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.

  

A Tale of Two Funerals

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

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

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

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

That is how I felt that day.

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

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

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

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

This is how God works in the world.

Remembering after Five Years

I got a phone call yesterday.  I didn't recognize the number, but the area code was from the Minneapolis area.  I picked up the call and heard a voice I didn't recognize call me "Pastor Roth."

It was a warm voice.  He asked me if I had remembered his mother and his brother.  I remembered them both.  I remembered his mother, a tiny woman who used to sit in the back row of our small Saturday night chapel service.  I remember visiting her in the hospital a couple of times, and reminiscing with her and her family about the "old days" when her boys were in our church's release time and confirmation program.  (For some reason, I remember a story about her bringing a casserole to a Wednesday night dinner and dropping the whole thing in the church parking lot.)

I had a small memorial service for his mother several years ago.

I remembered his brother too.  I remembered how he called me a couple of years after his mother's funeral, and asked if I remembered him.  He told me he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.  He had no current church affiliation, but would I visit him and talk with him, and give him communion?  I did.  I visited with him several times, talking about life and faith, the joys and regrets of his life.

I had a small memorial service for him a few years ago.  It was 2012.

The man with the warm voice called to tell me that his father was in hospice, had just entered hospice that day.  He did not know that I now live in another state, that I have lived here now for almost two years.  I gave him the number of the church and the current pastor.  He seemed to remember that his dad had a lay visitor, someone who came from the church to visit with his dad and give him communion.  I was glad about that.  I remembered helping to set that up.

A little while after I hung up, I thought a little more about our brief conversation.  I thought about how the brother's funeral was in 2012.  It is now 2017.  This brother still has my cell phone number, after five years.  And after five years, he called me up to tell me that his father is dying.

Now the lesson of this conversation might just be that I ought to get a new cell phone number.  And that may be so.  But I can't help thinking about the fact that the only way this man knew me was because of two funerals, and a couple of hospital visits.  Yet, after five years, he called me up to let me know about his father.  Perhaps I am the only pastor he knows.  Perhaps those small actions, the words, the prayers, the presence -- meant something.

They say that the church is in decline.  It surely is.  They also say that faith is in decline.  I believe that is true as well.  But there are sparks, small signs, or openings, times when people feel brave enough to call someone they haven't spoken to in five years, and tell her that their father is dying.  They want someone to say the words, to walk with them, to tell them that there is more to life than what they see, to help them through the mysteries of life and death.  They think they want a pastor.  But what they really need is the church.  What they really need is the body of Christ, a sign of the resurrection.

As a pastor, I always feel privileged to be able to say that I remember.  I remember your brother.  I remember your mother.  I remember your father too.   Maybe that is part of my job.  Maybe that is why someone will dare to call me after five years:  they hope that I will remember.

But it is not just my job.  It is the church's job, as well, to remember.  It is the church's job to remember, to say the words, to walk with people, to tell them that there is more to life than what they see.  We are the body of Christ.  Signs of the resurrection.

"You're So Gracious"

My former congregation had a generous policy about funerals.  There were a lot of people who were connected with us, in some way or another, and we could usually find some way to work it out if someone wanted to have their funeral in our sanctuary.  But, we have always had two or more pastors, so it was relatively easy to work that into someone's schedule.  If it didn't work out for any of the pastors, on one or two occasions we authorized another pastor to come and lead the funeral service.

So it was that one Monday our receptionist got a phone call from a family that desperately wanted their mother's funeral in our sanctuary, even though she had transferred to another congregation many years ago.  They also wanted one of the former pastors at their current congregation to preside at the service.

That sounded like a slightly strange request, but it was a funeral, and I am sympathetic with grieving people.  We said that one of the pastors of our congregation (probably me) would work with them, along with the pastor that they wanted.

The family said that this makes sense.  "After all, it's your church," they said.

We set a time for the family to meet with both pastors.  I found out the name of the other pastor.  I did not know him, but I did know one thing about him:  he came from a faith tradition which does not ordain women as pastors.  I had his number and tried to get in touch with him.  Finally I left to make another home visit.

When I returned the pastor and the other family were waiting.  I sat down with them and took out note paper and a hymnal, so that we could write down hymns and scripture readings.   We talked about the policy of the church, and how we serve the lunch.

Then the other pastor said, "I am sorry to say this, but I am not allowed to serve in public worship with you.  This is the policy of my denomination.  My hands are tired."

I was sitting there with this pastor and a grieving family.  They knew what I had told them before.

