simul justus et peccator

sermon--1 Corinthians 8:1-13

2012-01-28T13:46:00.001-05:00

“St. Paul and Miss Manners”

You know what really burns my toast? People who don’t turn on their headlights when it’s raining. Or snowing. Or foggy. I mean, the other 98% of us have our lights on—can’t you see them? Doesn’t that remind you of something? And why aren’t they on, anyway? Did you just forget? Or is it because it’s daytime and therefore it must be bright enough for you to see where you’re going? First, if it’s raining or whatever, it’s not bright enough. And, second, as Brother Doctor Phil would say, “it’s not about you!” You may indeed be able to see fine without your headlights on, but I can’t see you. It’s the polite thing to do. As it turns out, it’s the legal thing to do, and, if preventing accidents is something you cherish, it’s the safe thing to do. I’ve read all of Miss Manners’ books and here’s what I think about etiquette: it’s meant for the benefit of others—and ignoring it can have significant consequences.

And Paul’s talking about just this in Corinthians—see, the letters to the Corinthians may seem antiquated to us today—the language is notoriously dense and the issues seemingly past. But Paul’s writing to these new Christians in the bustling city of Corinth because they’re trying to figure out how to live well together. They’re a bunch of individuals with their individual tastes and their individual, personal relationships with God and now they’re trying to figure out how to be a “we.” A community not just a collection of “I’s.” Basically, they’re saying, “Man, Paul, we all think this Jesus guy is something else, but it’s each other we’re having a hard time with. How do we follow Jesus when we don’t agree on what that means?”

So, you get today’s reading about eating meat sacrificed to idols. Right, not something we have to worry about on a day-to-day basis. They’re literally talking about animals sacrificed on altars to various other gods—not Jesus—and that meat, as a part of the ritual, was eaten by the priests and the faithful. And, according to some historians, it might have made its way into the food supply for the general population. So these new Christians are trying to figure out what to do about this meat. Again, less of an issue for us now. But we’ll get to that.

So, Paul says, “look, kids, you and I both know that those gods aren’t real, that those rituals mean nothing, and so the meat is just meat. Go ahead, eat it, it’s nothing.” And then he says “BUT” and we should all know from reading scripture that when someone says “BUT” we’d better pay attention. Paul says, “BUT there are folks in your community who are brand new or folks outside your community looking in and none of them know that the gods and rituals are false and that the meat’s okay. They’re looking at you eat this hamburger that was dedicated to Zeus or whatever and they’re thinking, “wait, we worship Zeus? I thought it was Jesus” or maybe they’re thinking, “man, those Christians sure are a bunch of hypocrites.” This is, as we say in the theology business, Not Good. So, even though your actions might be innocent in themselves, you shouldn’t do them because it could hurt someone else. (Now my headlights in the rain rant is making sense, right?)

So what about now? I’m fairly certain we don’t still have big temples set up to Mithras or whomever where animals are being slaughtered and from which Arby’s purchases fixin’s for their Beef N Cheddar. What could Paul be saying to us now?

First, that the “eating idol meat” thing is a metaphor for more than just eating meat. That, somehow, there are things we do and say which may be perfectly fine, but which cause others to fall in their faith. It’s been pointed out to me, for example, that some folks hear in my sarcasm or my jokey comments real insult—please believe me when I say that the very last thing on my mind in any circumstance is a desire to hurt someone else—the Very Last Thing—yet my desire to be charming or silly can cause others pain or even disillusionment. And so, the meat sacrificed to idols which I shouldn’t eat is flippant and sarcastic comments—or, at the very least, it means I ought to consider my audience before speaking.

Second, that Paul is speaking of something beyond the specifics of this particular controversy within the congregation at Corinth, he’s saying that we Christians have some knowledge of how to act, how to respond to God’s free gift of grace, but that knowledge is not the only important thing. Blogger Rick Morley writes: “[R]eason is a valuable tool in interpreting what’s right and wrong in the Christian faith and life. And, perhaps most importantly, we find that even when you have the ‘correct answer,’ that’s not enough. There are pastoral and spiritual implications of keeping the whole Body together. And those implications are more important than being right.”

