a locksmith. 

            And he said, ‘Oh, don’t worry.  I’ll give you money.”  And I said, ‘Dad, you don’t have any money.” 

            And he laughed and said, “Oh yeah, that’s right.” 

            I was so depressed.  And I thought it was the end of the world.

            And my dad made me laugh.   

            He was willing to give me what he had – and what he didn’t have.  And he would do it joyfully – -- and sacrificially --because he loved me.     He held his life loosely. 

            But he held mine tightly. 

            Who do you love – that much?

            Hold your life, loosely.

            It’s the only way you can ever hold it, anyway.

            That’s what so many of the saints have taught me -- by the way the lived, by the way they died – by how they gave.

            Their lives belong to God.

            And the light of Christ still shines in them.

            AMEN

           

                            

Today, I Cried

For a long time, I have seen a certain hand-made book on a shelf at the Book Arts Center, and coveted it.

I realize that a "Book Arts Center" is an odd and mysterious place, perhaps one you never knew existed.  At the Book Arts Center I learned to make a couple of basic hand-sewn books, and learned a little about the construction and history of books, as well.  And at the small gift shop, where the tools for making your own books are sold, I also saw this book.

It was called "Sightings."  Inside it there were beautiful small poems and colorful drawings.

I wanted the book because it was beautiful.  It was art.

I also wanted the book because of its title.  When I saw the title, "Sightings," I thought of God-sightings, and trying to teach my congregation how to see God in their lives.

But, it is a hand-made book.  It would have been an extravagance.  There were other books more extravagant, of course (some that took my breath away), but this one was just enough out of my price range to make me sigh.  So I just coveted it, and looked for it on the shelf every time I went into the book arts center.  It was always there, although sometimes they moved it to another location so I would have to hunt for it.

But, this month was my birthday.  My husband has known that I have coveted this book and he gave me the money so that we could go get it.  On my birthday we went to the book arts center, ate lunch at the small cafe and hunted for the book in the gift shop.

We didn't find it.

I asked the clerk to hunt for us.  They said that they were sold out.  I asked if they could find out if the artists had more, or if the edition was sold out.  They said they would try.

Then the emails began.  They were indeed sold out.  There were no more copies.  I sighed and asked the "hail Mary" question:  if they found out that someone didn't want their copy, would they give me a call?  That was it.

And then I started getting emails from one of the book artists.  There were, indeed, no more copies, she said, but one:  the artist's proof.  Would I like to see it?  I might not like it, but if I did, she would sell it to me, for slightly less than the finished book.  She told me about another of her books that I might like, and I told her why I had a special affection for "Sightings."

She said, "If you decide to purchase it, I will tell you the story about it."

So today, I went over to the book arts center, and found the artist, and she showed me the book.  The pages are stitched together, and the title is hand printed in marker.

She told me that she first began to think about this book when she was taking care of a friend who was dying of cancer.  And while she sat with, cared for, her friend, she started to see, and to write, and to draw, what she would miss, if she was dying.

My eyes started to hurt.  I have sat with many people who were dying.

Today, I officially announced that I have taken a call to another congregation, to people I have just met, and to places I have only seen once or twice.  I am thinking about what I will learn, and who I will meet, and what we will do, together.

And I am thinking about what I will miss.

Sometimes, many times, that is just where I see God.

But, it makes my eyes hurt.

Grieving with Hope

On Monday evening, I met with a family to prepare for a funeral.  We got together to discuss music and scripture readings, to share stories from the life of their mother and grandmother.

When we talked about Scripture readings, they were certain about Psalm 23.  It was their mother's favorite psalm.  We should all read it together.  As for a Gospel reading, they would leave that up to me.  And the Holy Spirit.

Her son had brought along his own Bible. He opened it, and turned to 1st Thessalonians, chapter 4, verses 13 and 14.   He said that I didn't have to use it it in my sermon, but he had found great comfort in these verses, which he read to me.  "But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died,  so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.  For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died."  These are verse that I have read often, and have often considered when preparing a funeral sermon.  Resurrection hope does not mean that we don't grieve.  We still grieve when we lose someone we love.


For some reason I have been thinking about these verses for the past couple of days.  Even though they are meant to apply specifically to those who have died, we grieve other losses too, and it occurred to me that perhaps the verses apply then as now.


Take Elections, for example.  I overheard a conversation on Facebook between some acquaintances, when the election didn't go their way in their particular area of the country.  Everyone was grieving, in a way, almost despairing about what it would be like to continue living here for the next two years.  A couple of people were suggesting other, better regions of the country where they could move.  It made me wonder if those of us who are passionate about politics and the relationship of our politics and our faith can grieve with hope, and what that would look like.  What would it look like to look into the heart of a political loss -- when a candidate you respect and admire does not win her case, when an issue you believe is crucial for creating justice and abundance goes down in flames -- and grieve with hope?  


