draft of one, anyway
Sermon for Epiphany 5, 2010
Luke 5:1-11
“How Jesus Wrecks our Life”
Dear friends in Christ, grace to you and peace ....
I’m going to start right off today by admitting that I don’t have a lot of experience with fishing – with the exception of a couple of memorable fishing trips as a young girl. My uncle was – and still is – a fanatical fisherman. This is not an uncommon breed here in the upper midwest. He liked to take a couple of us out in the boat sometimes, at sunset or at sunrise – the best times to catch fish, he said. I remember these times because on at least one occasion only one of us caught anything and it was – you guessed it – me. I caught the prized northern pike, and it was big enough to keep. But no one else caught a thing, including my accomplished uncle. I couldn’t have been more than 12 years old, I wouldn’t have been caught dead putting the worm on the lure, but I was the one who reeled in the prize. Not fair, but it certainly made my day.
So the scene before us in our gospel today is not a really familiar one to me. In fact, there are many strange things going on in this story, but it helps to consider that the scene itself would have been a very ordinary one – a scene out of ordinary life, ordinary commerce. People are going about their daily lives, making their living for the day, and oh, by the way, there is a large crowd gathering to hear Jesus teach. Imagine if you will if workers were going about their business stocking or cashiering at Walmart, and at the same time a crowd was gathering to hear Jesus, as he steps out of the aisle and onto a ladder so that people can get a better view. They were not in the temple, as Isaiah was when he saw the incredible vision of the seraphim, and heard the words, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” They were by the lake, working, just like every other day.
And the disciples, unlike my uncle, were not engaging in a passionate hobby. They were working, like the clerks at Walmart, like the busboys at your favorite restaurant, like the people who sweep the floors and vaccuum offices at night – they were working to earn their daily bread. They were good at it, of course, they knew that some days you caught a lot, some days you might get nothing at all. When Simon heard Jesus say, “put your nets out”, it might have occurred to him to think that Jesus should stay out of the fishing business and stick to religion, which is something he knew about. “Lord, we’ve been there and done that,” he might have said. Well, actually, he did say something like that.
But Simon humors Jesus and casts his net out into the deep water anyway, and we all know the rest of the story: the incredible, amazing, abundance of fish, Simon’s strange reaction, “Lord, go away from me, for I am a sinful man”; Jesus’ call: “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” We all know the rest of the story, but do we really? When I read this story with a Bible study group on Wednesday, I focused on the incredible abundance of fish. It was as if, I told the group, they had won the lottery of fish! After all, fish were their living, and here they were flooded with them. It was as is they got the phone call, “You have already won!” Abundance was theirs, beyond their imagining! No wonder Simon falls on his knees: he knows right away that this abundance has really NOTHING to do with his ability as a fisherman. It was all Jesus’ doing. It was “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.... that saved a wretched like me...” It was “grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved....” Grace, grace, amazing, astonishing, abundant grace.
Like I said, that is always the way I have read this story, focusing on the incredible abundance of fish, all Jesus’ doing. But for some reason, as I looked at this story again, two phrases leaped out at me: “their nets were beginning to break,” and “their boats began to sink.” What do the disciples have at the end of the story? They have abundant fish, that’s for sure, but fish are not like money; fish spoil. It’s not exactly like winning the lottery, after all. And the disciples have broken nets and sunken boats. Today and yesterday and the day before yesterday fishing was the center of their lives and their way of making a living. But after today that will no longer be the case. Their lives have a whole new center. And the broken nets and the abundant fish both have a role to play in this.
With broken nets and sunken boats...this is how Jesus wrecks our lives but at the same time calls us to an abundance beyond our imagining. With broken nets and sunken boats – Jesus exposes to Simon and his friends that the things they counted on, the tools they used to save their lives – are fragile, breakable, insufficient. Our work, our families, our hobbies, our health, all the things we count on, all the things we center our lives on, in the end can break down, sink, and die. None of these things, good as they are, are enough. So Jesus calls out to people who are at the end of their rope, who, in a way, have nothing to lose. “Follow me,” he says, “and I will make you fish for people.” “And,” he might have added, “you will experience great abundance and grace, and you will experience sorrow and brokenness.”
