A Sermon Illustration from my Life

I remember once going to visit my uncle in the hospital in Sioux Falls, after he had heart bypass surgery.  It was early in January, and since I was a pastor in a small town in northeastern South Dakota, and since it was in that little lull you get right after Christmas and New Years, I decided go go and keep watch with other members of the family.

My uncle had never married.  But my aunt Margret came, and I think my mother's other brother as well.  They lived nearby, so they came and waited as well.

I knew that my aunt and uncle were proud of my vocation.  They had come and visited me one summer, and stayed in the parsonage.  They came to Sunday worship too.  I still remember that my sermon was on the text from 2nd Samuel about David and Bathsheba and the death of their son, and my uncle was impressed that (whatever I said) I did not sneak around the text.

So I was sitting with my aunt, and I was telling her about how Christmas services had gone.  I told my aunt about my Christmas Day sermon, that I had told a story about going to the farm one Christmas when I was a very little girl.  It was the farm where my aunt and my mom and her sisters grew up.  My mom was the middle one.  Margret was her older sister.  Her younger sister was still living on the farm when I was small.  So I told my aunt about the time when when visited the farm and I was afraid that Santa Claus would not find us.  My mom's younger sister slept in the bed with me, and she reassured me that everything would be all right, that Santa would find me.

It was a sermon illustration from my life.

My aunt thought it was a good story.

Then she asked me a question.  "Have you ever told a story about me in one of your sermons?"

I thought about it.  I thought that I should.  But I couldn't think of anything.

My aunt has always been such a faithful presence in my life.  I remember her colorful china dishes, which she used every day.  She wasn't a gourmet cook, but she was a good no-nonsense cook.  She used to work for General Mills, so she knew her way around the Betty Crocker cookbook.

She always wanted to be a teacher.  She was good at talking to children.  When I was in high school, she took me to the University of Minnesota with her one day, just to walk around the campus and sit in on the classes with her.  

I remember she got involved in visiting shut-ins at her church.  It made her feel good to talk to people who were hurting or lonely, and to befriend them.  She had a pastor's heart.

But when she asked me if I had ever used a story about her as a sermon illustration, I couldn't think of anything.  She was just there, always, a constant presence.  I couldn't think of a single particular thing.  Just that she was always there.

I didn't answer her question then, and I don't think I ever did.

But actually she did become a sermon illustration once.

When I was in college, I got involved in a pretty intense religious group.  They were the kind of people that thought they were right, and that everyone else was wrong.  I was "on fire for the Lord," and sadly, that meant that I was pretty judgmental for awhile.  I questioned everyone else's faith, including my Aunt's.  In fact, I even wrote my aunt and uncle a letter, and although I don't remember exactly what I wrote, I think I wrote some pretty terrible things.

My aunt wrote me back.  And this I remember:

She forgave me.

She loved me anyway.

That was a sermon illustration.

And Aunt Margret, I want you to know this -- your whole life was a sermon illustration for me.

Little Epiphanies

Friday was the day of Epiphany around here, and everywhere, in fact.  But the date extended backwards and forwards, as I told the story at our pre-school chapel on Wednesday morning, and shared it again with the seniors at the Assisted Living Center in the afternoon.  And on Sunday again, we heard the story of the wise men who followed the star and worshipped the baby king, bringing him gifts.

On Wednesday morning with the children we were done with Christmas carol singing and back to our regular repertoire of simple songs, both new and old:  we sang "Jesus Loves Me" and "My God is so Great!" and "Deep and Wide" and "He's Got the Whole World in his Hands."  When I invited the children to come and sit with me, we all got to remember the Christmas story together, all the way back to Mary and Joseph's journal, and how Jesus was born and placed in a manger, and how shepherds heard the words of the angel, "Don't Be Afraid!"  

But then we got to the wise men with the gifts, and we remembered that Herod was a Bad Guy too.  But mostly we followed the star and when we found the baby, I had a baby doll for them to hold.  And when I asked them what gifts they would have brought for the baby, they had plenty of ideas, "a gallon of milk!"  "Diapers!"  "Food!"  "Toys!"  All good gifts for Jesus, and for all of the little ones we serve in his name.  

Some of the children had other answers.  One little girl wanted to give him her strength.  Another student thought we give our hearts.  

But the thing I remember the most is that so many of the children wanted to hug the baby Jesus before they returned to their classrooms after chapel.  

***

Later that day I was out at the Assisted Living Center.  They are tired of Christmas carols already there.  So we sang "Blessed Assurance" and "Love Lifted Me" and "What a Friend We Have in Jesus."  I don't know how great my sermons, but the singing is always spirited at the Assisted Living Center, and we always have communion.  And they always say that I did a great job.  

I told the story of the wise men and the star again, to them, about how the star guided them, not just to Bethlehem, but to the very place where Jesus was.  The exact spot.  We wondered if the child was exactly who they were expecting.  He was supposed to be a King, but he was not in a palace, after all.  And yet they did not hesitate.  They worshipped.  They believed.  We wondered what brought them from so far away, what they were looking for.  Were they looking for peace?  for hope?  For life?  

And I told them about the children, and we wondered together about what we would give the baby king.  

Ourselves.  

***

And then it was Sunday.  All of the decorations are still up at the church.  It is a late epiphany, two days after the day of Epiphany.  But the wise men came, following the star.  

I had a manger in the front of the church.  I had wrapped up some board Bibles and had 3 and 4 year olds come up to the front of the church.  We followed the star to the manger, and then I had them open up their presents in front of the congregation.

And one little girl cried out, "Oh!  I got Jesus!"

Yes.  Yes she did.

During the season of Epiphany we hear stories about how Jesus is revealed as the Messiah, the Savior, the Son of God.  And during the season of Epiphany we keep our eyes and ears open, because he has promised to reveal himself to us.

You never know when you will hear his voice.

You never know when you will catch a glimpse of him, the creator of heaven and earth, who made himself small, so small, for our sake.

Human Being

It was a long time ago now -- but you don't forget some things, even after many years.  It was a long time ago that I lived and worked as a missionary in Japan.  I was a stranger there.  Although I worked very hard to know and to be known, to learn Japanese, to understand, there were also many other forces that made that difficult.  In some ways, I would always be a stranger.

I worked at a Lutheran boy's school, junior and senior high school - and I walked home from school every day, to my two-room Japanese apartment.  (One person should only need one room, in Japanese terms, but because I was a Westerner, the school thought it wise for me to have two rooms rather than one).

Every day i walked past a dress shop -- all of the dresses there were too expensive for me, but, even so, I used to stop in on the way home.  I would look at the dresses and talk to the woman who worked at the store.  Sometimes she would make me tea.  It was that time of the day for tea, usually.

She had a three-year-old daughter, who I also like to visit with when I stopped.

One day, we were visiting, and the little girl looked at me and said, "Are you a gaijin?"