Let me suggest an example that I see regularly on UC’s campus. I run into a whole lot of students who dislike the Christian church—for many reasons, of course, but often because of denominations. The thought goes like this: if Jesus is the Son of God and said and did some awesome things and y’all are all his fans and followers, why the heck aren’t you all getting along? Students’ dislike ranges from mild curiosity to active hatred. Huge numbers of them attend nondenominational campus groups or churches for this very reason—there shouldn’t be denominations, because all we do is fight each other about who’s right. We don’t even have to go far afield to see it: Missouri Synod Lutherans practice closed communion, believing that they have the correct interpretation of both the Sacrament and of the Scriptures, while ELCA Lutherans seem to have disdain for our Missouri Synod brothers and sisters and continue blithely on with our own interpretations. I say this not to be offensive or to suggest that one or the other denomination has it wrong—it’s the continued antipathy that’s the issue, not different interpretations. Folks on the outside of the Church Universal, those atheists or agnostics or folks hurt by the church—those we most want to reach with the message of God’s love—they look at Christians as a block and say, “what is wrong with you guys? Why can’t you just get along?” We all know it’s more difficult than that, and yet we often stay complacent where we are—we can’t make Missouri Synod like us any more than we would agree to not ordaining female clergy any more. BUT, and here’s where you should be paying attention, BUT there is hope.

I am an Episcopalian, not a Lutheran. How in the world do I get to stand in front of you and preach and celebrate communion? Because our two denominations came together over 10 years ago and said “I’m okay, you’re okay.” Or, “we’re all okay.” We are in full communion with one another. Where the church has historically pulled itself apart, the ELCA and the Episcopal Church have begun pulling back together. There is hope. There is God working in the middle of broken, seemingly hopeless places.

So as you consider your own life, or the life of this congregation, consider the rule of love that we have been given in Jesus, consider what theologian B.W. Johnson wrote in 1891: "The Christian principle, the rule of love, is, 'If eating meat, or going to the theater, or going to a ball, or attending the fair, or drinking wine or beer, causeth my brother to offend, I will not do these things while the world standeth.’” What is it that you do which is pretty much harmless but which might make me or someone else question our faith? What do we do as a congregation which makes seekers turn away? And don’t ask these questions because we want to increase our numbers but because each of those people is beloved by God and ought to be beloved by us.

I’m not going to lie, some of the rules and stories in the Bible may seem harsh or arbitrary, like some of the rules of etiquette, but the point is not the rule, the point is to live generously with one another. The point is that God takes the meat we sacrifice to idols and makes a glorious feast that every denomination and faith and non-faith person is invited to. So, do what Miss Manners tells you to, be generous with your neighbors, and write a thank you note to God with your life.

revising a sermon

2012-01-28T13:19:00.001-05:00

Three pointers when revising a sermon:

does it say anything?
does it say what I want it to say/what God wants it to say?
can I say it better?

sermon--Luke 1:26-38

2011-12-20T10:53:00.013-05:00

Baruch attah adonai elohenu melech ha-olam. Blessed are you, Lord our God, ruler of all possibilities.
* * *
Things are not as they seem.
Take angels, for example. What do you think of?
Sure, there’s the host singing in the account from Matthew, but “host” is the usual translation from the Hebrew word for “army.” When we call God the Lord of Hosts, we’re talking about a general at the head of a powerful army who can wipe our enemies—or us—out.

Not so pretty.
How many of you thought of something like this:

Or this:

How many of you thought of something like this:

Or this:

Or even this:

Yeah, no offense to our lovely friend down here by the altar, but it seems likely that angels don’t look like that. They have flaming swords to bar us from going back to Eden and they keep company with seraphim who are made up entirely of eyes and wings and they say things like “do not be afraid” when they show up—which suggests to me that they’re terrifying. Doesn’t mean they’re not beautiful, of course—there’s an awe to some kinds of beauty—but they’re not cute, they’re not pretty and softly-flowing, and they’re not as they seem.
The same can be said of Mother Mary. What do you think of when you think of the mother of Jesus? Something like this:

Or maybe something like this:

Or this:

That’s Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Workers’ Movement and an advocate for justice.
Mary’s not what she seems either. For one thing, we don’t talk much about whether she had a choice when Gabriel showed up to tell her she was going to be the Mother of God. I suppose there might be a theological hair-split here, one that Larry and I seem to delight in arguing about—when God asks, is there really a choice? But it seems to me that we do. Pretty much every time the prophets were called by God to be prophets, they objected—“I’m too young” or “I can’t do that,” Jonah actually ran away—but then they finally said “yes.” Suggests to me that God’s argument is strong, as it ought to be, but that they could have said “no.” Opens up the story a bit if you consider that Mary could have said “no.”
But more than that, think about the bit we didn’t read today, the bit that follow’s Mary’s “yes”—I guess you can’t do that, since we didn’t read it. Here, let me. After Mary says “let it be with me according to your word” she says:
‘My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.
His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.’
Wow, does that sound like the prophets to anyone else? I’ve always wondered if Mary had a bit of prophecy in her, a bit of fire and brimstone for us wayward sinners who reject God’s justice and mercy… and there’s some proof to back me up in that.
Basically, in scripture, there are different types of writing—songs, histories, law books, letters, etc. And there are what you’d call forms that they follow, like a business letter. There’s a form for the announcement of a miraculous birth—like to Mary, right? And to Abraham’s wife Sarai and to Hannah and several others, all of whom were too old or couldn’t have children. There’s another form for when someone is called to be a prophet—Gideon and Jeremiah and Isaiah among others.
And, here’s where it gets weird—Mary’s conversation with Gabriel fits the call story for a prophet better than it fits the announcement of miraculous birth. Crazy, right?
Or maybe not. Things here just aren’t what they seem. The angel is otherworldly and scary, Mary meek and mild speaks with authority of the proud and the rich—us, maybe?—being brought low and the poor and downtrodden given every gift. For goodness sake, Jesus is God in human form, God who gestated in the womb of a woman and born crying in a dirty stable—seriously? Everything is different than we expect, and Jesus himself is different than we expect. The only thing you could change to make it blindingly obvious that something is up is if Jesus had been a girl. Too much? Well, you get my point—things are not what they seem.
And as we hustle about this last week before Christmas, it’s tempting to assume things are exactly what they seem. That the way we do things here—at Good Shepherd or in America or on the planet Earth, for that matter—are the way things are done. Or that the advertisements and the culture are correct that we need to spend more than we already are on our loved ones’ gifts, that those gifts will make clear the love we feel for them. That Jesus is a cute, squirmy baby who’s come to save us all. That last one is true, but only as far as it goes. It doesn’t deal with that cute baby’s diapers or that salvation comes free but not cheap. And Jesus doesn’t come to affirm everything we already think, either.
Do you see what I’m saying here? This Jesus we’re waiting for, who we’re excited about, makes all things new—and that’s a comfort and a threat both. Like every baby is—a delightful little bundle of joy and a complicated bundle of possibility. Mary is pregnant with Jesus—a week away from giving birth. To be honest, she’s enormous and ready for this baby to be here already. But he’s not yet, not quite yet… And, in some way, we’re all pregnant with possibility. “…14th-century German mystic Meister Eckhart…wrote: ‘What is the good if Mary gave birth to the Son of God 2000 years ago, if I do not give birth to God today? We are all Mothers of God, for God is always needing to be born.’”* If we are not preparing for Jesus by—I don’t know—reading scripture or praying for our enemies or working on what’s holding us back from forgiving someone—then nothing changes for us. Well, maybe something changes—God works in mysterious ways, after all, and it’s not about our righteousness. It’s about God’s desire for us and God’s desire to be with us. It won’t look like what you think, but don’t you want to get ready for that? Don’t you want to be part of that new thing that’s coming next Sunday? Don’t you want to be part of the excitement and the challenge of living like God’s right here? Because Jesus, Mighty God, Wonderful Counselor, Prince of Peace, Emmanuel which means God is With Us is with us. Now. And next Sunday.
May our souls magnify the Lord.
May our spirits rejoice in God our Savior.
For God has looked with favor on the lowliness of us his servants.
May we be called blessed for the mighty things God does and for our saying “yes.”