I swallowed hard, and said, "All right then.  I will help you plan the service.  I will put you in touch with the musician from our congregation.  I will help your with the luncheon.  I will make sure that the building is prepared for you.  I will pray for you."

"You're so gracious," the family said.

"You're so gracious," the other pastor said.

Is that what it was?  I had a grieving family with nowhere else to go.  I could not pull the rug out from under them now.  The most important thing was the proclamation of the resurrection that would take place at this funeral.  I knew that it was not about me.  I am not the only one who can comfort and proclaim the good news of Jesus' life.

And yet, it sort of felt like it was about me.  "You are unacceptable." That's what they were saying.  And I stood there and I took it, knowing in my heart of hearts that I was not unacceptable, but feeling slimed nonetheless.

"You're so gracious," they said.

Sometimes, grace is hard.  Really hard.

On that Friday I was not allowed to enter the sanctuary of the church where I had been called as pastor.  Other people thought it was so wonderful that we showed hospitality to a grieving family.  I am glad that we showed this hospitality to a grieving family.

And yet….

Recently I met with a young woman who wants to have her wedding here.  She is not a member of my congregation.  She is from another faith tradition, one I am only slightly familiar with.  I told her the policy of our congregation is that if the wedding is here, I need to be involved in the ceremony with that.  "Are you sure your pastor is all right with that?" I asked.

She was sure her pastor was all right with that.

I called him.  He is not sure that he is all right with that.

Sometimes, being gracious is hard.   Really hard.

My First Funeral

I had my first funeral here about a week ago, which is not the same as my first funeral.  I had my first funeral here, and for some reason, it brought back to me the memory of my very first funeral, when I was a newly-ordained and installed pastor in rural South Dakota.

I remember that I was installed on a Sunday morning in worship, and that there was this big potluck afterwards, and some of my family had come to the celebration.  We worshipped and ate and opened presents from the congregation, and my family all went home.  The next morning I went to the nearby town to open a checking account, and I stopped in at the hospital because I had heard about a parish member who was gravely ill.  I stopped in to see him and to introduce myself.  One of his granddaughters were there.  I think we had a brief prayer.

Early the next morning I got a call from the funeral director.  I remember being a little confused.  I wasn't used to anybody calling me "Reverend" yet.  I remember trying to find my way to the funeral home and later to meet his family.  I was still finding my way around the community, the gravel roads, the farms, the kitchen tables, and the people.

Darwin wasn't a farmer, someone from the church told me, as if that explained something, or anything. To this day I can't remember what he did for a living, but I remember this:  he wasn't a farmer, but he was a gardener.  He grew food, but not for a living.  He did it for love.

He grew food, and he grew a family.  That's what I remember.  And I remember that I had my first funeral at the little country church before I had given a Sunday sermon anywhere, and the whole community came out to hear "the new preacher" and stayed for lunch afterwards.  I remember that a couple from the congregation sang duets, and I remember that I took my preaching text from John 15 -- about God the gardener, and Jesus the vine, and and what it means to die believing that our lives bear fruit.  It's not in the list of the most common funeral texts, and I don't know where I got the idea to preach on it except for the fact that Darwin was a gardener.

I don't remember every funeral I preached, but for some reason I remembered that one.  On a Friday morning when I had been a pastor for all of five days, I had my first funeral, for a gardener named Darwin.  Then I went home and fussed about what I was going to preach about on Sunday, as if I had any idea.

It was so long ago.

So I had my first funeral here about a week ago, for a woman I had not had the chance to meet, a woman named Odessa.  I am still finding my way around here.  The landscape is different;  there are no gravel roads, but there are winding ones.  But there are still kitchen tables, and people to meet, and lives that are hidden still bear fruit.

Odessa was not a farmer, or a gardener, either.  She married and worked at ordinary jobs, some of them hard.  She bore two children and did beautiful handwork, and her life was hidden with Christ in God.

I didn't think to preach on John 15 this time.  I'm not sure why.  It still applies.  Jesus is the vine.  We are the branches.  We till our little patch, and God works in us in mysterious ways, until the end of time.

I Didn't Preach This Weekend

Since I had preached two weekends in a row, it felt odd not to preach this weekend, a little gulp in the rhythm,  a time to stretch my legs and think about something else for a little while.  Then I remembered that I actually preached at a funeral service on Friday and for a wedding on Saturday.  So you can't really say that I was off.

For some reason I have been reminiscing lately, thinking back on my ministry and my life.  There's something about a funeral and a wedding that does that, especially these.