Back in Advent several members of our congregation wrote faith stories. One woman told a story about her father being transferred to a new job in a new state when she was a teenager. She wrote about how difficult that was for her, and how she didn’t want to go, and the pain of being in a new place where she had to make new friends and didn’t know anyone. She might have said her life was wrecked. But at the same time, she realizes now how much she gained from that move, what she learned, new friends she made. Ultimately, she learned to trust God more and more with her life, although the experience was painful for her. She learned, and I think she is still learning, that Jesus really is the center of her life, even in the middle of the wreckage. Another woman told a work-related story about her small business, and how a painful experience with an employee made her re-think the way she ran her business, and really her whole life. Broken nets. Sunken ships. Wrecked relationships. And a God of abundant grace who calls us to follow.
Oftentimes when we hear the word “call,” we think of those who are called to leave a particular kind of work, and do another – like the disciples. We think of a call as a call to live a different life than the one before us. But most often, I think, we are not called to a different life, but we are called to live our lives in a different way – with a new center. Instead of work, or family, or friends, or anything else being the center of our lives, we live and work with God at the center, and with God’s amazing grace and love for us and for all people, at the center of our lives. And that calls us to do whatever we do – whether it is our work, being a parent, being a friend, being a neighbor – in a different way.
I know that several of you have heard the story of Ben Larson, the seminary student who was in Haiti, working there at an orphanage, and who was killed in the earthquake. As I read stories on the internet about relief efforts in Haiti, and about his life, I read these powerful words, from a mother and a woman who knew Ben Larson and his family.... She writes
“Be careful what you teach your children...
When we parents offer our children up to the world, to serve, to give, to go, to heal and teach and dig wells and make justice, we’d damn well be clear about what we are doing.
We are giving them up.
A “brilliant light” and vibrant life has been taken away from this life. He died along with the poorest of the poor, the desperate, precious people of Haiti. A young man whose mother and father taught him to love and risk and sacrifice has paid the ultimate price for his commitment....
Be careful what you do, moms. Be careful what you do, dads. You give your children to the world and it doesn’t always spare them...
We share our children, we share one another with the whole world. They do not belong to us. We nurture and guide them along, we encourage and succor them...it’s a good thing. Yes, it is. It is a good thing. To share our lives, our children, our giftrs with the world. It can be dangerous. It can be deadly. But it is right.
I do the same with my own two girls. Send them off, send them out. To change the world, to take risks and perhaps live dangerously. For the sake of love.
She closes by saying, “life comes from death. Every time. One way or another. Every time. Life comes from death. And it will now, too. It will.”
Quote from Jan Erickson at Palm Tree In Poland
I wonder, in the midst of her grief, how she can write such powerful words? “Life comes from death. Life comes from death.” Perhaps it is because she too has held broken nets and been in sunken boats. Perhaps it is because she knows that, in the midst of the wreckage, the God of abundant fish, abundant life, abundant love, is also the one who is broken for our sake. Perhaps it is because she knows the one who was wrecked, and who came out on the other side.
It is He – Jesus – and he casts his life, his love into the deep water, because his love is so wide, and his mercy so deep... for us. For us.
AMEN
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
"It Could Have Been Us"
On Sunday afternoon, my husband and I took a brief getaway to a Small Historic Town near here. We stayed in an historic inn, had the bed and breakfast special, shopped a little, and had a swim. Then we started home. There was pretty, light snow falling.
As we neared home, traffic slowed, and we saw up ahead what had happened: a car was sitting at a right angle to the road, facing a pole. The roads were starting to get slippery. My husband turned to me and said, "it could have been us." He reflected on what a good idea it was for me to shop for just a few minutes longer at the Scandinavian gift shop.
