"I Don't Know"

On Friday, an earthquake and then a tsunami hit the northeastern shores of the country I called home many years ago.  The news has only gotten worse after that.  My heart hurts as I keep seeing and hearing and seeing more devastation.

A preacher wants to say something at a time like this.  But honestly, there are some questions that I don't have the answers for.  If someone were to ask me "Why did this happen?", the most absolutely honest answer I would have to give is "I don't know."

That's not true in every aspect, of course.  I know just a little about geology and I know that this earthquake had to do with tectonic plates and fault lines and things like that.  The words "I don't know" also don't mean that I think human beings need to remain wilfully ignorant about the world.  The "fall" in Genesis 3, was not a fall into knowledge.  "I don't know" does not imply a kind of wilfull ignorance, that I think it's better to be 'know-nothings' about the world and how it works.

But theologically, I mean, I don't know why this happened.  Unlike Glenn Beck, I don't know that God was trying to tell us something.  I'm not even exactly sure what Glenn Beck might mean, except that I think he means to sound ominous. 

On the other hand, I don't want to go so far as to say, "God didn't have anything to do with this."  I don't want to say that because it seems to imply that God is absent in the face of tragedy.  And I know that God is not absent from Japan.   God is suffering, dying, redeeming, loving the people of Japan even now.  I believe this, just as I believe that God is present with the man I know who is living with cancer, the woman I know who has forgotten who she is, the man whose funeral we will hold on Thursday. 

On Sunday we heard Jesus reject the devil's temptations to use his power by making stones into bread, by jumping off the temple, by taking over the world.  "I'm not going to take the easy way out and do miracles just to make people believe in me," he seems to be saying.  But to be honest, when I see the kind of destruction I have seen this weekend, I wonder if that would have been so awful.  I am tempted too.

So Jesus is not using his power to stop tsunamis, or even swoop down like Superman and save people from them.  Once in awhile you hear of a miraculous cure for cancer, but most of the time Jesus does not swoop down then either.  But still,  He is there, yesterday, today, tomorrow.  Jesus is there in Japan, Jesus is at the funeral, walking among the people, touching them, loving them, weeping 

And I know that there is a miracle in there somewhere.

Temptation

I am tempted by apple strudel, warm, sometimes with ice cream.
I am tempted by those doughnuts that are on top of the refrigerator.
I am tempted by the bag of cashews that I keep in my office.
I am tempted to eat two palmfuls of cashews, instead of one.
I am tempted not to go for a walk, not to go swimming, not to move around.

I tend to gravitate to things with bright colors:  scarves, socks, pieces of art, crayons, even book jackets.
I want to buy a book when it would be just as good to borrow it from the library.
A part of me believes the ads for moisturizers that will make me look younger, and lipstick that will make me prettier.
I do suspect, at times, that clothes really do make the woman.

I am tempted to consider myself not that important, in the scheme of things.
I am tempted to give up, sometimes.
I am also tempted to think I am special, and gifted and Always Right.

I am tempted to hide from the troubles of the world, worrying only about my own family and my own work and my own life.
I am tempted to work too hard.  And I am tempted to think that how hard I work makes me a better person.

What are your temptations?

So Long Ago, It Seems it Was, and so Far Away

It was September 1 of 1981 that I remember stepping off a plane at Narita Airport in Tokyo.  I arrived with three other young people, all of us training to be short-term missionaries and teachers, set to go (eventually) to various places in Japan.  I arrived with three pieces of luggage, new wine-colored Samsonite soft-side luggage, quite a fine purchase for my family at that time.  I had also sent ahead a trunk.

A missionary couple from nearby Mitaka met us at the airport and helped us navigate the maze of customs and find out way to our Tokyo home at Hanegi-cho.  They arrived back the next day to give us lessons in reading train and subway maps, in navigating our neighborhood, letting us know when our first day of language school would be.

We found out where to get groceries, how to order noodles or rice in the restaurants, how to change money.  We located the public baths.  We were told that the first thing to do in the event of an earthquake:  turn off the gas.  We learned to use ohashi (chopsticks).  We were assigned to area churches, and got to know the parish members.   We went to a sumo match, took the train down to Kyoto, found the huge Kinokuniya bookstore (five stories high!) and the statue of the loyal dog at Shibuya station.

We took Japanese conversation classes every morning, where we practiced making mistakes.  I remember once, after having experienced a very slight earthquake, being in class and learning a sentence construction, "I hope that...."  So, I made the sentence, "I hope that there is not a big earthquake while I am in Japan."

The teacher smiled and replied, "But it is all right after you're gone, then?"

My sentence construction was awkward, but I realized the self-centered nature of my sentiment right away.  It is the human temptation, I suppose, to consider everything only from our own perspective. 

So today I am watching the news, seeing images of the country and the people I learned to love so well so many years ago.   I have wished to return many times, because it has become a faded memory for me -- walking the narrow streets, buying skewered meat from vendors, learning Japanese from the children, walking to church with two young women whose names I have now forgotten.  