I am also thinking about churches, and about the Church.  We are in decline, as everyone says.  We are post-Christian, so many people say.  The church is dying.  I don't doubt that this is true.  In my own community two churches have closed in the past two years.  My colleague went to a seminar last week and brought back this statistic:  75% of the churches in my denomination are in decline.  I don't know about you, but along with the rest of my work, I am also grieving.  I am not always sure what I am grieving, whether it is a loss of sense of community, or a loss of shared meaning, or simply the losses of the people I used to see at worship every week, who now come much less frequently, if at all. 


What would it mean to grieve with hope?


First I think it is to not be afraid to acknowledge our losses.  The church is dying.  The dreams I had for my community seem farther away instead of closer.  My father was 84 years old, but I still miss him.  I grieve.  


But to have hope means to hold fast to dreams, and not just hold fast to them, but to work for them.  To have hope means to keep on teaching children to read, and sharing bread, and standing up for those who have no voice.  To have hope means to return to worship again and again, standing up and singing and praying and serving and listening for the voice of God, raising you from the dead.


What does it mean to grieve with hope?

The Funeral I Didn't Want

I have been a pastor at the same church for many years, long enough to get to know people, long enough that now I have in confirmation classes some of the children I baptized.  Some of my friends are in their third or fourth or fifth call, and here I am, at the same church, still in my second call.  There are times, I admit, that I feel a little like a failure.

I have known people for a long time.  They have known me for a long time.  I don't always know if this is a good thing.

Five years ago I got a call to visit someone in the hospital, a woman I knew well.  She made special Scandinavian cookies for my wedding, delicate, delicious cookies with pretty shapes pressed into them.  She could also make the most amazing bookmarks, using a fine needlework pattern called Hardangar.  She had a good husband, two beloved children, both of which I had in confirmation.  The confirmation and graduation open houses were amazing.  I do have recipes.  She was also an accomplished gardener, baker, cook, seamstress, and a nurse by vocation.  She attended a regular women's Bible study in her neighborhood, and would come to me on occasion with questions with regard to the interpretations used in the Bible study materials.

Five years ago I went to visit her in the hospital, and she told me she had cancer.  It was a kind that could not be cured, but could be treated, she said.  She told me some of the treatments they had in mind for her.  She was a nurse, so she knew the risks, and she knew the possibilities.  She had hope, but she also knew that this particular hope would have an end date.  Treatable, not curable.  That was what they said.

Still, the first treatments worked almost like a miracle.  They were difficult treatments, but the results were better than expected.  Until last summer, when she went back and had the treatments a second time.  She achieved a second remission.  The angels rejoiced.

This year, shortly after Easter, I saw her with her husband after church.  There was pain in her eyes.  "I'm out of remission," she said.  That was all she needed to say.  I prayed.

Forgive me, but this was my first thought:  I do not want to do this funeral.

I am not a coward, at least I don't think so.  Well, maybe I am a coward.  But I did not want to do this funeral, because I did not want her to die, could not imagine her dying.  I have known her so well, for so long.  I can still see her whole family, standing together behind the altar, when they all came to assist with communion.  I can still see her with the common cup, taking it and sharing it.

I know.  I was only her pastor.  Not her husband, not her friend, not her children.  Just her pastor.

So a couple of weeks ago, right before I was going on vacation, she started hospice.  Her son told me I should come, so I did.  We had communion, but she could only take the wine.  We talked about the sparrows, about her garden, about her goddaughter who became a pastor.  We talked what Jesus promises, and what he doesn't.  He doesn't promise that nothing bad will ever happen to us.

She died while I was on vacation.  And they asked me to do her funeral, on a Wednesday afternoon.  It was the end of a perfect day.  Children from the neighborhood were playing outside.  There were three hundred people in the church.  Her husband and her children gave remembrances.  Two of her friends read scripture readings.  During the first hymn, "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling," I saw her friends crying, and I wasn't sure I could get through the opening prayer.

Her husband said he didn't want me to give a sermon.  Instead, he wanted it to be a 'pastoral reflection.' When I asked the difference, he said, 'because you knew her so well,' it will be a different kind of message.'

"I came that they might have life, and have it abundantly," Jesus said, describing her life.  Every day was a gift, and she knew it, and not just when she got sick.  Still, I wish there had been more abundance, more time, more gardens, more cookies.

I can still see her, taking the common cup, taking it from me and sharing it with the next person.  Abundant life.

I have been at the same congregation for a long time.  Long enough to know and be known, even when it is painful.  Long enough for my weaknesses to be exposed.  Long enough to wonder, sometimes, what I am doing here.  Long enough to grieve, to doubt, to believe.  Long enough to share abundant life.