We returned home, unpacked, did a little laundry, took naps. We heard the message machine beep: it was a call from the pastor at my husband's church, saying that it was his call whether he would come to the Monday night service that evening.
It was still snowing.
My husband thought we needed to go out to pick up our dog at the sitter anyway, so we would leave early and go to church.
Almost immediately after leaving, we thought that might have been a mistake. The streets were very slippery and traffic was stopped on the freeway. We saw another traffic backup and another accident. We had hoped to leave earlier, but now my husband was glad. "If we had left a few minutes earlier, that could have been us."
It was beginning to look like we might not arrive at the church on time. We considered, more than once, just forgetting about church, and continuing on to get the dog. We took an alternate route, since our normal route to church was, again, deadlocked traffic.
It looked like it was going to be close. We might get to church with two or three minutes to spare. But in the end, we made a left turn into the church parking lot at five minutes before the church service.
Just as we were turning left, the car behind us hit us, on the driver's side. There is a cracked taillight, a dent on the left bumper, and the driver's side down. Also, the driver's side door will not close.
After the police report and the exchange of insurance information, we had to drive home with a rope to hold the door closed. (yes, we did pick up the dog.)
Did I tell you, my husband was driving, but it was my car?
I'm trying to put the best construction on this (many people at the church offered to help us, we are glad no one was hurt, etc.) but I'm not totally succeeding.
As we neared home, traffic slowed, and we saw up ahead what had happened: a car was sitting at a right angle to the road, facing a pole. The roads were starting to get slippery. My husband turned to me and said, "it could have been us." He reflected on what a good idea it was for me to shop for just a few minutes longer at the Scandinavian gift shop.
We returned home, unpacked, did a little laundry, took naps. We heard the message machine beep: it was a call from the pastor at my husband's church, saying that it was his call whether he would come to the Monday night service that evening.
It was still snowing.
My husband thought we needed to go out to pick up our dog at the sitter anyway, so we would leave early and go to church.
Almost immediately after leaving, we thought that might have been a mistake. The streets were very slippery and traffic was stopped on the freeway. We saw another traffic backup and another accident. We had hoped to leave earlier, but now my husband was glad. "If we had left a few minutes earlier, that could have been us."
It was beginning to look like we might not arrive at the church on time. We considered, more than once, just forgetting about church, and continuing on to get the dog. We took an alternate route, since our normal route to church was, again, deadlocked traffic.
It looked like it was going to be close. We might get to church with two or three minutes to spare. But in the end, we made a left turn into the church parking lot at five minutes before the church service.
Just as we were turning left, the car behind us hit us, on the driver's side. There is a cracked taillight, a dent on the left bumper, and the driver's side down. Also, the driver's side door will not close.
After the police report and the exchange of insurance information, we had to drive home with a rope to hold the door closed. (yes, we did pick up the dog.)
Did I tell you, my husband was driving, but it was my car?
I'm trying to put the best construction on this (many people at the church offered to help us, we are glad no one was hurt, etc.) but I'm not totally succeeding.
Monday, February 1, 2010
faith in community, again
(adapted from my church newsletter column)
In about the last year, I've experienced a renaissance in knitting. You can ask my family and friends: I've knitted scads of scarves, a couple of pairs of fingerless gloves, and my first ever pair of mittens! (currently: to knit, or not to knit a hat: that is the question.)
To be fair, I've known how to knit ever since I was in junior high. In seventh grade, my teacher patiently taught me the garter stitch, even though I was left-handed. In 10th grade, I stayed hom from school with a bad cold for several and taught myself to purl and cable stitch. I gave it up after a hat done in something called "popcorn stitch" looked very pretty, but had absolutely no stretch and wouldn't stay on my head. (I think I had a problem with gauge.)
On and off, I've tried and abandoned projects when the directions got too difficult for me. I taught myself to knit in the round but could complete no projects with it.
Then, suddenly, something changed. I stopped into a little knitting store one day and asked if they had any classes, particularly classes in how to make socks.