* Quoted from http://www.patheos.com/blogs/carlgregg/2011/12/“let-it-be”-a-progressive-christian-lectionary-commentary-for-the-4th-sunday-of-advent/ (accessed 1:15pm, 12.13.11)

sermon--Matthew 25:14-30

2011-11-12T10:05:00.001-05:00

Sermon I: [sign on pulpit reads “gospel of wealth”]
Brothers and sisters, let us turn to our text for today
from the gospel of Matthew,
the twenty-fifth chapter and the twenty-ninth verse.
Inspired by the Lord God, St. Matthew says,
“For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away.” Amen?
Jesus compares the Kingdom of Heaven to three servants,
two of whom make money hand over fist in the name of God,
and one of whom is full of fear and doubt
and who hides it and himself away.
Now who is it we’re supposed to identify with here, brothers and sisters?
Who is it that Jesus Christ himself is telling us to be?
Is he telling us to be afraid?
To hide away the abundant wealth God gives us?
No, do not hide yourself under a bushel
but let your light shine, brothers and sisters!
Is he telling us to use that wealth,
to use those gifts God gives to make more for ourselves,
showing ourselves to be a blessing to the Lord?
Yes, indeed.
Consider the story Matthew tells:
he says there’s a man who portions out his wealth,
his valuable possessions, to his servants to care for.
Now, why would he do that?
Why not keep these possessions locked up and safe,
away from the risk of theft or loss?
Why hand them over to his servants who, no doubt,
don’t have his same financial acumen?
Folks, he didn’t want these possessions to simply sit,
showing their beauty to no one,
not actively creating more wealth for the Master.
So, without giving any instruction,
he gives each servant a portion of his own wealth,
vast sums even, and leaves,
safe in his assumption that they’ll know what he wants,
that they ought to increase his wealth.
Well, you know what happens, brothers and sisters,
the two good and faithful servants do exactly
what the Master asks and rewarded handsomely for their work
—their wealth is doubled and they are the toast of the town.
But the third, oh, the third.
He feared the Lord, he hid from the Lord,
and he had even his last penny taken away in punishment.
Brothers and sisters, how else are we to read this story
except that God wants us to increase our wealth,
Go wants us to have abundance in our lives,
and if we only are faithful enough, we will receive it.
Call now to make your tithe so that you may begin your journey
to blessed prosperity!

Sermon II: [sign on pulpit reads “participation = blessedness”]
I am ace at getting the participation grade in class.
Really, my husband sometimes calls me, with deep love, Hermione.
I’m the guy with my hand up, just itching to be called on,
wanting to show off my knowledge and be recognized.
In small groups, I tend to take leadership.
I participate so much, sometimes other people
have a hard time participating…
Ok, maybe I push too hard to get my way,
maybe I ought to let others have a chance to participate as well,
after all, it’s not all about me.
It’s about all of us responding to God’s good word.
Because those three servants in the parable Jesus tells,
they’re not meant to be individual people
—Sally or Jim Bob or me or Presiding Bishop Hanson—
but representations of the church universal.
And these servants have been given gifts,
great gifts of creativity and teaching
and justice-seeking and administration
and what do we do with them as a church body?
How do we respond to being given those gifts?
How do we participate in God’s Kingdom?
Two of the servants take the gifts entrusted to them and double their value
—double, can you imagine?
Consider your own gifts—your wealth, yes, but also
your family and friends, your passions, our ministries as a congregation
—and consider what it would look like to double them in some way? Amazing, yes?
And, maybe a little overwhelming?
It would take a lot of work to get there, blood, sweat, and tears.
But when the Master in the story returns,
does he not commend those two servants
for their faithfulness and their success?
Yet the third servant receives only punishment for doing nothing at all.
Charles Wesley said in his commentary that
"mere harmlessness, on which many build their hope of salvation,
was the cause of his damnation!"
Harsh, yet that’s what the text says.
This may be treading close to works righteousness,
the theological idea that we can somehow earn our salvation,
that we can earn God’s love and favor.
Which we all know to be ridiculous.
But here’s Jesus saying it.
Maybe the Psalms and our surrounding culture have something right
in suggesting that we have some responsibility
to participate in the Kingdom God is making.
Maybe there is a grade for participation.
If that’s the case, you better watch out of my way…