The word "gaijin" is Japanese for foreigner.  So, indeed, I was a gaijin.  But the word "gaijin" literally means 'outsider', anyone who is not Japanese.  There is a more polite way to say it, but this is the word I usually heard.  One of the most frequent places I heard the word 'gaijin' was from small childen, unused to seeing outsiders.  I would be walking down the street, and a small child would be shocked to see me, someone who looked so un-Japanese, and would point at me and cry out "Gaijin!"  Sometimes a very small child might even burst into tears.

So when this little girl asked if I was a "gaijin", I was surprised, and so was her mother.

We both laughed, and I said that Yes, I was a gaijin, and her mother said that we were all "ningen" -- which is Japanese for 'human being.'

And then we forgot about it.

Sometime later I stopped in at the dress shop again.  The little girl was there with a friend of hers.  They were playing on the floor.  The friend looked up at me, pointed and said, loudly, "Gaijin!"    This was to be expected.

But the other little girl, my friend's daughter, replied, "She's not a gaijin.  She's a human being."

The Kingdom of God drew near for me that day and in that moment.  I was a stranger in Japan and I couldn't do a thing about it.  No matter how well I learned the language, no matter how well I learned to fit in, I would always be different, I would always stick out, I would always be strange.   It was so different than my whole experience growing up, where I was a member of the dominant culture.  I didn't think of myself as privileged, but I was.  I had the luxury of assuming that when people looked at me they would see a human being before they saw anything else.

Not everyone has that luxury.  I don't know how we can deny it.  That is why it is important to say that "Black Lives Matter."  Maybe it should go without saying, but it doesn't.  Maybe we should be able to say "All Lives Matter" because we are all human beings, but Dylann Roof did not treat those nine worshipers from Mother Emanuel like human beings, and the State Trooper did not treat Sandra Bland like a human being, when he pulled her over that day.

The 9 African Americans did treat Dylann Roof like a human being, though.  Was it simply because he was a member of the dominant culture?  Or was it because they were praying, because they had learned to see the way God sees, the value and humanity in all of us?  Was it because they knew that, since Jesus died for each one of us, we are, all of us,  in all of our diversity, in all of our strangeness, worth dying for?

It was a long time ago now -- but some things you never forget.  I will never forget being pointed and stared at.  And I will never forget being called a 'human being.'

To Look At The Heart

Today, I sat with a woman whose husband is dying.  We sat by his bed, held his hand, prayed a little, told a few stories.

They have been married over 70 years.  They both walk with canes.  They would hold each other up, watch out for one another.

"My friends wondered what I saw in him," she said.  "Because of the age difference.  And because he walked with a limp.  He had polio when he was a child.  But I didn't see the limp, not until they they mentioned it.  I looked at his heart.  I didn't see the limp.  I saw his heart, and it was strong and good.

"My friends -- a lot of them got divorced." She didn't exactly say it with a tone of triumph, but as a simple statement -- it pays to look at the heart, and not at outward things.

"They said it wouldn't last," she said again, "because of the age difference."

"What age difference is there?'  I asked her.  I never knew.

"Seven years," she said.  "I'm 90 and he is 97.  Back in those days you only married someone your own age.  So they said it wouldn't last.  That, and the limp.  They wondered what I saw in him."

They have been taking care of each other for over 70 years, each of them keeping an eye on the other, each of them holding the other one up, each of them looking at the heart.

We held hands, we prayed, we told stories.  I made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and said, "You are sealed with the Holy Spirit, and marked with the cross of Christ forever."

For 70 years, when they held each other up, it was Jesus who was holding on, through their faithfulness.  For 70 years, when they kept an eye on each other, it was Jesus watching out for them, through their faithfulness.

If you look at the heart, that's what you see.

Ash Wednesday Ashes

After our noon service today, we got a phone call from a woman who had missed the service, and would not be able to attend in the evening because she had to work.

She told us her name, and wondered if she could stop by in a little while for prayer and to receive the ashes.  I said that I planned to be around and would wait for her.

At the appropriate time she came by the church.  We went into our small chapel, sitting in the narrow pew nearest the chancel.  A small shiny black teacup with ashes sat between us.

I had brought one of our bulletins and decided to read the poem that opened the service.  It was so beautiful, evoking the frailty of our mortality and the ashes of our lives with the fire of God's love and promise for us.  Afterwards, she opened up and her life poured out:  her desire for a clear purpose and work that mattered, her care for a troubled child and grandchild, other grandchildren that she never knew.  As she shared from the depths of her heart,  I looked down at the cup of ashes, and I thought, What good are these ashes?  Does she really need today to hear that she is dust, and to dust she will return? 

Then, it was time to pray, and just as I opened my mouth to begin praying for her, as I thought she wanted me to do, she broke out in prayer herself. Seeing my surprise, she stopped momentarily, and said, "is it all right?" When I nodded, she continued.

And oh my word, this woman could pray.  She prayed for a friend who had experienced loss.  She prayed for her family, and she prayed for her work.  She prayed for purpose and she prayed for strength.  She prayed citing scripture with ease, words she knew by heart.  She prayed until I wondered if there was anything left to pray for.  She prayed for me, and that God would bless me, and my work.

Later, I prayed too.  I prayed for her, especially, although she interrupted to make sure I included someone else she prayed for.

Then I made the sign of the cross on her forehead, saying "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

"Amen", she said, as if it was the best piece of news she ever heard.

"Wait," I said.  I wanted to read one more thing for her, something from our bulletin.

Accomplish in us the work of your salvation
That we may show forth your glory in the world.
By the cross and passion of your Son our Lord
Bring us with all your saints to the joy of your resurrection.

"That's beautiful," she said.  Then, "Tell me, when you came to faith, did you accept Jesus as your personal Lord and savior?"

"Every day," I said.  "In my tradition, it's not a one-time-only thing."

We walked together back down the hallway from the chapel.  "Where do you go to church?" I asked.  I couldn't imagine someone who knew scripture by heart like she did was not going to worship somewhere.

"I haven't been to church for a long time," she told me.  "I always have to work on Sunday.  I usually work Saturday night, too.  I haven't been to church for a long time.  But they told me that I might be able to start getting Sundays off now."

"Thank you for praying with me," she said.  "Bless your ministry.  You are a blessing."

O my heart.

Accomplish in us the work of your salvation
That we may show forth your glory in the world.
 

In 1991 I Wrote This About My Call

I was looking for some old Lenten monologues I wrote based on Mark's gospel, and I came upon the "Endorsement Essay" that I wrote for the seminary and for my denomination.  Here's what I wrote:


SINCE childhood, I have been nurtured by many stories from the Bible.  There have been picture Bibles at bedtime before prayers, stories told by Sunday School teachers, lectionary readings preached from the pulpit.  A few of these stories have stayed with me and become mine, to comfort as well as afflict me.  He is a story about some of the stories that have become companions with me on my journey.