The Friday funeral was for a man I didn't really know.  He was the son of members of my congregation who were also good friends of my parents.  He had lived far away for a long time, and I had only met him, briefly, for a long time.  Long long ago, back in the glory days of this congregation and in the glory days of mainline churches in general, he had been active in youth and singing groups.  It was very sudden this winter when he became ill and died.

I didn't really know him, but I knew his parents.  I used to visit them in their apartment and give them communion.  I would find out how they were doing and they would ask about my parents, especially my father.   When she was dying, I drove my mother out to see her in hospice care one time.  I remember how at ease she was with her dying.  When she got into hospice, she said, 'Now I can have communion every day!"  It was a foretaste of the feast to come.

But I didn't really know their youngest son.  He had grown up and moved away.  He lived out in the Southwest, where they ended up spending their winters.  I learned some things about him from his father, from his sister, and from old old friends who had come to the funeral.  Their words were about him:  how funny he was, how smart he was, what a good friend he was.  And their words went back to the glory days of this congregation, back when congregations were bursting at the seams with World War II veterans and their children.  I preached about the promises of God and how nothing can separate us from the love of God, even though we wander.  Someone sang a hymn which begins, "When at night I go to sleep fourteen angels watch do keep."

After the funeral on Friday afternoon, I rode back to the church in the car with his father and his sister.  Hie father asked us to avoid the highway and travel the scenic route, along parkways and around some of the lakes of our city.  It seemed fitting, somehow.

Then, I returned to the church for a wedding rehearsal.  I have known the man getting married since he was a little boy.  He and his parents joined our congregation when I was a teenager.  They directed the choir and played the organ while he and his brothers were growing up.  Their family seems like family to me.

His mother grew up in this congregation.  She was away for a long time, and now she returned.  I had her father's funeral here, several years ago.  She has returned and her son decided he wanted to have his wedding here.  The family of musicians provided all of the music.  I preached, talking about what it means to have a good foundation.  I remembered how one of my uncles built a house, and how they lived in their basement, with carpet-squared carpeting, for a long time.  It was a good foundation, but it was messy, and it took time.

So, I didn't preach this weekend, on Sunday anyway.

And here's what I am thinking:  the foundation is love.
It takes time, and it's messy.
And it doesn't solve everything.
Not even close.
But, riding in the car along the lakes, on the way home, I believed that it was true, anyway:
Nothing can separate us from the love of God.
Nothing can separate us.
In the end.
The foundation is love.

Treasure

On Tuesday, I went over to visit with a family to plan a funeral.

We picked hymns, planned the funeral lunch (they wanted bars, not cake), looked up possible Scripture readings.

His wife and two adults daughters reminisced about their husband and father, a quiet man who was not demonstrative, but clearly well-loved.

"He was not a hugger," they said, "but we knew he loved us."

He worked nights, for Ford, as a maintenance engineer.  He worked for thirty years, and then he retired.  He was retired for longer than he worked, he liked to say.

He could fix anything, they said.  He loved his tools, and to garden, especially roses.

And he loved the neighborhood children.  He would play stickball with them anytime they asked.

Sometimes the children would come over, knock on the door, and say, "Can Glen come out and play?"

Then they told me that he made jewelry, beautiful jewelry out of scraps of hardened paint from the Ford plant where he worked.  The scrap was created because of the way they painted the cars long ago, and how layers of different colors of paint would accumulate.  I'm still not sure I get it, how they explained it.  But they showed me some of the scrap material, and some of the jewelry he made.

And I tell you, I would never have guessed that those beautiful gems were inside of those thrown-away scraps of hardened paint.

But he saw it.  He saw treasure there.

It turns out those scraps are a thing.  They are called "Fordite."  (It is also known as Motor Agate.) You can google it and find out what it is.

It takes a special kind of insight to look at scraps of painted metal and see beauty inside them.

They said he didn't talk about his faith much.  He just lived it.

I can't help thinking that this is one of the ways he lived it.  Looking inside.  Seeing the beauty.

There are many ways to speak about what it means to live as a disciple of Jesus.  Here is one:  to look inside another person, and see the treasure inside.  To be a disciple of Jesus is to learn to recognize the image of God in one another.

Maybe that's why the neighborhood children loved him so much.  It was so simple.  He saw them.

Maybe that's why they stood at the door and asked him, "Can Glen come out and play?"

"What's More Important Than Your Eternal Life?"

I was meeting with a family; they were telling stories about their mother, their lively, smart, stubborn, faithful mother.  She loved music and singing, cooking, traveling and learning.  She made and kept friends easily; she was interested in people.  She had been a nurse and an active partner to her husband, a family practice doctor, who had died during the last year after suffering from memory loss.