The Things We Do

This morning I got up early and put on my suit and my clerical collar.  Even though it was a hot and muggy day, I was dressed up to go out to our city's National Cemetery for a graveside service for one of our congregation's World War II Veterans.  A genuine war hero he was, as well as a beloved father, grandfather and friend.

I stopped into the office first to check in on our Senior Matins group, who were having coffee and fellowship.  I also saw a number of the Vacation Bible School children arriving for a day of fun activities.  I had time to have a couple of brief thoughts about Sunday's sermon.  "Discipleship," I wrote down on the cover of a manilla folder.  Not much to go on, but better than nothing.

Yesterday I had spent part of the afternoon drawing eyes with the children.  We were instructed each to take a small mirror provided for us, and to look carefully at our eye.  Then we drew large, dark outlines of our eyes on large pieces of paper.  The inside of each eye would be a collage of colors we found in magazines.  We were encouraged to see all the different colors inside our eyes.  They aren't just "blue" or "green" or even "hazel."  Take a look, and you will see.

This morning, though, after writing "Discipleship" on the manilla folder, I got in my car and headed out to the cemetery.  The honor guard fired their guns; the lone bugle played "taps"; the family received their flag. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.  Still, we wept.

Later, I went over to the apartment of one of our elderly members.  He is making the transition from his home to a nursing home, and he wanted us to look at some of his books, to see if the church might want any.  Some belonged to him, some of his wife, some were from his father.  Another member of the church brought him back over to his home so he could be there while I went through his bookshelves, paging through the books, admiring them, choosing just a few.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Still later, I stopped in to see someone who is homebound while recovering from a fall.  We shared communion and prayed; she said she is a terrible invalid; she is not good at being idle.  We talked about the rain; I saw old silhouettes of her children when they were small, and portraits painted by a friend.  "Not very good," she said, but I could see the resemblance.

Tomorrow I will go to my office, and see the word "discipleship" written on the manilla folder.  I will have meetings where we will try to look into the future like the children study the colors of their own eyes.  I will play with the children, and pray with those who are lonely, and see what I can see.

Flecks of dust, shards of a life, beautiful fragments of colors:  a collage of lives.  Sometimes that is what I think ministry is like:  it is living with this collage of lives, and somehow seeing, in the midst of it all, God's dream.

What I Learn From Funerals

The last funeral I officiated was on a Saturday afternoon in Lent.  The woman who died was too young, had cancer, fought valiantly, put her life in Jesus' hands.  In many ways her funeral was like many other funerals where I officiate.  There is so much that is the same.  There are certain songs that almost everyone sings, certain scriptures that occur over and over.  The liturgy we use is very simple, and so much is nearly the same every time, although, since my father's funeral last fall, I have taken to tweaking the prayers some, using different prayers than the ones that are in the book.

There was this one unique moment, though, at the beginning of her memorial service.

The woman who died had been a day care provider in our community for many years.  She was well known to parent and children for her firm but kind nurture, unapologetic discipline and boundaries, and unconditional love.  It was a powerful combination.

At the beginning of the service, at the direction of her family, I asked all of the children and young adults who had been cared for at this woman's day care to come to the entry to the sanctuary.  Forty or fifty young people stood up and met me and the doorway, where our funeral coordinator gave each of them a small bouquet of white carnations.  At the opening hymn, all of these young people processed in behind me, but before the family.  They each placed  their carnations in the baptismal font, where they stayed for the entire service.

The woman's husband explained why he wanted to do this, "I wanted everyone to have a part."

Not long before this, at another funeral, there were similar words.  A woman, helping to plan her husband's funeral, said, "There are nine grandchildren who all need jobs."  At that service, we had readers, eulogists, and intercessory pray-ers.

This is very wise, I thought.

The more I thought about it, the wiser I thought it was.

I thought about all of those carnations in the baptismal font, and I thought about the fact that, at the most recent funeral, all of the eulogists were participants in the woman's day care:  two parents, and one of the former day care children.

It took me a while to realize that there was a powerful message being spoken that day, not just the message about the love of God, more powerful than death.

It was the message that so much of our society disbelieves:  that we belong to one another.  Our family is wider than we think, wider than we know, wider than we see -- except, sometimes at funerals.  All around us there is the message that we are on our own.  We draw our circles closer and closer, and are told to care only for a few who are closest to our hearts.

But here is the truth:  we belong to one another.  We are members of one another.  Our fates are intertwined.  Life and death and love and pain bind us together.

Perhaps it is why there is so much similarity in funerals:  our common humanity and hope finds words and sighs.  There is bound to be overlap.

And yet:  here is the other thing I learn from funerals.