Story #1
It was a dark and stormy night, and the little boat was rocked by waves.  The disciples had all they could do to keep afloat, for the wind was against them.  When they saw Jesus walking across the lake to them, it was somehow not so reassuring, but just another eerie thing in the middle of the night, the kind they would have nightmares about sometimes after witnessing Jesus cast out some particularly terrifying demons.  "Don't be afraid!" he called, and it was about as easy to stop being afraid as it would have been to stop breathing.  Impulsive Peter, however,  put all sense behind him.  The man knew no fear.  He leaped from the boat and found himself, to his surprise, walking on water.  It didn't last, however; it couldn't last.  Peter feared he fell; he failed.

It was August 30, 1981.  My palms were sweaty, my mouth was dry, I felt somewhat numb.  I was in church, being commissioned as a missionary to Japan, and I listened intently as the minister told this story.  I identified with Peter.  I was leaving for Japan the next day, and I was not packed yet.  I felt ignorant, foolish, unprepared.

"But I never feel prepared!"
It was at a winter retreat
that a student said it,
I was pleased when a counselor replied,
"But we walk on water all the time."

It is well to be prepared,
but we dare not forget that we are never fully prepared
for the tasks that are most worth doing.
The tasks that are worthy of us, as persons,
are often beyond us.

--Gerhard Frost, "Bless My Growing"

As I prepared for ministry of service in Japan, I feared that I had gotten in "over my head" as Peter did, and was about to drown.  But I also began to suspect that "over my head" was just where God wanted me.  I began to suspect that a life in response to God's grace was a life of risk, a life of continual dependence on the Voice that calls out over the waves, and the strong Arm that reaches us when we are drowning.  We are continually drowning and being raised to new life, and since that first drowning, we need not fear the others.

It was May 19, 1957.  I was only one month old, and this time, I did not jump in.  I was pushed!  When my parents brought me to Augustana church that day in obedience to God's Word, I'm sure they did not suspect what adventures would follow.  But as the minister poured water three times over my head in the strong name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I was assured a lifetime of getting in "over my head."  It is a lifetime of grace for all of our a ventures, of daring to risk because of the God who dares to go with us.

Story #2
Job was a Good Man, God had said so Himself, so it came as somewhat of a shock when he found his fortunes turning from good to bad and from bad to worse.  He lost everything; first his fortune, then his family, even his wife, last his health.  No one understood it, least of all Job, although some of his friends who thought they had it all worked out came over to try to enlighten him.  "Comforters," they were called, and some of their responses sounded reasonable, though none of them were very comforting, and Job did not find them compelling.  In the end, Job demanded an explanation from God himself, and though he didn't get one, he did get God, the creator of the Universe, right there, at this bedside.

I first read the story of Job, all 42 chapters of the Revised Standard Version, the first day of my senior year of high school.  It was an assignment.  I didn't understand it much then.  But by the end of my senior year, I had begun to take a liking to this gutsy questioner.  By the end of this year, I too was beginning to question God.  Confronted by issues of human suffering, the Holocaust, the Atomic bomb, I found it difficult to believe in an all-powerful but all-loving God.  Trips to the library to learn more about Jesus did not bring answers but still more questions.  In the church, which I continued to attend despite my doubts, I found no answers either.  But I found something.  I found God who promised to be with us "where two or three are gathered."  I found that the Christian response to suffering was not an answer, but a presence.  As Job discovered, answers did not sustain me.  But God has sustained me and continues to sustain.  Within the bread and the wine, within the gathered community which sings, prayers, confesses together, God is present.  Sometimes the community believes for me when I cannot believe.  Sometimes another is weak when I am strong.  I know we don't always get answers, but I know that the Creator of the Universe has come right here, among us.

Story #3
Jonah went to Nineveh to preach repentance, but it certainly wasn't his idea.  In fact, the indentations in the sand were pretty long and deep where God dragged him kicking and screaming.  In case you had forgotten, the first thing Jonah did when God called him was get on a boat going in the opposite direction.  After that, he ended up spending three days in the belly of a great fish, reconsidering his original plan.  That's what you get for trying to run away from God.

I like Jonah.  I think I am a lot like him.  He was stubborn and resistant, pretty convinced that he could not preach the Word, especially to Nineveh.  Jonah knew his weaknesses and used them as excuses to run away from God's call.  I find I have been the same way.  "I can't serve you, God," I have argued.  "I am not a leader.  I am not assertive enough."  (Indeed, I will have to learn to be more assertive as I grow in ministry.)  But my argument, unfortunately, did not impress God.  "You're crazy, God", I countered, "I am too much of a people-pleaser to preach your Word prophetically."  (And it's true, I do need to learn to be less concerned about how other people see me.)  But God was as stubborn as I was, and this argument did not work either.  "O God," I persisted piously.  I am not disciplined enough in my own life of prayer and Bible study to lead a congregation's spiritual life."  and God granted that it was a true confession, but did not give up calling me.  I began to hear another voice beneath all of my excuses, and this one was a still small voice, reminding me that along with all my weaknesses, I also had gifts to bring to ministry.

One of these gifts ironically, grows out of my own stubborn delay in recognizing Gods call.  Because of that, I have had many experiences as a lay person, struggling to integrate faith and life.  I have often sat in the pew on Sunday morning and thought, "That's nice for you, Pastor, but how do I live out my Christian faith in my life and at my job?  What do I do on Monday?"  I want to hang onto that experience as I plan worship and preaching.  I have also sat on church councils and know the good, the bad and the ugly about church politics.  I believe that lay people can teach me as well as learn from me.

Another of these gifts is a love for stories and for writing.  Clarity of expression is important to me.  I know that words and stories have power.  I also know that people are stories to be read and enjoyed.  I want to learn to read people and learn from them and be sensitive to their struggles.  I know that the Word is not just words on a page, but the word of speech, of touch, of sight and of sound.

Another gift I bring is my nurture in the Lutheran tradition, with respect for the power of baptism and the Triune God who commands it and acts through it.  Yet I have grown through a variety of religious experiences, Lutheran and not:  summer campfires, charismatic worship, reading in mysticism, cross-cultural experiences, and insights through art, music and literature.  I have learned that God speaks to us in a variety of languages to different people.  All these resources I might bring to worship, preaching, teaching, and counseling, now that I have gotten out of the belly of that great fish.

Story #4
In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was in the Beginning with God; all things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made.  In the Beginning was the Word.  And the Almighty Word leapt down from heaven, took on human flesh, eating and drinking and laughing and weeping with us.  In the End the Word was crucified by us and for us, but that was only the Beginning.  In the Middle the Word healed and forgave, spoke in riddles and walked on seas, multiplied loaves of bread and divided the house of Satan, and wear generally misunderstood and underestimated.  In the Middle, almost nobody understood until the End.  But that was only the Beginning.  In the Middle was the Word, and the Word is in the Middle.  In the Middle, we continue to misunderstand, get it wrong, trip over our shoelaces and miss the point.  And in the Middle we continue to hear the Word, "Given and shed for you, for the forgiveness of sins, who is, in the middle of our middle, still eating and drinking and laughing and weeping with us, although we often don't understand until the End.