So we were sharing stories about their mother's faith when one of the daughters remembered their non-negotiable church attendance.  During the time she was growing up, their parish had a tradition of a pre-Lenten family night.  The daughter wanted to stay home instead and watch "The Wizard of Oz."  But her mother was adamant about the family priorities, saying, "What is more important than your eternal life?"

I have to say, I can't imagine any parent these days saying something like this to their children.  And I will also admit that, out of the context of the conversation I was having, it doesn't sound like something I would even want a parent to say to their children.  To the unpracticed ear, it sounds like a threat, "Go to church or your eternal life might be in jeopardy."  Is our salvation dependent on our church attendance?  Does going to pre-Lenten family nights earn us more salvation points with God?  I think not.

But, I am not sure that is the point the mother was making to her children.  It is not that somehow the certainty of their eternal destination depended on attendance at a certain number of church functions.  Perhaps it is more the hope that attendance at those church functions would be part of creating a foundation of trust.

"What is more important that your eternal life?"  Maybe that question doesn't mean "What is more important than knowing where you will spend eternity?"  What if it means more like, "What is more important than knowing God?"  After all, that is the definition of eternal life in John 17:3:  "Now this is eternal life:  that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent."

One of the things that impressed me about this woman, and her faith, was that she had a list of questions that she was going to ask God, when she saw God face to face.  And the questions she had for God -- they weren't small potatoes.  They weren't theoretical questions.  Her top question to ask God was, "What's with this Alzheimers' crap?"   Deep faith did not mean unquestioning faith.  Deep faith meant faith deep enough to ask questions without fear.  Deep faith meant faith deep enough to know that she could bring her questions, and even her anger, to God.

To me, it's a powerful combination:  to trust God enough to bring to God the hardest questions of our lives.  And to teach our children that they can do it, too.

What is more important than knowing God so well that you can ask God your hardest questions?

Seeing God in a Man I Didn't Know

Not long ago a friend posed a question on Social Media:  How do we discover God's presence in our families, in our neighborhoods, in our cities and in our world?   Although I don't remember if there was any definitive answer, there was a lively conversation, with several ideas presented about how and where to see God's presence, and some side conversations on whether it is more faithful to get busy serving in God's name, or get less busy and find time to listen to neighbors and strangers.

In the meantime, I got a phone call from a woman I had just met a few times.  Her mother had joined the church later in her life.  She had come to our small chapel service on Saturday evenings.  Then, when her health began to fail, a couple from our congregation used to visit her on Sunday afternoons and bring her communion.  Last fall, she died, and so I met her daughter to plan her mother's funeral.

Last week, the daughter called again.  Her husband had died after a struggle with cancer, and she wondered whether we could do his funeral.  She thought we had done such a nice service and luncheon for her mother that she would like to have the service at our church, with me officiating.  Unfortunately, our schedule did not permit us to host the service, but I agreed to officiate, and to meet them at church to plan the service and luncheon.

Sitting in the room that afternoon were his wife, his daughter, his younger brother, and one of his nieces.  When I sat down, and they started talking, one of the first things the niece said was that she and her husband had decided that the day her uncle died, they would honor him by trying to be kind to one another for the whole day.  They didn't quite make it, she said, smiling, but they got close.

The conversation continued.  Kindness was a hallmark of this man's life.  The children remembered that he and his wife always spoke to one another with respect and politeness.  They remembered that their home was a refuge for the family, and for neighborhood children, who were given love and nurturing and fun.  They remembered his love for creation and for creatures.  They had taken in, at various times, various animals both ordinary and exotic, concluding a raccoon that had lived with them for many years.  They remembered his love and his gentleness.

They also spoke about his early life.  It had not been easy.  There was chaos and dysfunction in the family, they said.  But he broke the cycle that he had experienced and created an environment of love.

Later on, his daughter sent me a long email which had originally been written to her dad.  She had been a small child when this man had married her mother, and he had adopted her.  She always felt privileged that he chose her to be his daughter, and he made her feel special.  At the end of the email, she wrote, "My whole life with you has been a gift."

And it dawned on me:  As they were speaking, I sensed God's presence, in them and in their love for one another, and in this man I never really knew.  I saw God, just a glimpse, a crack of light through a door in their lives, left ajar for me.

He never seemed to have much use for church, this man I didn't know.  I think he had been baptized, and had attended as a boy, at least sometimes.

Somehow this made me sad, I confess.  I somehow wished that he had a church, perhaps ours.  Yes, I would have been honored if he had attended our church.  But it is not so much because I thought that he needed us.