Despite their similarities, no two are really alike.  They are like fingerprints.  I can't say exactly why, when we sing so much "Amazing Grace" or "Love Divine", and we hear so much about the many mansions, or the resurrection and the Life.  But somehow each funeral embodies the hope of a particular child of God, ordinary and extraordinary at the same time, and they are not the same.  Sometimes they are small things that matter:  a particular story shared, a Scripture verse in German, or a baptismal font full of carnations.

Inclusive Laments

Like everyone else, I heard the news about the terror at the Boston Marathon almost as it was happening, in real time.  Though I will admit, I did not spend the rest of the day glued to the TV, and I don't have many searing visual images in my mind, I'm still haunted by what happened, lamenting the lives lost, imagining the grief of those who lost limbs or lives of loved ones, not being able to imagine the mind of the one who did this.

I do not live in Boston.  I don't even live on the East Coast, so I'm far away from what happened.  I didn't even think I knew anyone who was there, although later I found out that the son of our former pastor was running that day.  He was one of the elite runners, and had already finished when the bombs went off.  But still.  My feelings are not true grief, not like the grief of those who were really there.

Still, I can't help but lament.  We can't help but lament, can we?  Every time we hear cruel things happen, we can't help but lament at the incomprehensible cruelty possible in God's good world.  Sometimes it's the cancer diagnosis of a good friend.  Sometimes it's terror in Boston.

But the problem is that there are terrible things happening all over the world, in places we don't even know exist.  For example, did you know that on the same day that bombs killed and maimed people in Boston, a US bomb killed thirty people who were celebrating at a wedding in Afghanistan?  We said it was a mistake.

Sometimes we excuse our inability to really lament for tragedies far from home.  "Those are violent places," we say.  But the truth is, the world is a violent place, from Boston to Afghanistan to Waco to Myanmar.  If every human life is valuable and beautiful and a creation of God, the ravages of cancer and the ravages of war and the ravages of tragedy are all worthy to be lamented.

I lived in Japan once, long ago.  It was so long ago that sometimes I never lived there, never saw Mount Fuji  rise in the background, never heard the voices of kindergarten children chattering and never smelled the skewered meat sizzling at the train stations.  It was so long ago, but once in awhile I can still imagine the God-beloved people I knew there, far away, across the world.

Here is the impossible thing:  to rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep, across boundaries, across ideologies.  To love the ones that God loves, somehow, to practice more inclusive lamenting.

Sometimes, the right answer is "I don't know"

I spent last Saturday evening at a local funeral home.  I was there conducting a funeral for a woman who had died after a short battle with cancer.  We had prayed and fought hard to keep the cancer from winning.  She was only fifty-four.  The building was thick with family and friends, with grief, and with memories.

The woman was much beloved.  She was also one of those genuinely gracious, loving people who just seemed to know that she was put on this earth to love people.  All of the stories I heard, and knew, were about someone who reached out in grace, love and acceptance.  Someone spoke at the service about her 'moral compass.'  I remember hearing that and thinking, 'yes, and her moral compass was mercy.'  I thought, the world needs more, not fewer, people like her.

The verses that came to my mind as I prepared for the funeral were from 1st John:  "Beloved, let us love one another, for everyone who loves is born of God and loves God..... God is love."  But even as I said these words, and looked out over the people gathered, I could hear the questions, unanswered questions, "If God is love, why....?"

Why?  Why do tragic things like this happen?  Why does cancer take the life of a person who adds so much goodness and mercy to the world?  I could feel all the whys staring me in the face, and felt that my words were not enough.

Sometimes, the right answer is, "I don't know.  I don't know why."

As the pastor there, I felt the temptation to have an answer.  I am supposed to be wise, after all.  But I only knew what not to say:  this is not a punishment for anything.  She did all the right things.  And God did not take her because God needed an angel.

I don't know why.

But that doesn't mean I have nothing to say.  Even though I don't know why, even though I don't know the meaning of her death, I do know the meaning of her life:  "Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God, and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God."  Even though I don't know why, I do know this, by faith:  That God was with her, and is with her, did not abandon her in her suffering.  It is the witness of Jesus that convinces me:  Jesus who did not abandon the world, did not turn his back on his disciples even when they turned their backs on him.  I also believe that the deep yearning we have for a world where there is no death, no tears, no violence, where peace reigns -- is God's yearning, too.  Somehow, deep in the seen and unseen places of the world, God is working to make that yearning come true.  And we are meant to be partners with God in that.  That is a faith statement, I know, and open to contradiction.

So, I don't know why this good woman died, or why God allows violence to happen, not only in Boston, or in all the other God-beloved corners of the world.

But I believe this:  That we are meant to be partners with God in loving the world. That is our vocation, in a world where beautiful and terrible things happen, and we don't know why.