Sermon III: [sign on music stand: “left-handed power”]
God is a jerk. Now before you fire me for blasphemy, let me explain.
If God is the landowner here, and God is, as it says
“a harsh man, reaping where he did not sow,
gathering where he did not scatter,”
and God throws a servant into outer darkness
because he didn’t make any money,
that God seems kind of like a jerk.
Or, at least, not a God I’d like to associate with.
But regardless of my personal likes and dislikes,
I wonder why we always associate the landowner or the king
in Jesus’ stories with God?
Why does that character in control
need to be the cypher for the divine?
Let’s try an alternative. Theologian Robert Farrar Capon
wrote a book called Kingdom, Grace, Judgment
where he explores all of Jesus’ parables
and attempts a complex but cohesive interpretation.
He suggests that God is often portrayed as having right-handed power,
that is, might, strength, righteousness, obvious power.
The kind of power the culture and we expect from a God.
Avenging, overwhelming, etc.
Yet, in scripture, God so often acts from what you might call left-handed power
—power born of weakness, the power of surprising choices.
God chooses the younger son over and over,
despite the culture and common sense
saying that the eldest would be the best choice.
God chooses to become human in the form of Jesus Christ
who does not bring right-handed power
in the form of defeating the occupying Romans.
God allows himself to be killed on the cross, for goodness sakes.
Not what we expect, not what we think it ought to be like.
God seems to consistently choose the left-hand path,
the path of surprise or of switching-up,
the path that we do not choose.
So, in this parable, perhaps we ought to switch it up
and consider if the servant who buries the money
might be the righteous one.
That is, what if God is not the landowner?
The landowner says the frightened servant should have
at least invested the money and received simple interest
—fair enough, right? Wrong—
Jews were not allowed to charge or receive interest.
It was considered a form of exploitation.
What if the requests that the servants make a healthy return
is not God’s command?
What if the servant who hides the money
is righteously refusing to participate in the dominant culture
of exploitation and aggrandizement?
What if he is choosing the narrow path,
the difficult path of true faith,
and our discomfort with that only shows our own
lack of commitment to the way of Jesus?
Because the consequence of not doing what people expect
is a form of outer darkness.

* * *

This is a tough parable. Which interpretation is correct?
What did Jesus really mean when he preached this parable?
Lutheran Pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber asks in one of her books,
“What would Jesus do? Something I think is really cool… “
God surprises us, turns what we expect on it’s head,
but not just to keep us guessing, no, that’s a jerk move.
God surprises us because
we can’t seem to remember what he’s all about in the first place.
So we swing among extremes
—I can do it on my own and deserve God’s love
or God is a cosmic vending machine if I just believe hard enough
or even that’s not God at all, is it?
We can’t see God in the midst of the images we make of him.
And, to be fair, Jesus doesn’t always help with his riddle-me-this stories.
Parables aren’t 1-to-1 stories which tell us what to do in a given situation.
They’re little mysteries which reveal more
and yet continue to ask questions the more we delve.
The Holy Spirit isn’t boxable into what we want her to be saying to us.
What if this parable is all those things I preached?
What if we’re not supposed to buy into a culture
of exploitation and gain
but we are supposed to make something of ourselves?
What if it’s really not about what we do, about our good works,
and yet it’s about our doing something,
participating in God’s great dream?
There is no one, clear, final interpretation of the parables,
and there never will be.
They’re for wrestling with and experimenting with
and coming back to again and again to be renewed in our awe of God.
The Right Reverend Desmond Tutu (Anglican Bishop, you know)
once said:
"If you are neutral in situations of injustice,
you choose the side of the oppressor."
If you are neutral in situations of scripture,
you choose the side of apathy, not the side of God.
Which is not to say that we must be entirely certain, for that is ridiculous.
But that we must engage.
The Christian faith is not what you think it is,
it is so much more.

sunday's sermon--Exodus 3.1-15 (draft)

2011-08-27T13:20:00.001-05:00

Today we get the calling of Moses to be God’s messenger. God calls to Moses through a burning-bush-that-was-burning-but-not-consumed. An amazing, impossible, can’t-miss-it kind of sign that something’s happening right? The burning bush is not about the burning bush. It’s about God calling. And it’s about Moses answering. Or, maybe it’s about Moses expecting a call. But it’s not about the bush.