I am praying for you, Japan. 

So, "how was your day?", you ask

It was Transfiguration Sunday, did I mention that?  Today was the last Sunday before Lent.  Wednesday is Ash Wednesday.

Since we had a big bash last Sunday as part of our transition process, "Remembering the past,", it was a little low key for the last Sunday before Lent.  We had the choir at the first service, and sang "We are Marching In the Light of God" at the end of the contemporary service.  Also, we had a baptism at 10:00, which is always a little like a mountain top experience for me.  Really, I love baptisms. 

The choir sang at 8:45; they had a wonderful arrangement of "Lord of All Hopefulness."  I was presding, not preaching.  The interim senior pastor had preached this morning on "Mountain Top Experiences", and how worship is sometimes like a mountaintop experience for us, but that we need to come down from the mountaintop. 

When I began the preface, I thought that it was odd that he sat down.  Usually we remain standing for the preface.  In the middle of chanting the preface for Transfiguration Sunday, I heard an awful gasp.  The senior pastor was slumped in his chair. I paused and then went on, as a retired doctor and a couple of people from the choir came to help him.  I saw him sit back up again.  They took him out the back in a wheel chair.

Before the second service, I checked as the ambulance driver did tests.  I saw the baptismal party in the Heritage Room getting ready.  I kept thinking, "I have everything but a sermon."  Our traditional service ends at 9:45.  Our contemporary service starts at 10:00.  No time to think, or, not much time anyway.

The baby cried during the baptism; her uncle poured the water in the font.  Several children stopped to say hello to their new sister in Christ, as they were on their way to Sunday School.

We sang "Shine, Jesus Shine."

And then I preached.  I said something.  I said something about the Mountaintop experiences, and getting this deep connection and not wanting to go home.  I said something about the transfiguration of Jesus, and how some people think that it's really a resurrection story in the wrong place, but I think it's in the right place, a glimpse of glory on the way of the  cross.  I don't think I was so eloquent, and I don't remember everything I said.  I remember something about connecting the words "This is my beloved son" with Jesus' baptism, and our baptism, too.  And I'm pretty sure that I ended with the words that He promises to be with us always, to the end of the age.

I will say that I noticed a first grade usher jumping up and down to "Marching in the Light of God" at the end of the service.  Also though the crowd seemed a little light after the big bash last week, I noticed there were several babies today.

After the service, we took some baptismal pictures, and then I had a meeting with a grandma and grandson who are interested in baptism.  (He's 11.)  I showed a short video of baptism that I really like and then they asked questions they had about baptism.  It really was a video, not a DVD, and I had a little trouble remember how to hook that old contraption up.  But it was a great conversation.  They asked really good questions:  why we don't do immersion, what is the baptism in the Holy Spirit, things like that.  I felt privileged to be a part of this conversation.

Then I took the other pastor's jacket and coat to the hospital.  He is doing all right, but will be staying overnight, just to be on the safe side.

And for some reason, now I am very very very tired. 

And a little numb.

And oh, I totally forgot to remind people that next Sunday begins Daylight Saving Time.

The Last Hurrah before Lent

I suppose that's what you could call Transfiguration Sunday, if you wanted to.  Pull out all the stops, sing your heart out, go up on that there mountain and see visions.  Have a loud organ and a good band and some glory, too.  And you can also have a feast, and a party, with too much food and a lot of noise, but that is optional.

So, it was a pretty productive Saturday, starting with the Gospel of John, chapter 8, at 8:00 a.m. (there was a slight digression to check with the man who was reading on his Kindle).  At church, I tried to tie up some loose ends so that we could take a brief break after church tomorrow.  Sent out mail, email, copying, boring stuff like that.  Also visited two people in the hospital, where I squeezed a hand in intensive care, and had a pre-baptism meeting with the cutest baby ever.  Peeked in on the small group who were diligently writing a mission statement for our congregation.

When I got home, we went out to the yarn store (as I call it, "I would like to go to the yarn store today").  I wanted to get some advice on the sweater I'm attempting and I also just wanted to look at the yarn:  all the colors, the textures, the possibilities.  Luckily, I do not have to rip out what I have already started.

Then we went in search of food.  It was mid-afternoon already and we found ourselves in a little Italian deli, eating pasta and sausage and a stromboli.  We looked up at the window advertisement, which read, "Goodbye to meat."  -- and then, underneath, "Carnivale."  Never thought of that before.

The last hurrah before Lent.

Tonight I'm knitting, and watching Pretty woman, and eating popcorn and doing other low-key things.  I suppose I should also be washing nylons, and washing dishes and doing some general straightening. The other day I did a little more book-buying than usual (the last hurrah before Lent?).  I could also be paging through my new acquisitions, too.  But I'm not.  I'm spending the last hurrah before Lent knitting, watching a movie, eating popcorn.