Choose love.

People Are Needy. People are Gifted.

One of the hazards of visiting people in the hospital, in nursing homes, and while they are grieving is coming to regard people as the sum total of their needs and deficiencies.

I visit people when they can't get out of bed.  I visit people when they are numb with grief.  I visit people when they have forgotten who they are, or when their hands tremble, or when all they can swallow is the tiniest bit of a wafer dipped in wine.  I visit people when they are helpless.  I hold the hands of people who are at the end of their rope, and sometimes it feels like it is my job to tie the knot that they can hang on to.  Or Something.

This is called Pastoral Care.  It is to go and pray for people, to say the words of hope, to give the bread and wine that feeds people, to listen and to keep saying the most important things, "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever.  God is for you.  Nothing can separate you from God's love."

There's something humbling about this.  I remember going into a hospital room where a parish member really wanted a nurse to take her to the bathroom more than she wanted to talk to me -- at least at that moment.   Whatever it was I have to offer, it sometimes doesn't seem to be nearly enough.

But there's something else as well.  When I go to visit someone in the hospital, or a nursing home, or to plan a funeral, and I call that "pastoral care",  I'm tempted to see myself as the giver and the other person as the "needy person", and it's so much more complicated than that.

I also will go out to coffee with a church member, just to get to know them better, to hear some of their stories, to find out what they are passionate about, to learn about their family or their work.  I once got to hear a story from a woman who broke up a schoolyard fight when she was ten, and knew, right away, that this was her vocation.  Recently someone else called me and said she wanted to get together so she could figure out what she could offer to her church, now that she was retired.

I'm beginning to think that this is pastoral care too, and that pastoral care that focuses exclusively on people's neediness is not as helpful as it seems.  Instead of just praying for people, maybe good 'pastoral care' will pray with people;  instead of seeing myself as giver and the other as 'receiver', maybe good pastoral care will see us as partners, with gifts to offer each other, with ministry to do together, for the sake of the world.

Once I heard someone say the phrase "the less fortunate", as in "at Christmas-time, let's give to the 'less-fortunate.'"  Something about the phrase bothered me, the way it separated people into "them" and "us" -- as in *them* the needy ones, and *us* the  gifted ones, the fortunate, the givers.  But it's a lot more complicated than that, isn't it?  We're all needy, and we're all gifted.  Some wounds are on the outside.  Some gifts are hidden on the inside.

One of the hazards of visiting people in the hospital, in nursing homes, and while they are grieving is coming to regard people as the sum total of their needs and deficiencies.

The truth is, people (including me) are the sum total of their needs, their deficiencies, their stories, their gifts, their hopes, their fears, their strengths, their utter helplessness,  and, most of all, the indelible mark of God upon their lives, which expresses their incalculable worth.  "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever."

On How Going to Nursing Homes Skews my Perspective

I remember when I was a very little girl, that I used to go to visit my grandma Mary in the nursing home.  She was actually my great-grandmother, my mother's grandmother, but we called her "Grandma Mary."  I would visit her in her room, and she would always send me away with some little possession of hers.

My grandparents did not have a good opinion of nursing homes.  They didn't say much about them, but it was clear that they did not have a good opinion of them.  My grandfather said once that the nursing home is where you go to die.

Now I go to nursing homes with some regularity.  Sometimes I go to do a church service, to play the piano and read scripture and pray with the residents.  Sometimes I go to bring communion or visit.  Some of the people I visit are temporary residents, doing therapy, and others are there permanently.

Whenever I go, I always look around, to see what signs of home they have chosen to decorate their home.   I look at the pictures of children and grandchildren, the quilt folded on the edge of the bed, the needlepoints on the wall.  I visited one woman who had a big easy chair in the corner of her room, and a stack of daily papers neatly in one corner.  She still read the morning paper every day, and her little room was more like a studio apartment.

Except that it was a nursing home.

Another woman had a whole shelf of toys, most of them gifts that people would drop off for her.  It seemed to me that she had every single singing stuffed toy on the market, including a stuffed walleye that sang Doobie Brothers songs.  Everyone loved to stop by her room and play, except on the days when another of her roommates would get sick, and die.

Just before Christmas I visited another woman in her room.  Her wall was plastered with pictures of her children, as well as glittery Christmas decorations.  Another woman had a lot of her hand-made hardangar on the wall.  We always had good visits, once she remembered who I was.

My husband says this is not normal, but I will on occasion make a statement about my possessions, something on the order of "this is something I would probably take with me to 'the home'."  He says that I am far too young to be thinking about things like this.  I don't know why I do.  I think about what it will be like sometime, to live in a little room, to have a smaller life.  I think about what is most important now, what will be most important then.  Will it be reading the daily newspaper, or hearing music, or keeping a favorite picture?  Will I even be able to see the favorite picture?