"Can you knit and purl?" they asked. "Come in and we'll help you."
It seems to me, lately, that our life of faith can be much the same. For years we can be going along, just knowing how to "knit and purl", so to speak, but not really knowing what to do with our faith, not really knowing what to make. For years, we can be going along, wanting to make something beautiful out of our lives, out of our community, and not really knowing how. Then, suddenly.....
So what makes the difference?
Community. Particularly, what makes a difference is a community of faith where we can dare to ask for help, and people who will say, "Come in and we'll help you."
I even begin to wonder if those classes we like to teach (particularly in larger congregations) aren't so helpful for the knowledge of the teacher who stands in front and "knows everything," but because they make connections between people who can then ask each other for help, as they grow in faith, as God makes something beautiful of their lives.
Two beautiful phrases in the vocabulary of faith: "Can you teach me?" "Come in and we'll help you."
In about the last year, I've experienced a renaissance in knitting. You can ask my family and friends: I've knitted scads of scarves, a couple of pairs of fingerless gloves, and my first ever pair of mittens! (currently: to knit, or not to knit a hat: that is the question.)
To be fair, I've known how to knit ever since I was in junior high. In seventh grade, my teacher patiently taught me the garter stitch, even though I was left-handed. In 10th grade, I stayed hom from school with a bad cold for several and taught myself to purl and cable stitch. I gave it up after a hat done in something called "popcorn stitch" looked very pretty, but had absolutely no stretch and wouldn't stay on my head. (I think I had a problem with gauge.)
On and off, I've tried and abandoned projects when the directions got too difficult for me. I taught myself to knit in the round but could complete no projects with it.
Then, suddenly, something changed. I stopped into a little knitting store one day and asked if they had any classes, particularly classes in how to make socks.
"Can you knit and purl?" they asked. "Come in and we'll help you."
It seems to me, lately, that our life of faith can be much the same. For years we can be going along, just knowing how to "knit and purl", so to speak, but not really knowing what to do with our faith, not really knowing what to make. For years, we can be going along, wanting to make something beautiful out of our lives, out of our community, and not really knowing how. Then, suddenly.....
So what makes the difference?
Community. Particularly, what makes a difference is a community of faith where we can dare to ask for help, and people who will say, "Come in and we'll help you."
I even begin to wonder if those classes we like to teach (particularly in larger congregations) aren't so helpful for the knowledge of the teacher who stands in front and "knows everything," but because they make connections between people who can then ask each other for help, as they grow in faith, as God makes something beautiful of their lives.
Two beautiful phrases in the vocabulary of faith: "Can you teach me?" "Come in and we'll help you."
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
faith in community, in so many ways
I thought I had a pretty good sermon on Sunday, if I do say so myself. It was called "faith in community", and I made reference to this very blog, as I talked about the body of Christ, and in what ways we need each other. Toward the end of the sermon, I hit one verse pretty hard, the one where Paul says, "the parts of the body that appear to be weakest are indispensable."
At 10:00, the Senior Pastor called the 5th and 6th graders up to the front fo the children's message. There were just three of them on Sunday, a small (but quality) group of young people. He told them about Jesus preaching his first sermon in the synagogue where he had grown up and where people had known him as a child. He asked each of them if they had one thing they would like to tell the congregation, what would it be? They whispered in his ear, and he wrote a few scratches on three pieces of notbook paper. Then he numbered them -- 1, 2 and 3.
He gave each one the paper with their words recorded, and invited them to take their place at the pulpit, behind the microphone, and speak their words.
The first child said, "Jesus loves you."
The second said, "Obey the adults in the church."
The third said, "Everyone has a certain gift."
Brilliant.
****
Today I held the early morning Matins service at the church. It is a small group of (mostly) elderly people who meet together to pray and sing the matins service. There is a short homily. I looked ahead to find some Epiphany lessons that we wouldn't be using this year, and finally settled on Genesis 45 (the end of the story of Joseph) and Luke 6:27-38 (which starts with "Love your enemy" and includes the "golden rule.") For some reason I find this section of Luke's gospel kind of heart-breaking.