And that is only the beginning.

The Last "Everybody Loves Raymond"

We watch re-runs of Everybody Loves Raymond, and The King of Queens around here.  We used to watch old movies too, but they keep moving our old movies channels to the premium packages.

I'm not proud of it, but I have not kept up with The Good Wife, Breaking Bad, Modern Family or Mad Men.  I know.  I should pick one.  I would have something to talk about, other than Armande Gamache, Billy Collins and Facebook.  (We do watch Downton Abbey, but that's only for a little while.)

I watched Everybody Loves Raymond when it was actually popular culture.  I will confess to having a sort of love/hate relationship with the show.  Some episodes have been painful.  Others have made me laugh so hard I cry.  (I especially like the one where Robert leaves home and goes to live with another couple -- who turn out to be exactly like his parents, Frank and Marie.)

Now we watch the re-runs.  We've been through a few revolutions of the entire series, which brings a certain perspective, especially when several episodes run in one evening.  One evening, we watched the final episode, immediately followed by the first episode.

Tonight the last episode of "Raymond" was on, again.  I think I know it by heart now.  It is all about how Raymond has to have adenoid surgery, but he is nervous about it.  He has always been a little bit of a hypochondriac.  However, in this episode, there is just the smallest tense moment at the end of the surgery.  Debra falls apart, briefly; Robert loses his "I hate my brother" facade long enough to volunteer to give blood.  Naturally, everything turns out all right.

It's a funny, but also sentimental episode; the brief brush with mortality reveals the love beneath the fighting, jokes and sarcasm.  Although everyone tries to keep Raymond from finding out about his brush with death, finally he finds out.  "You like me!" he accuses Debra.

Then the next morning, the whole big dysfunctional family ends up squeezed around the kitchen table, eating chocolate pancakes.  The very last scene of the very last episode of Everybody Loves Raymond takes place around the table.  There is no big moment, except that a couple of people are saying, "pass the syrup" and Raymond says they need to get a bigger table.

It is not a bad ending, if you ask me:  everybody sitting around the table, all crowded around, eating together, being a family.  It is not a bad ending, but maybe I just think that because that is how I imagine the end of our story:  all of us feasting together, not on chocolate pancakes (but why not?) but on rich food and well-aged wines, on the mountain of the Lord.

We will know, finally, that we are loved.  And there will be enough.

All the Pretty Little Parables

Here's a secret:  I like the little parables, the ones we heard in church last week (mustard seed, yeast, treasure-in-field, pearl, net-of-fish) better than many of the longer parables that Jesus tells.  I especially like these little parables better than the parables where Jesus has to break down and give an explanation of the parable a little while later.   I prefer the eye-brow raising ambiguity of these stories more than the dreadful clarity of the parable of the sower, or at least its explanation.  Perhaps I just prefer ambiguity.  Or the possibility of a surplus of meaning.

There they are, a handful of one-sentence stories, challenging me to squeeze the Kingdom of God into six words, or a 120 character tweet, or a three-line haiku.  They are the Shortest Parables Ever, full of simple complexity, or complex simplicity.  They seem to mean one thing, but if you turn them over, and look on the underside, you discover unknown worlds.  The mustard seed seems to be a parable about tiny seeds growing into great trees, until you realize that the mustard tree is really a bush, not a tree, and to make matters worse, an invasive species, like buckthorn or creeping charlie or even the oregano I didn't plant this year, but which appeared anyway.  The mustard seed seems to be a nice parable about the smallest amount of faith doing wonderful things, until you start thinking about what it means to be an invasive species in a world that isn't always wild about you.

They are all like that, these parables.  Think harder about the treasure in the field, and how weird it is that the man finds the treasure and then hides it again in the field.  Why not just take the treasure?  No, he hides it and then he goes and sells everything he has so he can buy the whole field.  The kingdom of heaven is like that.  Get it?  (Okay, not really.)  There's an irrational, extravagant, even wasteful joy to it.

I tell you, it makes me hear the story this week:  the story of the feeding of the five thousand, in a whole different way.  Having come from three straight weeks of parables, I can't totally get them out of my system.  I still think I'm hearing a story.  I want to say:  "The Kingdom of heaven is like five loaves and two fish, which, when they were divided up and shared, were enough to feed everyone, with leftovers."

Or possibly, I want to say, "The Kingdom of heaven is like 5,000 uninvited guests (not including women and children) who come over when all you wanted was to be alone."

I used to think that the issue with this parable was whether or not it really was a miracle.  Did Jesus really feed 5,000 people with five loaves and two fishes?  Did the menu literally expand?  There are those who say that what really happened was that hearts expanded instead; when Jesus broke the bread and blessed it, all of those who were so afraid to share what they had suddenly changed their minds.  There was always enough.  They just had to decide to share it.

But now I'm thinking of the story as a parable, just like those last three weeks of parables, just like the little parables we heard last week.  It shows us a glimpse of the kingdom of heaven, where in the midst of grieving and injustice, God is making a new world:  delicious, messy, with more leftovers than we can handle.  It also invites us to see parables in the stuff of our own lives:  ordinary, abundant, miraculous, ambiguous.

Once, long ago, I lived for a month with a small group of German Lutheran sisters out in the desert in Arizona.  They lived by faith, they said, which means that they did not go shopping, but gardened and prayed and trusted God for their food.  I was not sure how it worked.  But I remember one Sunday evening when our cupboards were bare, that we sat in the living room and prayed and prayed.  While we were praying the doorbell rang.  Someone had dropped off two bags of groceries.  I knew that I couldn't count on things like this happening all the time.  At the same time I also knew:  the kingdom of heaven is similar to this.

So the Kingdom of heaven is like yeast, a pearl, a net -- and five loaves and two fish divided, which were enough.  The Kingdom of heaven is like a fresh bouquet of flowers left outside your door, or like a ball of yarn of many colors, being woven into a mysterious garment fit for a king.  The kingdom of heaven is like a room at the nursing home, where an old woman lays dying, when a young woman runs in and tenderly kisses her on the forehead.  The Kingdom of heaven is like that.

Get it?  (Not entirely, I admit.)

But that is all right.  There is more to life than understanding.  There is the surplus of meaning, the Kingdom of heaven breaking in, breaking our hearts, feeding us, in more ways than one.

Judges, Widows, and what We Pray For

So I've been thinking about the parable of the widow and the unrighteous judge all week.  I've been thinking about prayer, and the problem of the parable, because, you know, it does seem like the parable is encouraging us to be persistent (perhaps not just in prayer, though), even though after 2,000 years it is clear that that all of the prayers and yearnings of all of the saints have not been answered with all speediness.

So I can't stop thinking about it.  Prayer, and persistence, and what we want, and what we pray for, and hope for, and work for, too.  Because all of these things are tied up in this parable for me, in eight short verses.

What is it we really want?  What is it we pray for?  The widow wanted justice, passionately.