I don't know why I think about it  My husband thinks it's unusual.  I have a skewed view.

Maybe it goes all the way back to when I was a little girl, and my great-grandmother gave away something every time I visited her.  She had just a few things left, but she was giving them away -- a handkerchief here, a stuffed toy there.

It was like she was giving away her life.

That's what it was:  odd but true.

Our lives are not ours to keep, only to give away.

That Moment When...

I had a pile of phone calls to make today, most of them asking people whether they would serve in a particular capacity, or be involved in community ministry.

But a few of them were just checking in.

I had this one piece of paper on my desk, a phone call I had tried to make a few days ago, because the woman's husband ask that I check in.  Her mother had died recently, he said, and she was taking it hard.  I had left a message before, but didn't throw the piece of paper away.  I decided I ought to try to reach her one more time.

It was almost the end of the day.  I dialed the number.  The first thing I heard on the other end of the line:  uncontrollable sobbing.

The woman had just found out, within the last hour, that her daughter had died.

"Who told you to call me?"  she asked.

The Holy Spirit.

Perhaps.

Sometimes I don't pay attention.  Sometimes despite myself, I do.

That's all I have to say, tonight.  That's all I have to say.

Except this:  when I arrived at her house, three of her friends from work were also with her, sitting with her, talking a little.  God has many comforters.

That's all I have to say.

What is a Congregation For?

Yesterday, a young man from my congregation died, after a long battle with cancer.  Well, I say he was a young man, but he was my age.  Yes, he was young.

He and his wife were regular worshippers at our early service.  They loved the traditional liturgy, and although they are quiet people, they attended one of our couple's groups, and were well known in our congregation. 

When I announced his death this morning at church, I thought I heard sighs too deep for words.

His wife came to church today, finding comfort not only in the music and the liturgy and the prayers, but in the congregation who surrounded her with words of grief and truth and hope.

This is what a congregation is for.

Nor all people are so connected to one another in a congregation, of course.  I used to be judgmental and think that perhaps they thought of a church as a sort of Big Box Religion store, where they would go to get the Spiritual services they needed, when they needed them.  Perhaps I thought this way because I grew up in a smaller congregation.  But I think that in a bigger congregation, it's inevitable that not everyone will experience the same level of connection with one another.  But they'll be there for a Sunday School class, for the camaraderie of a youth group experience.

This is what a congregation is for.

And then there is the time when the worship service ends, and everyone goes out:  leaves the building, disperses.  They go to families and communities and work.  They go to be larger than themselves, to bear witness to something more loving and more gracious than themselves.  We gather to encourage one another and bind up each other wounds, but when we go, we go to love the world, and apply God's healing.

What is a congregation for?

Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life

Cross-posted at our church's Lenten Blog


In my first call, I used to say that I sometimes got to know people only after they died.

This reflected two realities: that some of the folks I visited in nursing homes were not able to share as fully with me as their families did, later on, and that even for those I knew well, new information would often come out as we sat around and shared memories after a death.

At a time of grieving, I often heard wonderful stories that opened up parts of a life that I had never known about. I learned about how an old woman became ill as a young girl, contracting the flu in the epidemic of 1918. I learned about how a man secretly helped many members of his community when they were in financial straits. I saw some secret devotional poetry written by a woman who had never married. I heard stories about grandparents trekking across the prairie to start a farm where there should only be ranches. I heard stories of failure and stories of success, and stories of faithfulness in times of trouble.

I remember giving communion to an ancient woman once. I would be the last time I visited her. We knew she was dying. Her family was gathered. We prayed, read scripture, reflected on her life, and especially the hardships of the great depression.

At the close of the service, I pronounced the benediction, "The Lord Bless you and Keep you, The Lord's face shine on you with grace and mercy, the Lord look upon you with favor, and give you peace."

The old woman opened her eyes, and with a sparkle, said, clearly, "He did!"

He did! The Lord did bless me and keep me, the Lord's face shone on me....


The Lord is my resurrection and has been my life, all of my days. He has looked upon me with favor, even in the valley of the shadow of death.

Such clarity she had. May we all have such moments

"It Didn't Turn Out Right"

That's what she said when I walked into her room at the nursing home.

I was there to help plan a funeral on Saturday, for her daughter.  Her brothers were also with us.

A couple of weeks ago I got a call from this woman's daughter.  I didn't know her terribly well;  I saw her fairly often when she came to church with an older gentleman, a friend of the family.  He couldn't drive anymore, so she volunteered to take him to church.  She said it would help her be more regular in her own worship attendance.