Everything that Jesus says seems so out-of-reach, and everything that Jesus says seems so necessary for our survival as humans. "Do unto others..." seems the epitome of essential, good advice, the sort of thing you can clip and put in your pocket; I always think that I'm doing a pretty good job with the golden rule, until I find another instance where I have been insensitive and unintentially cruel.
I'm still thinking about these scripture passages, long after I have had to say something about them, can you tell?
At the close of the service, we sang the old familiar gospel hymn, "I Love to Tell the Story." And two women, a mother and a daughter, always kind of sneak out of the door at this point in the service, because they are in charge of putting out the coffee and treats.
Only today, they lingered for most of the song.
It was the theme song for Sunday School many years ago, when the mother had been in charge of Sunday School.
She's practically blind now, but she can still sing it by heart.
****
In the meantime, I seem to be inordinately concentrated on knitting. I have finished now my first pair of mittens, a short keyhole scarf for myself, and am still working on the prayer shawl for my dad. I am nervously looking around for the next project, paging through books in the book store, looking at yarns, wondering what I want to create, what skill I want to learn. There are so many patterns I don't know yet.
For most of my life I've felt awkward and clumsy. I have attributed this to being left-handed, although I don't think I can totally blame my feeling on this; I know plenty of left-handed people who have discovered that they are adept at something.
But for me, I finally feel like I have something to give, however small, other than words.
At 10:00, the Senior Pastor called the 5th and 6th graders up to the front fo the children's message. There were just three of them on Sunday, a small (but quality) group of young people. He told them about Jesus preaching his first sermon in the synagogue where he had grown up and where people had known him as a child. He asked each of them if they had one thing they would like to tell the congregation, what would it be? They whispered in his ear, and he wrote a few scratches on three pieces of notbook paper. Then he numbered them -- 1, 2 and 3.
He gave each one the paper with their words recorded, and invited them to take their place at the pulpit, behind the microphone, and speak their words.
The first child said, "Jesus loves you."
The second said, "Obey the adults in the church."
The third said, "Everyone has a certain gift."
Brilliant.
****
Today I held the early morning Matins service at the church. It is a small group of (mostly) elderly people who meet together to pray and sing the matins service. There is a short homily. I looked ahead to find some Epiphany lessons that we wouldn't be using this year, and finally settled on Genesis 45 (the end of the story of Joseph) and Luke 6:27-38 (which starts with "Love your enemy" and includes the "golden rule.") For some reason I find this section of Luke's gospel kind of heart-breaking.
Everything that Jesus says seems so out-of-reach, and everything that Jesus says seems so necessary for our survival as humans. "Do unto others..." seems the epitome of essential, good advice, the sort of thing you can clip and put in your pocket; I always think that I'm doing a pretty good job with the golden rule, until I find another instance where I have been insensitive and unintentially cruel.
I'm still thinking about these scripture passages, long after I have had to say something about them, can you tell?
At the close of the service, we sang the old familiar gospel hymn, "I Love to Tell the Story." And two women, a mother and a daughter, always kind of sneak out of the door at this point in the service, because they are in charge of putting out the coffee and treats.
Only today, they lingered for most of the song.
It was the theme song for Sunday School many years ago, when the mother had been in charge of Sunday School.
She's practically blind now, but she can still sing it by heart.
****
In the meantime, I seem to be inordinately concentrated on knitting. I have finished now my first pair of mittens, a short keyhole scarf for myself, and am still working on the prayer shawl for my dad. I am nervously looking around for the next project, paging through books in the book store, looking at yarns, wondering what I want to create, what skill I want to learn. There are so many patterns I don't know yet.
For most of my life I've felt awkward and clumsy. I have attributed this to being left-handed, although I don't think I can totally blame my feeling on this; I know plenty of left-handed people who have discovered that they are adept at something.