So I was thinking about these things on Friday night while we were bookstore shopping, and I came across this issue of Poetry Magazine.  Near the beginning was a poem by a woman named Alice Fulton.  Here are the first few lines:

For your birthday, I'm learning to pop champagne corks
with a cossack sword when all you asked for was world peace.
I'm actioning the deliverables to wish you many happy returns

of the ecstasies that are imminent when all you requested
was a contentment so quiet it's inaudible.  Remember when
I gave you a robe of black silk that floats and does not rustle?
When all you desired was to turn from what was finished and hard

in the darkness.*

What is it we really want?  What is it we pray for?  We pray for our family to be safe, for roofs over our heads, for food, for world peace.

Persistence is not just about prayer.  It is about lived prayer, our efforts, the mercy we show, the peace we work to create.

And yet, when we are honest, we know that the really important things are beyond us.  At our best, we cobble together little pieces of mercy, shards of peace, remnants of the promise of abundance.

So prayer reveals us.  Prayer reveals both the meanness and the depth of our hopes.

As it turns out, the things we really want, really need, are beyond us.

Justice.
Mercy.
World Peace.

Don't give up.

*Alice Fulton, "You Own It" (October 2013 Poetry)

Reading and Faith

We are starting a new Bible study at my congregation this fall.  Well, actually, it's not a "Bible Study" in the tradition sense, but sort of a course in "How to read the Bible".   There's a video, and a study book, but we do spend some time in the Bible as well.

One of the things that I like about the course, and the author, is that he is honest about the fact that he enjoys reading the Bible, but also about the fact that he didn't always enjoy it.  The Bible is a daunting book, after all, and sort of strange, too.  It has this small print and footnotes, and it comes from this very strange and far away culture that we don't know much about.  It is a story, but probably not like the stories we might pick up in the airport and read on vacation.

One of the theses of the book is that we might not like reading the Bible in part because we think of it as a sort of textbook, or answer book, or encyclopedia of facts, and really, who likes to read those?  The power of the Bible, though, is that it tells stories, and that those stories can change our lives.  I love one example the author tells about his daughter, reading one of the "Little House" books, was inspired by a Christmas story from one of the books to collect and donate toys to needy children.

That has how reading has been to me.  I have gone down the rabbit hole with Alice, out to the prairie with Laura and her family, tried to sell stories with Jo from "Little Women."  I have opened the magic door to the Wardrobe with Lucy from "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," and have discovered things that have changed the way I look at the world.  Reading has changed my life.  But it is not so much reading for information.  It is reading to enter stories, go to new places, hear new voices.

So I resonate with this study, and I think it could help people read the Bible with more enjoyment.  Not only that, I think that people might find their lives shaped and formed by the stories they encounter there.

And yet.....

What if the problem is not HOW we read?  What if the problem is not that we are reading the Bible in the wrong way?  What if the problem is that a lot of people don't read anything at all (much less the Bible) for enjoyment?

I recently read an article that stated that a strong and growing minority of people don't read anything at all.  Maybe they did read at one time, when they had to, but they really now longer read anything at all, not the dictionary, not a good novel, (or a bad novel, for that matter), not memoirs or the newspaper.

What does this mean?  And what does it mean for a faith that is dependent on a written word?  What if, for some of us at least, it's not a matter of learning to read to be enchanted rather than simply to get information?  Is 'post-literate' a word?  Are we becoming post-literate?

I still know a lot of people who read.  But, I know a lot of people who don't, too.  And I do believe that the central premise of stories -- that they are a means to enchantment offering us entrance to other worlds -- is true.  But I'm wondering how, in the future, people will be enchanted, if the future is, indeed, in some sense, 'post-literate.'

What do you think?

Tell Me Your Stories

"Tell me your stories," my husband says to me as I return home, temporarily, with the dog.

"I don't have any," I reply.  It was a quiet morning, just me and the Office Coordinator and Scout the dog lying zen-like in the middle of my floor.

The phone only rang once.  It was the one of the Women Who Want Food Cards, which I do not have right now.  They keep calling, though.  They would have to come a distance to get a Food Card, and I tell them that they should try churches in their own neighborhood first.  They are persistent.  Or shameless.

Otherwise, I wrote my sermon.

I took breaks for coffee, to talk to the Office Coordinator, to eat the tiniest part of a chocolate pie.

Scout would follow me down the hall each time, an easy loping gait.  She would cruise up to the Office Coordinator to get pets.  She is persistent.  Or perhaps shameless.

I read the story again about the dying young girl who taught the seminary student how to pray, her soft voice urging him when he faltered, "Keep going.  I like to hear you pray, just talking to God like that."

It heard it rain, a little, as I typed, and wrote, and thought, and prayed.

"Teach me to pray," I say, remembering the phrase.  Perhaps I am not as persistent, or shameless, as I ought to be.

Dog and God

I've been reading a book called The Divinity of Dogs lately.  It was a Christmas present from one of my stepsons, an astute giver.  The book is full of stories about dogs, dogs who have known what to do and what to give in moments of crisis, dogs who were patient and loved without limits, dogs who have sacrificed to make a connection with us humans.

In one story, a dog befriended a young boy with a terminal illness.  At the hospital, the dog was allowed into the room and leapt up on the bed just before the boy experienced his first seizure.  In another story, a dog became the confidante of a young autistic boy who was being bullied, and helped him to know he had a friend in the world.

Reading this book, I couldn't help thinking about our own beloved dog, Scout, she of the one ear that flops and the other that doesn't.  I couldn't help thinking of her serious brown eyes and how she stares at us, sometimes, in the morning, and how, when I call her to come in from the back yard, she often stares at me, and doesn't come in.  I couldn't help thinking about her and how recently, when I called her to come in and have her dinner, she was trying to squeeze her head under the fence back yard.

That's right.

It was just before Christmas on a Friday night when my husband called and told me that he had let our Scout out in the backyard, but she seemed to have found a method of escape.  He couldn't find out where.  He said I would have to find her when I got home, as he had to practice for a piece in a Christmas concert.

I drove home in a dark and sort of desperate mood.  Scout is light-colored and hard to find in the winter when it has snowed.  I worried that she might be hit by a car.  When I rounded the corner to our house, I saw her right away.  She was walking down the middle of the street, possibly sauntering, even.  I could tell she recognized my car, so I stopped in the street and rolled down the window.

She jumped up on the window and I grabbed her collar and held on.  Now I had her, and I didn't know what to do with her.  I tried to unlock the door and unfortunately made the window start rolling up again.  Also I realized that I would have to disentangle myself from my seatbelt.

Now Scout was whining, a little, but I knew that if I let go she'd be running down the street, and would not come to me if I called.  So I kept working until I could hold her collar with my other hand, and open the door enough to slide out.

That's our divine dog, if dogs are divine.  Are dogs divine?

It depends on what you mean.

When I read the stories of the comfort dogs who visited Newtown, Connecticut, I know that dogs are divine, in some way or another, that they carry a presence within them, that somehow they are able to be ministers of divine love.  I know I don't think that "Dogs are God", any more than I am, but I do know that dogs have a place in God's world.