No, it made me sad because I think we need him.  We need him to help us to discover God's presence.  We are not so good at seeing.

That is what I think, right now.

What I Did Today

I voted.  I wrote a funeral sermon.

All right, I did a few more things.  I took my computer to the computer doctor, and luckily, they were able to fix it quickly.  I wrote a funeral bulletin, and an annual report which had something to do with the church as a community, and I met with another family about a funeral, which will take place on Friday.

But in my mind, it comes down to this:  I voted.  I wrote a funeral sermon.

I don't know much (or anything) about the politics of the person at whose funeral I will preach tomorrow.  I know that she liked Ronald Reagan, because he said, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"  She was a German immigrant, had lived through World War Ii, and was sponsored to come to the United States by a Lutheran Church in Minneapolis.

What I know is that she taught her children to pray.  What I know is that she liked to sing, to swim, to bike, to garden.  What is know is that she is inscribed on the palms of God's hands.

While I was writing this evening, I had one ear on the election results.  We were trying to find out about a friend who was a candidate for state office in another state.  We heard that there was a barrage of negative ads in the final days of the campaign, accusing our friend of being self-serving.  (He had served long ago in another state legislature.)  We know our friend to be a person of integrity, the opposite of self-serving.  You might not agree with his politics, but he is NOT self-serving.  That is politics, I suppose.

Earlier today, I voted.  I voted because I do think it is important.  I want to create more equitable communities, healthier communities.  And, I'll confess, as much as I want my candidates to win, I am just as jazzed by the fact that my state consistently has the highest voter turnout in the nation.  I'm proud to see high school students working as election judges.  Still, I vote because I have hope:  hope that my community can become a better place, where justice and kindness will flourish.  When my candidate loses, my hopes are wounded.

Today, I voted.  But tonight I wrote a funeral sermon, and another kind of hope.  I wrote about the hope for the eternal city, where love has the last word, where death is no more.  I wrote about the hope for the crystal river, where the saints will gather, where we will meet again, singing.

My Uncle Roger's Arms

On Tuesday, I officiated at the funeral for one of my beloved uncles, my dad's brother-in-law, Roger.  He was 90, so he lived a good long life, just the past few years in a local nursing home, confined to a wheelchair.  He and my Aunt Norma were married for 65 years, which is a pretty good run, in my book.  My aunt and their three children and families were there, at the funeral, and I was honored, and a little nervous, to speak to them.

I have officiated at several weddings for family members in the past, but have never been asked to officiate at a funeral.  I think that I would, in some ways, prefer to be one of the mourners, to be able to hear the promise of the gospel from someone else, to hold my memories and weep and rejoice.  I would like to hear the insights of another preacher, reminding me of all the things I knew, telling me things I never knew.  But when my cousin called me last Thursday evening, I found that I couldn't say no.  I was honored that she asked me, but still, a little nervous.

I knew my uncle Roger as a child knows an adult.  I remembered how much he loved the water, his silly jokes, the way he would tease me or give me a kiss on the cheek.  He taught me how to surface dive, when I was afraid to dive instead of jump from the deep end of the water.  He had polio when he was young, I knew that, because he always walked with a limp.  But I did not find out until just before his funeral that he had polio as a teenager -- at 17 -- and was in the hospital for a whole year.  According to his family, he never complained about it, always found something positive.

Some things I remember about my uncle Roger in part because of the family movies my dad took.  They have been spliced together and, although they are not in order, I still will force my husband to watch them with me, on occasion.  When I was looking through the movies before I preached on Tuesday, the first image I saw was my uncle Roger in a boat on the lake.  I also saw a clip from Christmas.  Whenever the camera came to him, he would turn and give my aunt a kiss on the cheek.

But the clip I was looking for I could not find.  It's a clip of my uncle Roger on the floor, playing with the kids.  Actually, he is lying on the floor, on his back, and he is lifting us up in his hands, up into the air.  If the clip is as I remember it, I was hesitant.  It looked scary.  He kept coaxing me, while all of the other cousins took turns going up in the air, up in his hands, higher than they imagined they could go.  It was as if he was saying, "Don't be afraid.  It'll be fun!  Trust me.  I can hold you."

On Tuesday, I took Isaiah 43 as one of my texts.  "Do not be afraid; for I am with you.  I have called you by name; you are mine."  I started out thinking about the promise, "I have called you by name, you are mine."  But I kept thinking about my uncle and how he always appeared fearless to me.  He wasn't afraid of the water.  He wasn't afraid of life.  He wasn't afraid of anything.  And I think he wanted to teach us to be fearless too.  I kept thinking about my uncle and his strong arms, and how I was afraid, but I didn't need to be.  I kept thinking about how if we trusted him, we got to go higher and higher in the air, and then I started thinking about how strong his arms must have been.  His legs were weak, but his arms were so strong they could hold us.

