This Burden

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe burden isn't the right word.  

Maybe the right word is "weight."

I have felt the weight of ministry.

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

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

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

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

Before You Were Born

Almost eight years ago, I was presiding at our early morning outdoor service.  As people were moving through the line for communion, one woman held out her hand for the bread and said something I did not expect, "Will you bless my baby?"

She was 9 months pregnant with her first and very eagerly awaited child.

I will admit, this was a new request for me.  I had never been asked to bless a baby before he or she was born.  But I thought for a moment, and I said a few words of blessing.

A few days later she had her baby:  a girl.  I visited them in the hospital.  Later that summer, I got to baptize her.

She will be eight years old this month.

Yesterday, she came up to me before the church service and she hugged me and said she would miss me.  She told me she did not want me to go.  I hugged her back and said I would miss her too.  Maybe we could write each other letters.

She thought that might be all right.

She has always had a special place in my heart, for some reason or another.  Maybe it was her fearless singing when she was three years old.  Maybe it was the funny responses she would sometimes make during the children's message.  Maybe it was just the fact that I blessed her before she was born.

On Sunday, near the end of the church service, the congregation had a prayer of blessing for me.  Someone from our synod came as an official representative.  The president of the congregation spoke.  The other pastor prayed.  He also invited people from the congregation to come forward and lay their hands on me, if they wanted.

Not everyone came forward.  But some people did.  Michael, who is in high school, a couple of people from my book group, some members of the choir, a couple of knitters, some others I didn't see.

And this little girl, almost eight years old.  She came forward, and she grabbed my arm, and I held her hand, while the congregation prayed.

I blessed her before she was born with words I didn't know I had until I said them.

On Sunday, she blessed me.

It is the way of God, somehow.  We were meant to hold hands, to pay it forward, or back, to receive more than we ever gave, to be humbled by someone small.

Hidden With Christ in God

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did God ever answer her question?

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

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

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

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.

Why I Need Advent

It has occurred to me recently that Advent is one of my favorite seasons of the church year, even though I don't observe it perfectly.  I love the growing light of the Advent candles, even though I don't remember to light them every night; I love the special prayers, even though I don't remember to pray them all the time.  I love the idea of a slow progression to the wonder of Christmas Eve, even though more often it is a frantic rush of last-minute preparations.

It has occurred to me recently that I need Advent.

I am not saying that I need Advent because I need at least 25 days to buy presents and clean the house and prepare for the celebration, although it is true.  The time comes in handy for all of the mundane and not-so-mundane preparations that are underway.  And I am not saying that I need Advent in a sort of Grinch-like desire to spoil other peoples' Christmas fun.  I enjoy the occasional pre-Christmas foray into celebration as much as the next person.  And I'm actually not a prude about singing Christmas carols before Christmas, either.

But I need Advent, too.  I need a season that reminds me to pay attention, and that the horizon is farther out than simply one day.  I need a season that reminds me that in the middle of my yearnings for the sparkle and beauty of a tree, in the middle of my yearnings for a perfect celebration with grandparents and children and abundance, in the middle of my yearnings for carols in a perfect key, there is something deeper.  I have fond and nostalgic memories of Christmases past, with extended families and many children; and I can get caught up in my grieving for those days, in my grieving for those I have lost and for things I never had.  Advent reminds me that there are deeper longings at work in the world, that the whole creation is being redeemed, that the captives mourn in exile, that hearts are still hard.  So the candles I light are not just for me, but for the whole world, lying in wait.  And the preparations I make are not just for my own heart's good,  but for the sake of the world being made new.

Some may deny it, but Advent is, like Lent, a season of repentance.  But the emphasis is different in Advent.  For repentance is a single turning, just a single turning which accomplishes two things:  we turn away from sin and death, and we turn toward God and life and love.  But the emphasis is Lent is the turning away, the struggle with sin, and the emphasis in Advent is the turning toward God.  It is anticipation, watchfulness, lighting the candle and looking for the One who is coming, and who is already here.

It is still repentance, though -- because it doesn't matter so much where we are, but it does matter where we look.  I can be at the shopping mall and all I see are consumers seeking bargains, or I can be at the shopping mall and see children of God, weary from working to make a merry Christmas.  I  can go to church and only remember the glory days when great crowds and and we were held in high esteem.  Or I can go to church and see that God is working in and through us right now, doing justice, healing hearts, holding the hands of the dying, and of children.

Advent also reminds me that though there are many things that I can do, there are also many things that I cannot do.  I cannot stay awake.  I cannot remember to light the candle every night.  I cannot make the flower bloom.   I cannot stop death from coming to those I love.  And so I wait.

The truth of Advent is that we wait for God, and that God is among us.  While we mourn in lonely exile, Emmanuel has come to us, and is among us.  While we wait, when we are not waiting, when we are forgetful, Emmanuel comes.

So I light a candle.  Or, sometimes I forget to light a candle.  And the long-expected Jesus comes, like a thief in the night, when I least expect him.

That's why I need Advent.

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 Shelter of One Another

Not long ago a young woman from my congregation died, after a very short battle with cancer.  She was just 24 years old, had a major in sports biology, and was just about to begin a graduate degree in physical therapy.

We prayed without ceasing, it seemed literally, at times, and we all thought that this was just the sort of case that miracles were made for.  How could she die?  She had just gone to Europe with a friend, earlier that summer.  She was healthy.  She was beautiful.  She was kind and generous.

The grieving punched us all in the gut; there was no breath left in us.  Her family, reeling from  suddenness and shock, didn't have the strength to plan a whole funeral.

But there was a Gathering.

They asked me to say a prayer, and to say a few words

I sat up the evening before and typed and thought and prayed, and thought that all of my words sounded hollow and useless.  I wrote a few words about love, and about God, and about promises in the midst of so much loss.  I thought about the words from 1st John, "Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God.... and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God."

The Gathering was Sunday afternoon.  It had rained earlier in the afternoon.  The family decorated our fellowship hall with pictures and autumn scenes.  There was plenty of food.

The people came.  The people came and they just kept coming.  There was plenty of food but most people didn't come to eat -- at least it didn't seem that way.  They just came.  They came to hug each other and to cry and to laugh together.

So I said a few words, brown leaves of words tossed about in the air.  I felt that it wasn't enough.  I said something about the young woman who died, and her family.  I said something about love, and that it is what God has put us here to do.  And I said something about God, and God's promises of life.  And think I said something about the importance of showing up.

Later I wished I had said something about the fragility of life, how it catches us all off guard, how we think we can solve everything, and that we will live forever.  Especially in times like these, when it seems that medicine can solve more and more.  And when we discover again that life is fragile and short, and that we can't do everything, what do we have?

We have these promises from God, promises that what we see is not all there is, promises that life will come from death, promises of resurrection.

And we have one another.

It doesn't seem like enough sometimes.  And it doesn't seem that important, most of the time, as we live in our individual lives, cluttered with obligations.  But now and again, the unthinkable happens, and our hearts break, and we realize that all we really have in this world is one another, to bear us up, to shelter us, when the storms break over us.  That's why we gather, I think.  It is not so much protection, but it is what we have.

One another.

And the promises of the God who who weeps, who breaks, who mends our hearts.