The thing is, even though I have no stories about how Scout rescued me, and many stories about how she has been a sort-of pain in the neck sometimes, I still believe that Scout is a creature of God, and that she somehow is a minister of divine love.  Despite her quirks, despite her "failings" (if you can call them that), she does good.

And I too, despite my failings, despite the fact that I don't always come when called, do good.  I am an instrument of God's peace.  I don't always believe this, but I look at my dog, and I know that it's true, and it can be true, too.

The Story

It all started while I was driving over to the seminary at the same time as I was thinking about last night's full moon.  I was thinking about the full moon because last night was Halloween, and because our dog was engaging in weird unexplained behavior.  She was digging underneath our back gate, and actually pushed through a fence slat and escaped for awhile, running up and down the streets until the food bowl called her back.  "Perhaps it was the full moon," I mused, and I remembered that it was Halloween as well, and that Halloween was an ancient pagan festival reported to be a "thin place" -- that was why it became "All Hallow's Eve"  - the night before All Saints Day.

So I was thinking about thin places (and I was still driving, and, amazingly, I had not unintentionally gotten off on a wrong street), and I was wondering about them, and I had this thought:

Because of the Incarnation, any place can be a "thin place" -- a place where the veil between heaven and earth becomes sheer.

I thought about this for a moment, the truth of the Incarnation for me -- God taking flesh and walking among us, not just appearing to be human, but being born, having hands, touching lepers, having aching feet.  And I thought, again, well, it's not the Incarnation, really.  Just that one event doesn't mean that much.  The Incarnation, even if it's real, is just a moment in time, just thirty-three years.  

But it's the whole story, starting from the beginning of time and ending when God will fill all the world with glory.  In the middle is the Incarnation -- God walking around in Jesus' skin, and the healings and the sayings and the agony of the cross.  In the middle is Jesus rising, and an incarnation in each disciple on that day called Pentecost.  It is all of these events that make me believe that any place can be a 'thin place', and any person can shine holy, and the veil between heaven and earth can tear at any time

The story is the truth and the truth is the story --  reality is not a set of propositions, but a story, and the story is the truth.  Reality isn't a transaction or a set of math problem or a series of facts, but a story, with a beginning, and a middle and an end.  (but we have not reached the end yet)

In this day and age it may seem amazingly foolish to believe that there is a story that gives shape and meaning to our lives, that there is something more than just the random and haphazard array of experiences, and that even the briefest of moments (like driving down the street and seeing the full moon) can be thin places where the veil between heaven and earth becomes sheer.  

The truth is the story, and the reality is that heaven and earth do meet, and God touches the lepers, and there is a beginning and a middle and an end (but we have not reached the end yet).

Some Snapshots from My Week

Sunday afternoon

We were done with Sunday worship and had taken a nap.  My husband and I decided to take a short jaunt over to a nearby antique mall to see what they had to offer.  While on the road, my cell phone rang.  It was a woman from our congregation, letting me now that her husband of 54 years had just died.  He had suffered from a rare degenerative disease for the past few years.  He died on his birthday.

Monday

This is my day off, but I made a little time to meet with the woman whose husband had just died.  We planned his memorial service for the next Monday.  His family told me he loved to try to figure things out (he had been an electrical engineer).  They also told me that he donated his body to the University, so that they could study his condition and perhaps, someday, cure people who had his disease.

Tuesday

I had a memorial service for a woman I knew from a monthly communion service I used to do at a local high-rise.  Her daughter told me that her mom "talked about me all the time."  She also told me that her mother was 100% Lutheran and 100% Norwegian.  She wrote a wonderful remembrance for her mother that called to mind her childhood in rural Minnesota.  She was poor, but didn't seem to mind.  After the short service, we had lefse, kringla, sandbakkels and krumkaka.

We also got news that a woman I had visited on Saturday died early on Tuesday morning.  The other pastor went to visit with the family.  They wanted a funeral service on Friday morning.

Wednesday

I visited another older gentleman in the hospital.  He had just gotten news about his cancer.  We had a wonderful visit, though he cried, a little.  He was grateful for his family.  We prayed together.

In the afternoon, I sat in with the other pastor while he planned the Friday service.  They had a first wanted me to do the service for them, but I was preaching, planning another funeral and presiding at a wedding on Saturday.

Later we had a wonderful meeting with our Stewardship planning group.  There is so much creativity, commitment and energy in this group.  What did I contribute?  I remembered the rationale for making out pledges on Commitment Sunday, not before:  because we wanted to make our gifts together in community, in worship and in prayer.

Thursday

I wrote the sermon for my Saturday wedding.

In the evening, there was a visitation for the woman who had died on Tuesday.  Toward the end of the evening, I gathered everyone together for some scripture readings and prayers.  I invited people to share some memories and stories.  At the close, we sang two choruses of this old song, "All Night, All Day, Angels watching over me, my Lord, All Night, All Day, Angels watching over me."

Friday

I worked on bulletin proof-reading with our secretary, and went away to try to write my Sunday sermon.  I got some done, but not as much as I had hoped.   For some reason, I was having trouble putting it all together.

Saturday

The wedding at at 3:00.  The bride cried.  Our small chapel service was at 5:00, the "first run" of the weekend.  After the service I went out and bought some yarn for the children's message.  (and hoped that the idea would work)

Sunday

I preached.  Christian Community, rooted in baptism. So close to an election, remember that we are not united by politics, but by God's grace.  We sang "A Mighty Fortress", and "Shout to the Lord."  I thought about how mighty our God is, mighty and vulnerable, dying on a cross.

A tattooed young woman came up to me before the service and said, "thank you for visiting my grandfather in the hospital."  She had tears in her eyes.  I saw a two-year-old dressed up in her Halloween costume.  She was a bumble-bee.

Afterwards, we had our annual Sunday School Fundraiser:  a spaghetti dinner.  A little later I was getting ready to go home, laden with left-over spaghetti for my husband's lunch.  Two little girls (about 4 years old) walked up to me gravely and presented me with:  my glasses, which I had left on a table in the Fellowship Hall.  "Are these yours, Pastor?"  they said.

I am tired.  It's a privilege to know people, to receive ministry from grave four-year-olds who find what I have lost, to be present when tears of joy or grief are shed, to sing and remember and hear stories.

Some days I am lost.  And it is the four year olds who find me, and help me to see again.

Presents

I have a very old, very worn book called Bless My Growing.  It is a book of poems by a Lutheran pastor named Gerhard Frost.  It is long out of print.  It has tape on the edge.  The pages are loose.  I have used it many times since becoming a pastor.

But I lost track of the young woman who gave it to me, someone I attended college with.  I got to know her during my senior year.  She loved this little book, and gave me a copy, just because she loved it so much. 