"Don't be afraid."  That's what my uncle Roger taught me, or tried to, anyway.  "Trust me.  I may have weak legs, but I have strong arms."

On Tuesday, I did not remember that the weakness of God is stronger than human strength, and the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom. I remember today, though.

Today, I am imagining my uncle Roger, going up in the hands of God, higher than he has ever gone before.  I am imagining him going high up in the strong arms of Jesus, up to the place prepared for him in the love of God.  I am imagining how strong the arms of Jesus can be, even though he was struck down, maybe because he was struck down.

And my uncle Roger?  He is not afraid.  He never was.

May I someday learn to be so foolish.  And so fearless.  And so wise.

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.

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.

We Just Kept On Singing

I had a funeral on Saturday, the day before Transfiguration Sunday.

That in itself is not so unusual for me.

I have had a lot of funerals in my pastoral tenure, both here and at my first parish, back in rural South Dakota.

I used to be jealous of some of my other colleagues, who could go months without a funeral.  They seemed as regular as the sun and the moon and the stars at my place.

While other colleagues were developing ministry plans, creative youth ministry opportunities, dreaming up building programs, I was doing funerals.

Looking back, that is a slight exaggeration.  I did do other things, like create a contemporary worship service, take all of the youth to New Orleans, and start a new confirmation ministry.  But, at the time, that's what it seemed like.  My colleagues were dreaming dreams and seeing visions, and I was doing funerals.  One of my colleagues tried to comfort me once by saying, "Maybe that is why God sent you here.  Maybe God sent you here to bury people and to lament and to preside at funerals."

I know that she meant well, but somehow, it did not seem comforting at the time.

So, on Saturday, the day before Transfiguration Sunday, I had a funeral.

It was a funeral for a former member of our congregation, someone I had not known at all.  I did have the privilege of getting acquainted with some of his family, but I never knew the man who had died.  He was a well-respected doctor, and had been prominent both in our community and congregation for many years.  But he had Alzheimers, and they lost him, bit by bit.

The family chose the readings and the hymns, except that they asked me to choose a gospel reading:  One of the healing stories, they said.  I chose a brief reading, from Matthew.  Jesus heals Peter's mother-in-law (there's family practice for you), and the crowds gather.  The reading ends with a portion of Isaiah 53:  "Surely he has carried our infirmities."

The doctor's wife chose the hymn of the day:  "What Wondrous Love", with its last verse, "and when from death I'm free I'll sing on, I'll sing on."  And their choice for the recessional hymn was "Amazing Grace."

I remember that as I led the family in at the beginning of the service, I had walked a little too rapidly at first.  The widow and her oldest daughter were behind me, arm in arm.  I resolved to walk more slowly at the end of the service, to walk with them while we sang.

We were just to the beginning of the last verse of "Amazing Grace" when we reached the sanctuary doors.

There is something that always happens when we reach the doors to the sanctuary and step out into the narthex.  The singing usually stops as soon as we take that first step.  Sometimes, if I'm confident, I'll keep going.

But this time, that didn't happen.  The singing didn't stop.  I kept singing, and the doctor's wife looked at me and kept singing, and her oldest daughter looked at both of us, and we all kept singing.  Some of the other people kept singing, too.

"When we've been there ten thousand years
bright shining as the sun
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we'd first begun."

We just kept singing.

On the day before Transfiguration Sunday.

You never know when you will be standing on a mountaintop, and suddenly, Jesus' face will shine.

You never know when the curtain will be lifted and you will dream a dream or see a vision.

Perhaps God has sent me here to do funerals.

What Love Looks Like

My father died last week.  His funeral was Saturday morning, at my parents' church.

It was a beautiful, clear day.  Members of the Swedish men's chorus my dad had belonged to showed up.  They sang three songs.  My dad's two older sisters were there, my mom's older sister and younger brother, and a number of cousins, too.  There were friends of my parents there, some who had known them since they were first married well over fifty years ago.  I thought I was doing pretty well until one of my cousins came up to me, just before the service started, and said, with tears in her eyes, "I am going to miss your dad."

I sat between my mother and my sister.  She sang alto on all the hymns.  I tried to sing high tenor on a couple of them, but I don't reach the high notes like I used to.  Besides, I was crying.  My nephew, who leads a local rock band, played a portion of the song "Misty" as part of the remembrances.  He learned "Misty" just because his grandfather liked that song.