When she called, she was excited.  She wanted me to officiate at her wedding in May.  "I'm 60 years old and I'm getting married for the first time!" she told me.  She couldn't believe her luck.  She had gotten re-acquainted with an old friend, the son of the man that she brought to church, and they had decided to get married.   They met because he would often come and make a nice dinner for his parents after church.  We talked to each other a few times, trying to figure out dates and times.

Last week, she was hospitalized with complications from a cold. 

On Thursday night, she had a stroke.

On Tuesday, she died.

"It didn't turn out right", her mother told me.

Some people talk about the "sovereignty of God" as if God has orchestrated every single blessed and tragic small and great thing in the world.  Every single solitary thing that happens is "God's plan," as if God is pulling all kinds of strings all over the place.  I believe in the sovereignty of God, but I'm not sure that's what it means.  I think that somehow, in the end, God will work everything for good, that there will be a time and a place where there is no more crying and no more death, where every tear will be wiped away, and where we will cast our crowns before the throne of the Lamb.

In the meantime, sometimes, it just doesn't turn out right.

In the Old Days, we Used to Have Poetry Parties

Here's a poem that's been haunting me for quite a while:

Muted Gold

For Abraham Rich

My father died just as my plane touched down.
He taught me journeys don't happen in straight lines.
I loved him wihtout ever needing words.
Is memory a chain of alibis?

He taught me journeys don't happen in straight lines.
His father sailed  Odessa to Boston Harbor.
Is memory a chain of alibis?
The story I choose a net of my own desires?

His father sailed Odessa to Boston Harbor.
Dad worked beside him in their corner store.
The story I choose a net of my own desires?
I wish I'd known to ask the simple questions.

Dad worked beside him in the corner store.
They shelved the tins of black beans, fruit preserves, and almond cakes.
I wish I'd known to ask the simple questions,
he'd have stayed with me and gossiped over toast.

They shelved the tins of black beans, fruit preserves and almond cakes.
What colors did they wear, what languages were spoken?
He'd have stayed with me and gossiped over toast,
now he's smiling but I can't summon the thoughts he's thinking.

What colors did they wear, what languages were spoken?
Was it a muted gold, a world of shattered feeling?
Now he's smiling but I can't summon the thoughts he's thinking.
I pack his clothes away, mark them for Goodwill.

Was it a muted gold, a world of shattered feeling?
What good will it do to dwell, I hear him say.
I pack his clothes away, mark them for Goodwill.
but I hold fast to one old T shirt, butter-smooth, and brilliant.

What good will it do to dwell, I hear him say.
He much preferred to glide along life's surface.
but I hold fast to one old T shirt, butter-smooth, and brilliant
and tell a story by moonlight, to try to keep him with me.

He much preferred to glide along life's surface.
I love him now with images and words,
and tell a story by moonlight, to try and keep him with me.
My father died just as my plane touched down.

-Susan Rich

From
Beloved on the Earth

When In Doubt, Sing

(Thanks to Jane Redmont for title)
(I wrote this to be read at a funeral I could not attend, because I was on vacation.)

Long ago, I read an article by a man whose son was seriously ill.  He recounted keeping vigil by his son's bedside many evenings.  He didn't know what to do.  He didn't feel he had the words to pray.  In fact, he admitted that sometimes he didn't think he had the faith to pray.  So, he sang.  It surprised him, he said, that he found himself singing, and that he found it comforting to sing.

We have been doing a lot of singing these past few weeks.  And praying.  Since hearing of K's diagnosis, perhaps there have been times when we didn't have the words to pray.  I know I have felt that way.  But the Spirit helps us in our weakness, with sighs, and sometimes with songs.  Some of the songs you sang for K lately were Blessed Assurance, Children of the Heavenly Father, Beautiful Savior.  Perhaps you sang in harmony.

I thought I knew K. pretty well.  After all I've been K and D (her husband)'s pastor for twelve years.  I knew she was a tireless advocate for VEAP (a food/clothing/housing agency).  I knew she played the bells.  I knew she had a quiet strength and grace.  I knew she and D loved music, because once in awhile I would run into them at a concert at Orchestra hall.  I knew she was a leader in our congregation, admired by many.  But I didn't know that she was the first woman to be the President of our congregation, that she loved to knit, that she liked to sing the harmony parts on all the hymns.

She liked to sing the harmony parts on all the hymns.  There's something about knowing this that lifts my heart.  today there is singing in harmony, and there is praying in harmony, because the Spirit helps us in our weakness, with sighs and with songs too deep for words.  Today we commend K. to the loving arms of her Savior, the one on whom she has relied for her whole life.

I will miss you today, but I'll imagine hearing the bells play, and I'll imagine hearing the organ soar, and I'll imagine you all singing.  In harmony.  I hope you do.  Because at just such times as these the Spirit helps us in our weakness, and our songs become our best prayers.