***

Once, many many years ago, as a young woman just out of college and just working in an office, I was standing in line to eat in a downtown cafeteria.  I struck up a conversatsion with a woman standing in line next to me.  We were probably commiserating about the varieties of jellos and entrees, I can't really remember.  But in the end, she and her husband and I ended up sitting together and eating and talking. 

As it turned out, she and her husband owned a very small book publishing concern in Menomonie, Wisconsin.  Before we parted ways, she gave me three small hand-sewn booklets from their publishing company, called The Vagabond Press.  I still have them.

***

Of the many gifts I received when I was leaving Japan, perhaps the most prized was the porcelain doll I received from the 9th grade boys.  A number of them handed me the doll at the very last moment before my mother and I got on a train headed to Tokyo.  I remember them standing there in black school uniforms, and bowing  before one of them quickly handed me a bag with the doll inside.

The 9th grade boys were never my easiest class.  We tried everything to get them to pay attention in class, be more respectful, and learn English.  The gift of the doll was a great surprise, and somehow, humbling

She was a Hakata Ningyo, dressed in kimono, and it looked like she was kneeling in prayer. 

I carried her back with me on the plane, cradling her gently on my lap.  Then, several years later, while I was carelessly adjusting a shelf, she toppled and crashed to the floor.

***

When I arrived at my first parish in South Dakota, the whole congregation was there to welcome me.  Or so it seemed.  They helped me unpack the trucks, and left useful items like dishtowels, rugs, glasses and tableclothes.  Each church had a women's group; each of the women's groups also presented me with a hand-sewn quilt.

***

Today there came in the mail a package for me.  It was two skeins of yarn, hand-woven in another state.  It was sent to me by a friend I have never met, someone I only know through blogging.

Sermon, part 2

(see previous post, but not if you are coming to church tomorrow)

But maybe, just maybe, we are focusing on the wrong thing. Think about this – Jesus called to the four fishermen – and here’s the thing – they were four ordinary people, doing their ordinary daily work, and it was an ordinary day. In other words, in many ways they were just like you and me. They weren’t famous, they weren’t especially educated for this line of work, and by the way, it wasn’t Sunday and they weren’t even in church. They were just going about their daily lives and Jesus met them and called them. Think about that.

You know, most of the time when I ask young people, “where do you see Jesus?” or “where do you meet Jesus?” they usually say, “when I go to church.” And certainly there is nothing wrong with this answer; I want people to come to church, to gather and worship and to know that something special is happening when we are here, praying and singing and hearing God’s word together. But it makes me a little sad to think that they don’t realize that church is not the only – or even the main – place that Jesus meets them, that Jesus calls to them. I hope people come to church to be reminded that God comes to them in many different places in their lives, and calls to them in many different parts of their lives.


Just as Jesus called to Peter and Andrew, James and John while they were fishing, Jesus calls to us in the middle of our ordinary lives, when we are standing in line at the grocery store, when we are helping customers,when we are taking care of our grandchildren, when we are listening to heartbeats or helping children learn to read, when we are comforting a friend, when we are making change, or making coffee.... and Jesus calls to us in those ordinary activities, to “follow me.”

It’s not so much that Jesus asks us to live different lives, but to live our ordinary lives in a different way, by the light that he shares with us. It’s possible that Jesus will call us to follow him to Haiti, but it’s just as possible that Jesus with call us to follow him – right where we are – doing the same work, with the same family, but living by the light of his love. If we are fishermen, our tool might be a wide strong net; if a doctor or a nurse, our tool a stethoscope or a thermometer; if a sales clerk, our best tool might be a smile. But the call is the same, and it comes to us where-ever we are, and all the time, “follow me. Be my person in the world. There is so much darkness in the world. Make my love real to people.”

That’s what I was supposed to that dark cold winter morning, when I was went to the Denver City and County Jail. So, nervous and unsure, I clutched those index cards and I went into the large room where they would soon be serving breakfast. We set up the sound equipment and the men shuffled in. Some of them carried Bibles, tattered New Testaments, the King James version. The songs began. I sang along. We all stood for the reading of the Holy Gospel.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light,” I began. “On those who lived in a land of deep darkness, light has shined.” What does this mean? I asked questions, wondering if anyone would respond, and what they would say.

When did this happen in Jesus ministry? Near the end? In the middle? No, in the beginning, someone answered. After when? After his baptism and his temptation in the desert. Right after Jesus’ temptation, he went out and began to preach, and began to gather disciples.What about those strange words – the prophecy about the great light, the light which has dawned? “That’s Jesus,” they said.

“Jesus is the light.” What does that mean, that Jesus is the light? “It means that you can trust Jesus. He’ll be straight with you. He won’t ever lie to you.

So we continued through the passage, reading together, talking about Jesus, the light in our darkness, the dawn in our night. I wondered aloud about the calling of the disciples. I wondered about how it must have felt to hear Jesus call “Follow me!” and about that strange word “immediately. They dropped their nets immediately. That must have been difficult. Do you think it was difficult?

“No, was the surprising response. “Why not?

Because Jesus is the light. You can trust Jesus. Jesus won’t ever lie to you. Everyone else will lie to you, but Jesus will never lie. If it was anyone else, it would be difficult. But not if it was Jesus. You can trust Jesus. Jesus is the light.

Now it was time for my sermon to end. But I hadn’t figured out the ending. So I began to say, a little softly, “You know, I believe that Jesus is still calling people today.”

Then a man in the back row stood up. “You know ma’am,” he said in a big booming voice, “considering where we all are, I bet he’s knocking on the door of our hearts right now.”

It’s still true – not just at the Denver City and County Jail and not just here in the his sanctuary – but out in the world, and in our daily lives – Jesus is still the light and he is still calling people today, calling people to follow him into the world, in their ordinary lives, to make his love real where-ever they are. Jesus is still the light and he calls you not to live a different life, but to live your life differently, by the light of his love. Jesus says, “follow me.” No matter who you are. No matter where you are.

I believe that Jesus is still calling people today.And considering where we all are, I bet he’s knocking on the door of our hearts right now.

AMEN

Two Favorite Stories, or "things that make you go hmmm"

About Benjamin Disraeli:

A young lady was taken to dinner one evening by Gladstone and the following evening by Disraeli. Asked what impressions these two celebrated men had made upon her, she replied, "When I left the dining room after sitting next to Mr. Gladstone, I thought he was the cleverest man in England. But after sitting next to Mr. Disraeli, I thought I was the cleverest woman in England."

From Aesop's Fables:

The North Wind and the Sun

A dispute arose between the North Wind and the Sun, each claiming that he was stronger than the other.  At last they agreed to try their powers upon a traveller, to see which could soonest strip him of his cloak.  The North Wind had the first try; and, gathering up all his force for the attack, he came whirling furiously down upon the man, and caught up his cloak as though he would wrest it from him by one single effort; but the harder he blew, the more closely the man wrapped it round himself.  Then came the turn of the Sun.  At first he beamed gently upon the traveller, who soon unclasped his cloak and walked on with it hanging loosely about his shoulders:  then he shone forth in his full strength, and the man, before he had gone many steps, was glad to throw his cloak right off and complete his journey more lightly clad.