After the service and the luncheon, we all went home to rest for awhile.

Then, later in the evening, I drove up to my mom's house, where my sister was staying for the week.  The three of us drove from there to my brother's house.  Then my brother drove all four of us to a bar where my nephew's band was head-lining.  He was supposed to go on at 10:00 p.m.  A couple of my cousins joined us as well.

So there we were, at 10:00 p.m., sitting around a dark, smoky room, munching appetizers and drinking iced tea, listening to noisy and unknown (to us) bands, waiting for my nephew to appear.  One of my cousins was teasing my mom about whether she would be part of the "mosh pit" (terminology that I had just recently learned).  Later on, when my nephew started, we made our way up to the stage, where the beat of the drums and the bass made our hearts skip.  We watched my nephew as he took on his "rock star" personality.   At one point, my nephew used bad language.  One of my cousins reached out to cover my mom's ears.

All of us think my nephew is very talented.  We are all very proud of him.  But, to be honest, for at least some of us, this was not "our kind of music".  It also wasn't the kind of venue that we would probably think of attending on our own.  We weren't there because we were hard rock music fans.

We were there because of love.

Especially I think of my mom.  She's never been a big fan of bars.  In fact, until her grandson started playing music there, I'm not sure she ever set foot in one.  But there she was, until all hours of the night.  She wouldn't have been any other place.

When I think about the mission of the church, why it succeeds, why it fails, I don't think it has to do so much with strategy as it has to do with love.  It doesn't matter what kind of strategy you have, if you don't have love that will impel you to go places you would never otherwise go, and do things you would never otherwise do.  It's as simple, and as difficult, as that.

So, on Saturday, my mother went to church for a funeral for her husband.  And she went to a bar for a rock concert by her grandson.

That is what love looks like.

Celebration of Life

More and more, it seems, instead of funerals, there are these events called "A Celebration of Life."  We don't use this language at my congregation, but I see it everywhere.  And I know that this trend has been roundly criticized by most serious and pastoral theologians.  It is is part of the denial of death.  Someone dies.  Instead of grieving, we celebrate.  Funerals are depressing, after all.

I am not here to deny any of these realities.  It is true.  Our culture is deeply death-denying.  We're not all that fond of aging, either.  I, personally, have been putting a lot of lotion on my neck recently, even though I know it doesn't do any good.  Why do I do it?  I don't want to look too old. I don't want to think too hard about the fact that someone I loved has died, and that someday, I will die, too.

So, yes, I suppose that the motivation for a Celebration of Life is at least, in part, due to our deep desire to avoid anything unpleasant, or depressing.  But lately, I have been thinking that there might be something else going on as well.  We desire to have a Celebration of Life not just because we want to deny death, and deny grief, but for another reason as well.

Recently, my father died, after a long battle with Parkinson's Disease.  This time I was on the other side of the desk, with the mourners, the rememberers.  I was considering scripture and music and what we would say during the service.  I was with my family, going through pictures, sharing stories, trying to put together a collage of pictures that would say something about my father's ordinary, un-celebrated life.  Besides the pictures, we had mementos of his time singing with a Swedish Men's Choral Group, and a small collection of Mickey Mouse pictures and stuffed toys (my dad thought that he and Mickey Mouse shared a birthday).

My father was an ordinary person.  He sold and repaired radios and TVs, he raised a family, he sang, he told jokes.  He picked up stray dogs when he was little, but his parents never let him keep one.  Later on he learned to tinker with radios.  He was always amazed by the miracle of broadcasting.  He lived all of his life in Minneapolis, but after retirement, loved spending the winters in Arizona.  He was amazing with voices and accents, and until he lost his hearing, he had pretty good pitch.

 As I looked at the pictures and mementos, I realized that I wanted to celebrate my dad's life.  I was mourning as well, but I wanted to celebrate..  I wanted to try to gather as many memories as I could and sweep them into a container so that they could not be forgotten. I wanted to write down the memories while I can still tell them.

I just picked up a copy of a book called Ties that Bind, by Dave Isay, the founder of Storycorps.  It is a compilation of a few of the stories from the first ten years of that organization.  Storycorps mission is to record stories of ordinary people.

In the introduction to the book, Dave tells about a founding event, at Grand Central Terminal.  Studs Terkel is there, and he proudly announces, "Today we shall begin celebrating the lives of the uncelebrated!"

And there it was.

The legacy that most of us leave is small, and ordinary.  We are not celebrated.  Our obituaries in the newspaper are short.  And yet we are children of God, as promised and proclaimed.  And what is a funeral, after all?  It is a time to name death, to grieve, to proclaim hope.