It's far away from the mountain and the visions, far away from the moment when suddenly, eveything makes sense, the fog clears, and the path you must take is clear.  It's far away from the singing angels and the voice of God, but somehow, the voice of God, is here, too, only softer, like a whisper, and I have to pay attention. 

It's the last hurrah before Lent, before the ashes on our foreheads, before the time of darkness, before the fast, before we come down the mountain, if we were ever on one. 

Yes, I believe there was a mountain, even if we don't remember.  There was that day when we were first called beloved children, when we were sealed with the Holy Spirit, marked by the cross.  And God spoke into our ear, and we saw the candle light flicker, and the saints stood around us that day.  

Friday Five: Lenten Edition

Kathrynzj at Revgalsblogpals shares this thoughtful and timely Friday Five idea.

She writes that during Lent, "My calendar taunts me with the schedule I'm supposedly going to keep. There are extra Bible studies, evening gatherings and worship services all crammed into a six week period of reflection and contemplation (ha!). But there are some things I truly love about the season of Lent even if I don't get in as much reflection and contemplation as I would like.


What about you? What are some things you appreciate about the season of Lent? Perhaps you would share 5 of them with us. And for your bonus question feel free to share one thing you could do without."

Here goes:

1.  Any excuse to sing, even though some of the songs during Lent are kind of sad.  And of course, there's nothing like singing Holden Evening Prayer, if that's part of your Lenten worship.

2.  A deliberate attempt to reflect, to be monk-ish, perhaps, reading, and writing and thinking deep thoughts.  I do all the time, but I feel like I have permission to do this during Lent.

3.  Special Holy Week Services, especially Passion Sunday, especially when it includes a real live donkey, and Good Friday Services.  I like how worship during this time often becomes more dramatic.

4.  Not so many cultural add-ons (like Santa Claus, the candy cane, shopping for presents, going to parties).  No Lenten Parties yet, that I have heard of. 

5.  Fasting in order to pay attention to other things:  feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, discovering what really feeds me, and the world, coming face to face with my illusions.

oh, and I like it when there's an extra Bible study, or discussion group, actually.  I had a great discussion group one Lent.  We had a study of the Lord's prayer every week, and closed the study by going into the sanctuary and singing Holden Evening Prayer.   Very simple.  No sermon to prepare.  But a lot of work putting together the discussion each week.

And, what I don't like?
1.  How busy it gets, sometimes.  It seems like there is often more pastoral care during Lent. So I've had all the services and then maybe two funerals in one week, sometimes.
2.  Fasting to Become A Better Person.  Doesn't work for me.

Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus

That's the title of our church's Lenten series this year; also, it's the title of a famous gospel song.  I confess to knowing the chorus pretty well, although I'm not sure why.  It's by no means a Lutheran song, and I'm sure I didn't sing it at church growing up.  But, I heard it somewhere, and it's been in the back of my mind for a couple of weeks now as I've been comtemplating the theme for Lent. 

This year we're going to have a series of dramatic monologues on Wednesday in Lent.... Jesus through the eyes of.... Nicodemus (for example), or Peter, or Mary Magdalene.  When they looked at Jesus, what did they see?  And what do we see, when we turn our eyes upon Jesus?  I hope our series will help us wonder about that, too?

Turn your eyes upon Jesus
Look full in his wonderful face
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
in the light of his glory and grace.

You know, I have to admit that I have mixed feelings when I hear, or sing, those words.  Not most of them, actually.  It's just that third line that makes me feel uncomfortable, "and the things of earth will grow strangely dim."  Somehow those words sound a little escapist, as if the purpose of looking into Jesus' face is to escape from the troubles and problems of the world, to find that quiet nest with him, where we don't have to worry about the hungry, the poor, the unemployed, and the sickness and sadness in the world.

So, I struggle with this.  Because I don't think Jesus wants to give up on feeding the hungry, on trying to create more justice, on comforting the grieving, on being healers.  I don't think Jesus wants us to retreat to a little nest and forget about the things of the earth, like kids who can't read, like kids who join gangs.

Sometimes it's a temptation, though:  I'll admit that I get overwhelmed sometimes.  I make the mistake of reading the comment under news stories where people call each other names (like socialist, or fascist, or commie, for example) when they disagree.  I get discouraged when I consider the ever-widening gap between haves and have nots, when I read yet another story about a soldier's death, this time in Afghanistan, when I think of all the people I know that are looking for work, all the young people who don't have a clue why the Christian church is even around.  It's a temptation to give up.

But maybe when the song talks about the "things of earth", these are the things they mean:  the insulting comments, the voices of discouragement, the voices of cynicism who whisper in my ear, "just give up."  Maybe the things of earth are the hopeless voices, the voices that let poverty, fear and grief have the last word.

Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus
Look Full in his wonderful Face
And the Things of Earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of his glory and grace.

Because if we really turn our eyes upon Jesus, what do we see?  We see one whose suffering love was willing to go the distance for us. 

When you turn your eyes upon Jesus, what do you see?