I am thinking a lot lately about leadership, or, more properly, about leading (an action, not a status).  Somehow these stories say something about leading.

Backwards Thinking

So, with my recent return to serious knitting (a baby blanket, a scarf, a prayer shawl all completed recently), I have recently started thinking about an odd detail, or habit (perhaps it could even be called a handicap) in my life.

I'm left-handed.

I joined ravelry.com, and immediately signed up for a couple of "left-handed knitters" groups. It's been an issue: I've often wondered if my left-handedness has held me back in knitting. Besides the fact that almost all instructions are written for right-handed people, sometimes I just get the feeling that I'm doing things all wrong. When I went to the left-handed knitters forum, it seemed that there were plenty of people willing to tell me that, too: knitters knit with both hands, they said. You can learn to knit right-handed and save yourself a lot of trouble, they said.

Well, I do play the piano with both hands, so I'm not hopeless, but, I remember getting a pair of knitting needles in my Christmas stocking when I was in the 5th grade. My mother spent a while trying to show me how to use them, but gave up. A patient home economics teacher showed me the basics in 7th grade, but apparently she taught me how to knit left-handed.

I just looked at the cabled scarf I am making, and I realized that the cables I make braid backwards from the ones in the picture. Huh. There's something not quite right about my stitching in places, too, but I'm trying not to get too paranoid about it.

On this web site that I've been reading, I've heard a few stories from left-handed knitters. One woman said that after her daughter was born, when people saw that she was left-handed, said, "Of course, she'll never be able to knit."

So, what does it do to a person's mind when they realize they do everything backwards from most of the rest of humanity? I don't just knit backwards; one of my bosses told me that I filed backwards, too. I iron backwards, and I bat left-handed (that is, when I connect with the ball).

I googled "left-handed" and found out that between 8-15% of people are left-handed. That's a pretty small segment of humanity. There used to be more of a stigma attached to left-handedness. Left-handed people were looked on with suspicion, perhaps even thought to be demon-possessed. Dexterous people are right-handed. Sinister people are left-handed.

Some people say that a higher percentage of creative people are left-handed, but maybe that's just a defense mechanism for people who have been told, over and over, that they were peculiar. Maybe it's a defense mechanism for people who have felt awkward and clumsy, as if the world were not designed for them. Or, maybe we left-handed people don't just knit backwards. Maybe we think backwards too.

But then again:

Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

Now there's some backwards thinking for you.

Recipe: Chicken Divan Pot Pie

From a 2002 Pillsbury recipe magazine.

1 (15 oz) pkg. refrigerated pie crusts, softened as directed on package
3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1/2 cup chicken broth
1/4 cup milk
4 oz (1 cup) shredded American (or mild cheddar) cheese
2 cups diced cook chicken
1 (9 oz) pkg. frozen cut broccoli, thawed, well drained

1. Heat oven to 425 degrees F. Prepare pie crusts as directed on package for two-crust pie using 9-inch glass pie pan.

2. Melt butter in medium saucepan over medium-low heat. Stir in flour and pepper; cook until mixture is smooth an bubbly. Gradually add broth and milk, stirring constantly, until mixture boils and thickens.

3. Add cheese; stir until melted. Stir in chicken and broccoli. Pour mixture into crust-lined pan. Top with second crust; seal edges and flute. Cut small slits in several places in top crust.

4. Bake at 425 F for 30 to 35 minutes or until crust is golden brown and filling is bubbly. Cover edge of crust with strips of foil after first first 15 to 20 minutes of baking to prevent excessive browning. Cool 10 minutes before serving. (I didn't do this, and I burned the top of my mouth.)

I served it with a baby spinach salad.

Pot pies have always been comfort food to me. We had the frozen ones at home sometimes, growing up, and I liked them. A friend and I made a pie pie from scratch once, in Japan; it ended up being pretty late in the evening before we were done because we forgot we had to cook the chicken first.

There are a couple of other pot pie recipes in the magazine (the Beef and Mushroom Stroganoff Pie also sounds good), but I haven't made them yet.

This pot pie made me feel like getting out my fuzzy slippers and a quilt.

Sorry, no picture!

In Search of a Pastrami Sandwich, and my lost Youth

This evening I stayed a little too late at the office making phone calls, and then made a futile visit to a bookstore, looking for a very particular cookbook that they didn't have in stock. I got home a little late and very hungry.

I didn't want to cook supper; my husband didn't want to cook supper. What should we do? We discussed various options (Pie Shop, Sports-Themed Restaurant, Cafeteria). None of them really got us excited. Then my husband said, "How about Fishman's Deli?"

I had heard about Fishman's from an old high school friend of mine. One of my classmates owns this Restaurant, Bakery and Deli in my hometown. We decided that this was a good idea. It has the added bonus of being a trip down memory lane for me.

The kosher grocery store and bakery takes up most of the space, with a small eating area in the front. Since we were eating late, there were only a few people in the restaurant: an older couple, and a couple of families that looked like they were finishing up.

All of the men were wearing yarmulkes. I was very aware that we were the only Gentiles in the place. It felt strange.

We ordered our sandwiches and I looked around, remembering my friend from Brownies, C. C. was one of my giggling friends. We also both liked to sing. We tried to learn all of the songs from Allan Sherman records and all of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals, as well. I also was invited to spend sabbath with them on several occasions. I remember being a little in awe of the special prayers and rituals, and worried about that little sip of wine I was supposed to drink. We both liked play-acting, and (I'm embarrassed to admit this now) we would even act out some stories from the New Testament. At 8, I was totally clueless.

It seemed that, for awhile there, I had more Jewish friends than I did friends from my own youth group. In fact, I didn't feel that comfortable with most of the others from my church youth group. But I enjoyed conversations about religion, literature, and philosophy with some of my Jewish friends.

One of my friends, C, called it "Lutheran-Jewish Inter-faith Dialog." We both wanted to be writers, and both of us were really into our faith traditions. She taught me a table prayer in Hebrew that I remember to this day, and helped me learn about some of the Jewish Holidays as well. One of the things I respected most about her was that she was vulnerable enough to ask me, one day, "Do you think because I am not a Christian that I am going to hell?" And I had a sneaking suspicion that my religion officially held this position, but I myself had a hard time believing it.

As we waited for our pastrami sandwiches, the elderly couple in the booth next to ours struggled to leave. The gentleman turned to us with a twinkle in his eye, and said, "You have to wait longer if you aren't Jewish." My husband laughed and said, "How could you tell?"

One of the things I miss, being a pastor, is getting to know people who are not like me. It seems that I spend most of my time talking with other Lutherans. They're nice (mostly), but I realize that my most significant, most illuminated, and sometimes most challenging times were times when I was the stranger, learning another language, tasting other flavors: living in Japan, being invited to Sabbath meals, all those "Lutheran-Jewish interfaith Dialogues."

When have you tasted other flavors, or felt like a stranger?