See, I hear from folks a lot the question, “how come we don’t see burning bushes anymore?” or “where are all the big miracles that we read about in the Bible now?” or “how come God doesn’t talk to us anymore?” Wrong questions. Moses saw the burning-bush-that-was-burning-but-not-consumed because he was looking for it. Or because he was willing to see it. Exodus says Moses looked at the bush, then decided to turn aside and get a closer look. He chose to see God’s presence there rather than just moving on. We don’t practice seeing God very well and so when God shows up, we often don’t notice, or we attribute it to something else—a natural phenomenon like the gradation of blue in a cloudless sky or rain that keeps us from an appointment (what’s more natural than God?), or thoughts in our brains (since we’re so busy-busy, why wouldn’t God nudge us that way?). And most of us don’t think that we could be called by God because we can’t imagine God wanting to call us. Why me?

But God does call us. All of us, individually and as a group. Paul talks about how all of us are part of the body of Christ, all parts necessary for healthy functioning, no part unnecessary—all of us called to the healthy functioning of the church and the world. God is constantly speaking to us, constantly trying to get us to look at him like a young woman crushing on a boy. “Just look at me…” And the big things we read about in scripture, those are signs that God’s trying to get our attention. They’re not the messages.

Think about it this way:
First, there’s The Story, God’s story of Creation, Fall, Redemption, and Restoration, a portion of which is told us in scripture. The Story which we revere and which describes for us what the world often looks like, which suggests to us how we might make that world function better, more compassionately. The Story which includes big crazy stories like the burning-bush-that-was-burning-but-not-consumed and Elijah speaking to God directly and hearing God the whirlwind, God the thunderstorm, and God the silence. The Story which we love and struggle with but which we don’t often practice connecting with our own stories.
Part the second, is our stories: your life is a story, has a plot you don’t yet know the end of, characters who come and stay for a time, pain and triumph, boring bits and exciting bits. Our stories shed light on where we are now. I have a lot of compassion for folks on the margins—prisoners, the working poor, the gay community—because I was on the margins for much of my life. I was a weird kid—who knew?—and was teased mercilessly in elementary and junior high. I felt…feel like an outcast and so identify with others in a similar category. I am where I am now because of that experience. Our stories show us how we got to where we are and sometimes a bit of where we’re going.

And last, there’s a dynamic, creative space where these two stories connect, where The Story/God’s Story connects with our own stories. The stories of scripture aren’t just a rule book and they aren’t just bizarre stories about miracles. They’re our own stories, our own lives writ large. C. S. Lewis once said, "Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see."

The Story of Moses and the burning-bush-that-was-burning-but-not-consumed is about God calling to this guy Moses, this shepherd, this guy who stutters and who, it turns out, can’t keep control of the people he’s been entrusted to care for. He’s just this guy, you know? And God calls to him, and Moses chooses to turn aside and look and listen. And, before you think that’s the end, in this and every call story in the Bible, the person being called objects. Sometimes strenuously. Moses doesn’t think he can do it. Sound familiar? And God says, “yes, you can and I’ll help. Pay attention.”

So, how to tell when God calls? Often, when God calls, it’s not just one time, not just in a single heated moment. A lot of the time, it takes us some time to see and turn aside to look. I am personally rather thick and so I need a lot of prodding. So, at the risk of being self-involved, I thought I’d share a little of my own spiritual autobiography. How did I get here? What signs did I see along the way that suggested God wanted me to do something?

When I was in first grade, around the time my father went to seminary, I was vaguely aware of religion and God, but I didn’t really think about it much. I do remember I was terribly afraid of the dark for years, a fear which I have never truly shaken. I would panic when entering a dark room and fumble wildly for the light switch. I would run up a flight of stairs from a dark hallway to a light one, afraid that a monster was chasing me. It was at Easter each year that I began slowly to lose that fear. At the university, the seminarians and faculty go all out for the Easter vigil, beginning very early on Sunday morning in complete darkness. They light a blazing fire to symbolize the light of Christ which pierces the darkness, but which to me only put up a thin, weak wall between us and the surrounding darkness. Slowly we processed into the chapel and began the vigil. Most of us kids would fall asleep in the chairs, awoken later by the rising sun streaming through the surrounding tall, thin windows when we came to the Resurrection. It was magical. That the service could be timed so well, that the sun was so glorious streaming through the windows, that the music was so jubilant was a real “Wow” moment for me. I was overcome with joy and renewal and felt that something very good had pushed away the literal and figurative dark.