But for me, I finally feel like I have something to give, however small, other than words.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
In Praise of Small Churches
About a week and a half ago, I had a little tiny funeral in our chapel on a Monday morning. There were just about twenty of us there, and I think that might have included both the organist and the pastor.
Yet, the singing was energetic -- people who knew the songs and believed them.
I found out at the luncheon afterwards that the son of the woman who died belongs to a small church in a small town not far away from here. (He grew up in this church; his mother was still a member here.)
For some reason, I immediately had a lot of respect for him and for his family. I also understood how such a small group of people could make sure a big sound.
In these Wal-mart, Mega-church, Super-size It days, it's not easy to be a small church. Still, I have an affection and an affinity for small churches, particularly those small churches that have always been small. My first churches, in rural South Dakota, were smallish ones (the largest of the three averaged between 60 and 80 at worship). I had a one-day-a-week secretary and a part-time custodian. The three churches shared an organist. I did miss a church choir. There was not a youth director or a children's ministry coordinator. As far as youth events go, we could not raise "Six Flags Over Jesus" with our spectacular youth programs. It was all about relationships.
Yet I suspect (and I hope that people from those congregations will confirm) that the percentage of young people who remain or continue in their faith is larger than at many larger congregations.
Parents look for a larger congregation with a good youth group in order to help their children get through the difficult years of adolesence with some wisdom and guidance, with peers and adults who are willing to stick with them and be role models. I understand this, particularly in the light of drop out rates. But sometimes I'm curious about the really long view; for example, how many people in youth groups right now are going to be active believers when they are -- say -- my age? I don't know the answer; I'm just wondering about it.
Small churches can't put together awe-some youth programs; they don't have those large crowds that are so enviable. They can't offer large numbers of Bible studies and Christian education programs. Their social ministry is probably small, and they probably can't have a big praise band with a lot of instruments. Their Sunday School doesn't have a large team of professionals for every age group. And yet, there is something I love about them (or at least most of them): a humble knowledge of their own finitude (they know they can't do everything); committed lay leadership; an ability to keep the main thing the main thing.
While in seminary, I was invited to attend a small worship service which was held in a space above a restaurant. It was a small Episcopalian church, led by an Native American man who was an adjunct professor at my school. I remember that it was a high church liturgy with lots of incense. There were about 26 people sitting in a circle, singing with gusto. When they said the Nicene Creed together, they called the Holy Spirit "she." And when they prayed the prayers of the people, they all spoke in tongues. Very eclectic.
Now I don't think all churches should be small. There's a place, I think, for all sizes. But I think that nowadays small churches have more and more trouble with low self-esteem. There are financial stresses always. Mega-churches get all of the attention.
My aunt likes to tell me about her education in a one-room school in southwestern Minnesota. She believes that in that small school with all the ages together she got a better education than many students do now.
What do you think? Can small churches still be viable?
Yet, the singing was energetic -- people who knew the songs and believed them.
I found out at the luncheon afterwards that the son of the woman who died belongs to a small church in a small town not far away from here. (He grew up in this church; his mother was still a member here.)
For some reason, I immediately had a lot of respect for him and for his family. I also understood how such a small group of people could make sure a big sound.
In these Wal-mart, Mega-church, Super-size It days, it's not easy to be a small church. Still, I have an affection and an affinity for small churches, particularly those small churches that have always been small. My first churches, in rural South Dakota, were smallish ones (the largest of the three averaged between 60 and 80 at worship). I had a one-day-a-week secretary and a part-time custodian. The three churches shared an organist. I did miss a church choir. There was not a youth director or a children's ministry coordinator. As far as youth events go, we could not raise "Six Flags Over Jesus" with our spectacular youth programs. It was all about relationships.
Yet I suspect (and I hope that people from those congregations will confirm) that the percentage of young people who remain or continue in their faith is larger than at many larger congregations.