Knit Together

"For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb."

I said these words at a hospital on Tuesday in the late afternoon. We said these words because a baby had just been born, and his mother was holding him, and his father was standing over him, and his grandparents and his aunt were in the room.

The baby had died before he was born. No one knows why. He was beautiful, and all along the doctors had said he was perfect.

That afternoon we named him, as we also prayed and read scripture. We loved him. His mother and his father and his grandparents and his big sister and his aunt had loved him before his was born, as he was being knit together and as everyone was marvelling at his growth, and anticipating his birth.

The ones who loved him, they were also being knit together, they were knit together in their common love for one another and for him, in their anticipation and hope. Now they were knit together in grief as well.

On Friday many people came together in a memorial service. We prayed and sang. The baby's big sister danced during "Children of the Heavenly Father." There were families and friends and people from work, and people from our church, all being knit together in love and hope and in grief.

Some people in our church have known this family, this father and mother, since they were children. They have walked together, learned together, worshiped together, served together. They have sponsored refugees and taught English and served meals. They have rejoiced with them, and now they are weeping with them. Did they know, all these years, that they were being knit together into the body of Christ? And did they know that this would cause both great joy and grief to them someday?

We are being knit together by love and anticipation, by joy and by grieving. We are being knit together as we anticipate the reign of God and live now in this reality. We are being knit together, and sometimes this causes us unbelievable joy, and sometimes almost unbearable sorrow.

Beloved, we are God's children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do know is this: when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is.

A Naming Ritual

The word of the Lord came to Jeremiah, saying, "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you." The name Jesus was given to the child of Mary, the Son of God, as a sign of salvation for all people. the naming of this child reminds us of God's care for him and helps us remember this child's coming among us.

Then, addressing the parent/s, the leader asks:
What do you name your child?
Parent/s respond: Her/his name is _____________.
Parent/s or others may comment on the significance of the name.


See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God: and that is what we are. The reasons the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Beloved, we are God's children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do knowi s this: when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is. (1 John 3:1-2)

God, our creator, you called into being this fragile life, which had seemed to us so full of promise. Give to __________, whom we commit to your care, abundant life in your presence, and to us who grieve, courage to bear our loss; through jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord.

Heavenly father, your love for all children is strong and enduring. We were not able to know this child as we hoped. Yet you knew him growing in his mother's womb, and he is not lost to you. In the midst of our sadness, we thank you that ______ is with you now, and with you forever.

Merciful God, you grant children an abundant entrance into your kingdom. In your compassion, comfort those who mourn for _______, and all who mourn the death of children. Be gentle with them in their grief, and reveal to them the wideness of your mercy. Deliver them from all despair and guilt. Grant us grace so that one day, united with _______ and with all your children, we may stand in your presence in the fullness of joy; for the sake of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord. AMEN

_______, Child of God, we entrust you to the arms of God's mercy.

Almighty God, who formed us all out of the dust of the earth, receive you in peace.

Christ, the Good Shepherd, enfold you with his tender care.

God the Holy Spirit, our Comforter, bear you to life in God's new creation.

May you dwell forever in the paradise of God. AMEN

(From Evangelical Lutheran Worship, When a Child Dies before or at Birth)

My Last Funeral

During the past few days I've been thinking about the last funeral where I was the officiant, on a Saturday at about the middle of June.

A. was a gracious, lively, cultured woman who had struggled with cancer for the last several years. I visited her in her home and then at the nursing home where she spent the last couple of years of her life. When she was feeling well, she was a lively conversationalist, well-read, with thoughtful opinions on many of the events of the day. (Sometimes when I arrived, she was watching CNN.)

About a year ago, she decided to quit the treatments she was having for her cancer. They were taking too much out of her, so she and her son talked about it and decided she would not have that kind of suffering any more.

I remember going to visit her then, broaching the subject of what it meant for her to stop taking the treatments. I wanted to talk about the fact that she was going to die, to ask her if she was ready.

I have talked to people in the past who were eager to tell me that they were at peace. (I recently stopped in to see a woman whose first words to me were, "I'm ready.") I've talked to people who want to ask me what I think heaven, or eternal life, is like. Sometimes the conversation is easy.

Other times it is more difficult. Some people are shy, or private. It's more difficult for them to talk about things. But still, my calling is to tell them the truth, in the gentlest way possible. My calling is to help people grasp the life that God wants to give them.

It has occurred to me recently that this is not just true of people who are dying.

My calling is to love people and to tell them the truth. Sometimes this is the easiest and most joyous of tasks, and other times it is difficult. Often it is both at the same time. Sometimes, by the grace of God, I do it well. Other times, I know I have stumbled, and trust the Holy Spirit to use me anyway.

I trust the Holy Spirit to use me anyway.