But it is also a time to celebrate the lives of the un-celebrated.

Like my father.

The End of the Day

It is the end of the day.  Most of the lights are off.  I'm ready to nod off.  Scout the dog is on the rug in front of our bed, quiet.  An empty glass of wine is on the nightstand.

There's a cool breeze coming in through the window.  There was a little rain earlier this evening, right before I left the church.

I got up early this morning, let the dog out, got dressed for church.  I needed to print a funeral sermon and some questions for a worship conversation we were holding at 8:30, with our Matins groups.  We want to find out what people in our church value about worship, what is unique about our congregation's worship,  so we are getting together with as many groups of people as possible.

We have a full Wednesday morning program at this church, starting with Matins at 8:00, a coffee and conversation time at 8:30 and a speaker at 9:00.  We were going to sandwich in a conversation from 8:30 to 9:00.  I had a funeral at 11:00.

When I entered the church, I ran into the Program Speaker, a retired pastor who now spends his free time writing books.  He asked me if I was a writer.  (How did he know? I thought, but did not say). "Do you have a manuscript?"  I had to admit, no.  I have a number of haiku prayers, though....

I stuffed the half-sheet of paper with his biographical information into my pocket, and gathered the group for the worship conversation.  "What does worship mean to you?" was the first question, which was met with a full and silent moment, and then a flood of responses.  We went on from there.

Afterwards, the funeral director was already there.  The family started arriving.  I did some practicing, honing the final sentences of my sermon for the morning, talked to the family, put new batteries in my microphone.

I have to admit, funerals have a way of erasing my hard drive, so I made a list of a few things I needed to do after the funeral.  Edit a letter to the congregation about summer worship.  Write a call to worship for contemporary worship.  Call a bride-to-be.

Right before the funeral, a man held out his hand and said, "Do you remember me?"  He and his wife were at the last funeral I had, just a little less than a month ago.  I had not known that their families were connected.

During the funeral, I spotted him, sitting in a pew with his wife.  Tears were running down their faces.

We had communion at the service today.  The woman who died -- loved receiving communion.  When she entered hospice, she said, "Now I can get communion every day, can't I?"  When she died she was 88 years old, married almost 63 years.  She was a woman of strong faith and strong love.  She was also a good friend of my mom's.

My mother came to the luncheon.  She wore the shawl I made for her two Christmases ago, even though it was a little too warm to wear it.

After the funeral I edited the letter.  I sent it to the office coordinator for formatting.  I took a little break and went over to visit with the family of the woman who died.

Then I came back to church, wrote some worship material, made some phone calls, had supper at the church:  sloppy joes.  There was another worship conversation in the evening.  "What does worship mean to you?"  we asked again.  "Why do you come to worship?  Why do you come back?"  One woman said, truthfully, "my son brings me back."

Finally, I met with a confirmation student and his dad.  We talked about faith and doubt and families.

It is the end of the day.

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.

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.

"I Have My Sermon All Written," She Said

I had been called over to her house by her sister.  She had taken a turn for the worse, she said.  Could you come over and and give her communion?

I had been visiting her for several months.   She had been fighting cancer for several years, and had been in remission.  But now there was nothing more they could do.  The first time I visited, she told me that she was so grateful that she would be able to stay in her home, that hospice would visit her and keep an eye on her where she was.  She told me she was not afraid to die.

"The thing is, I've been walking with Jesus my whole life," she told me.  I believed her.  She is one of the most gracious people I have ever met.  She knows how to see the beauty in the world, but not be tempted by the cruelty in the world.

When I came over that afternoon, her sister was with her.  We all visited together and had communion. And at one point she said, "I have my sermon all written."

I wasn't sure what she meant.  "She means her obituary," her sister told me.  That made sense.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized -- she was right the first time.  She did have her sermon all written.  She had been walking with Jesus her whole life.  She had done some ordinary things, lived and worked in Africa for many years, cared for her nieces and nephews.  She had loved and been loved.

Someone told me that St. Francis of Assisi once said, "Preach the gospel at all times.  Use words if necessary."  It seems to me that our lives are a sermon.   Tears, doubts, laughter, adventure, routine, twists and turns.  God is in all of the chapters, though sometimes (or often) hidden.  The last chapter belongs to God.

Her sister came in today with the obituary and all of the scriptures and all of the hymns already chosen. Even the preaching text:  John 15:5.  "I am the vine; you are the branches.  Those who are abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing."

She has her sermon all written.  God is in all of the chapters.