Parents look for a larger congregation with a good youth group in order to help their children get through the difficult years of adolesence with some wisdom and guidance, with peers and adults who are willing to stick with them and be role models. I understand this, particularly in the light of drop out rates. But sometimes I'm curious about the really long view; for example, how many people in youth groups right now are going to be active believers when they are -- say -- my age? I don't know the answer; I'm just wondering about it.
Small churches can't put together awe-some youth programs; they don't have those large crowds that are so enviable. They can't offer large numbers of Bible studies and Christian education programs. Their social ministry is probably small, and they probably can't have a big praise band with a lot of instruments. Their Sunday School doesn't have a large team of professionals for every age group. And yet, there is something I love about them (or at least most of them): a humble knowledge of their own finitude (they know they can't do everything); committed lay leadership; an ability to keep the main thing the main thing.
While in seminary, I was invited to attend a small worship service which was held in a space above a restaurant. It was a small Episcopalian church, led by an Native American man who was an adjunct professor at my school. I remember that it was a high church liturgy with lots of incense. There were about 26 people sitting in a circle, singing with gusto. When they said the Nicene Creed together, they called the Holy Spirit "she." And when they prayed the prayers of the people, they all spoke in tongues. Very eclectic.
Now I don't think all churches should be small. There's a place, I think, for all sizes. But I think that nowadays small churches have more and more trouble with low self-esteem. There are financial stresses always. Mega-churches get all of the attention.
My aunt likes to tell me about her education in a one-room school in southwestern Minnesota. She believes that in that small school with all the ages together she got a better education than many students do now.
What do you think? Can small churches still be viable?
Sunday, January 17, 2010
A Few Rare Things
This morning, as I was preparing for worship, the worship coordinator approached me and said, "I really liked your sermon last week."
Last week? How often does that happen? (almost never). I savored the moment, just a little. Usually (and I think that I speak for most pastors in this respect), you have the few minutes right after the worship service. Then it's gone.
After church this morning, we had a birthday dinner for my mother-in-law. This was rare for a couple of reasons: my husband's two boys were both in town and could be there; I do not cook much. I know how to cook, I really do. But I have not so much time, and I have a pretty small kitchen and I do not have a dishwasher, so I don't cook much.
I cooked a kind of a rare dish (I've just made it a few times). It's one from one of the Moosewood Cookbooks, and while I was working on it, I remembered why I don't make it so often: It uses about four pots and a casserole, so it's a little messy and involved.
It's called Baked Pasta with Cauliflower and Cheese, and it also features tomatoes, basil and seasoned bread crumbs. It was worth it, if I do say so myself.
This is not so rare, but my mom called. She visited my dad again today, and went home feeling upset. It's both the sense that he seems to be losing ground some days, and also the level of care he's getting.
He was in another care center for awhile; we thought he got better care there, but it is a private pay only facility, which means it is not available to him.
I've been thinking a lot about health care lately. I know that the current bill is fatally complicated, not perfect, all those things. But I despair of doing nothing, which some people seem to think is just hunky-dorey.
A long time ago, I heard that one of my relatives said, "people should take care of themselves." He said this with regard to Social Security, which he thought was probably a mistake. Instead of Social Security, "people should just take care of themselves", he thought.
In the same town, lives another relative of mine, an uncle actually. He never married; he worked his whole life as a farmhand. He didn't save much money because he didn't make much money. From my vantage point as an adult, I think I can say that my uncle did the best he could with what he had.
He's able to live, and have a little apartment in that town because of social security.
So, even though I will admit to not having all the answers, I will continue to hope that somehow we figure out how to cover all people. Because of my uncle. Because of my dad.
Last week? How often does that happen? (almost never). I savored the moment, just a little. Usually (and I think that I speak for most pastors in this respect), you have the few minutes right after the worship service. Then it's gone.
After church this morning, we had a birthday dinner for my mother-in-law. This was rare for a couple of reasons: my husband's two boys were both in town and could be there; I do not cook much. I know how to cook, I really do. But I have not so much time, and I have a pretty small kitchen and I do not have a dishwasher, so I don't cook much.
I cooked a kind of a rare dish (I've just made it a few times). It's one from one of the Moosewood Cookbooks, and while I was working on it, I remembered why I don't make it so often: It uses about four pots and a casserole, so it's a little messy and involved.
It's called Baked Pasta with Cauliflower and Cheese, and it also features tomatoes, basil and seasoned bread crumbs. It was worth it, if I do say so myself.
This is not so rare, but my mom called. She visited my dad again today, and went home feeling upset. It's both the sense that he seems to be losing ground some days, and also the level of care he's getting.
He was in another care center for awhile; we thought he got better care there, but it is a private pay only facility, which means it is not available to him.
I've been thinking a lot about health care lately. I know that the current bill is fatally complicated, not perfect, all those things. But I despair of doing nothing, which some people seem to think is just hunky-dorey.
A long time ago, I heard that one of my relatives said, "people should take care of themselves." He said this with regard to Social Security, which he thought was probably a mistake. Instead of Social Security, "people should just take care of themselves", he thought.
In the same town, lives another relative of mine, an uncle actually. He never married; he worked his whole life as a farmhand. He didn't save much money because he didn't make much money. From my vantage point as an adult, I think I can say that my uncle did the best he could with what he had.
He's able to live, and have a little apartment in that town because of social security.
So, even though I will admit to not having all the answers, I will continue to hope that somehow we figure out how to cover all people. Because of my uncle. Because of my dad.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Praying for Haiti
I haven't felt much like posting this week. Besides only sleeping a few hours every night, working on details of a Martin Luther King Day service on Monday, I've been thinking about that line from Casablanca, Rick telling Ilsa that, "the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world."
So, although I've been thinking about a lot of things (including whether or not I have a mission in my life), the earthquake in Haiti has been overwhelming.
The ELCA website has resources for worship and donating.
The wonderful website pretty good lutherans has links to several tributes to Seminarian Ben Larson, who was killed in Haiti this week.
I was particularly moved by these powerful words.
Someone else said to me yesterday at church that there was an earthquake of similar magnitude recently somewhere else. There, about 80 people died.
"It's not the earthquake that killed people," she said. "It's poverty."
O God, where hearts are fearful and constricted, grant courage and hope. Where anxiety is infections and widening, grant peace and reassurance. Where impossibilities close every door and window, grant imagination and resistance. Where distrust twists our thinking, grant healing and illuminaiton. Where spirits are daunted and weakened, grant soaring wings and strengthened dreams. All these things we ask in the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord. Amen.
-Prayer for time of conflict, crisis, disaster, from ELW
O God, open our hearts to feel the earth quake from the oppression of poverty, and free our hearts and our hands to work to heal those things that deal death and suffering. Amen.
So, although I've been thinking about a lot of things (including whether or not I have a mission in my life), the earthquake in Haiti has been overwhelming.
The ELCA website has resources for worship and donating.
The wonderful website pretty good lutherans has links to several tributes to Seminarian Ben Larson, who was killed in Haiti this week.
I was particularly moved by these powerful words.
Someone else said to me yesterday at church that there was an earthquake of similar magnitude recently somewhere else. There, about 80 people died.
"It's not the earthquake that killed people," she said. "It's poverty."
O God, where hearts are fearful and constricted, grant courage and hope. Where anxiety is infections and widening, grant peace and reassurance. Where impossibilities close every door and window, grant imagination and resistance. Where distrust twists our thinking, grant healing and illuminaiton. Where spirits are daunted and weakened, grant soaring wings and strengthened dreams. All these things we ask in the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord. Amen.
-Prayer for time of conflict, crisis, disaster, from ELW
O God, open our hearts to feel the earth quake from the oppression of poverty, and free our hearts and our hands to work to heal those things that deal death and suffering. Amen.
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