In high school, I sometimes went with my priest father to the local women’s prison. For a while, on Wednesday nights, he would go and celebrate Eucharist for a small group of women. It didn’t occur to me to be afraid of the people we visited until I walked through the first set of metal doors. Their clanging shut sounded so final and I woke up a little. The second set told me I wasn’t getting out of here easily, and neither were these women. Even then, I was not afraid but curious. At the point in the Eucharist after the long, beautiful, boring prayer is over, the priest invites the assembly forward saying something like “These are the gifts of God for the people of God.” My father always added, “holy things for holy people.” That was when I realized what was happening. These women whose pasts I didn’t know and could only guess were indeed holy people. This bread and wine was theirs as God’s beloved. Prisons have struck me as holy ground ever since, rather like the ground Moses removed his shoes to walk on.

Around this time, I also read a book called The Mirror of Her Dreams which, honestly, may not be very good, but it affected me profoundly. One supporting character, one of the daughters of the king who is rather dreamy and idealistic and thought to be weak-willed, says to the main character, “problems should be solved by those who see them.” Later, she finds her courage and risks her life for a wounded stranger. Problems should be solved by those who see them. Yes, they should. If not you, who? If not now, when? Yes, I thought, yes, I felt in my bones. And the fire in my heart began to burn in earnest.

Many years later, after rejecting the feeling that I was called to ordained ministry several times, I ended up in seminary. To make ends meet, my husband and I worked at Barnes and Noble and, at this time, the number one bestseller on every list there was was The Da Vinci Code. To be honest, I didn’t care for it, but many did and I found myself in daily conversations with coworkers and customers about issues the book brought up. And those conversations expanded into more personal ones about folks’ faith and desires. I became the informal chaplain to the store. It was a weird spiritual place, but one which helped explain the burning in my heart to care for those hurt by the church, those seeking, those wandering lost in the wilderness.

All of these experiences were my burning-bush-that-burned-but-was-not-consumed. It wasn’t a sudden moment. And, while I’m still figuring out what it means to be a priest, I have turned off the main path to look at what God is calling me to.

Sometimes the overlap between God’s story and our story is sudden and easily seen like Moses’ story or like Paul on the Damascus Road. More often, it takes time, is a cycle, seems rather ordinary. And that is precisely where God is working all the time. God doesn’t need the big moments to tell us something, to call us into deeper relationship or risky giving or radical forgiveness. God calls to us in every moment of every day.

Let me give you one more example. Steve Jobs has retired recently, but in 2005, he spoke at Stanford’s commencement. He said,
“[My] college at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn't have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can't capture, and I found it fascinating.
None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, it's likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.
Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.

This week, I’m giving you homework. And I’ll check back next week. I want you to try to connect the dots.
Take a little time each day this week to consider your life story. What are your strongest memories? What were your favorite books or most influential people? How are they related to who you are now? Do you see any similarities among those stories? Threads which continue through your life but that you hadn’t noticed before?
Then spend some time in prayer—not the intercessory prayer we often do for others, but in silence, asking God to help you see what God’s trying to show you.
Consider what God might be saying to you in the most ordinary moments of your life, in the birthday parties and the deaths, in the Habitat houses you’ve built or the papers you’ve written, the things you’ve gotten excited about and the things you wish you didn’t remember. Ask God to help you see more clearly the thread of the sacred running through your life. Ask God where that thread might be leading.
Write this stuff down if that’s helpful, or talk about it with your family or a trusted friend.
Be honest. Be open to a burning bush-that-is-burning-but-not-consumed, because it’s been burning all your life, off to the side, in the corner of your eye. Turn aside from the path you think you have to be on and look at what God is doing. Choose to see your story connected to God’s story.

sermon--Matthew 16.13-20

2011-08-20T21:13:00.002-05:00

[All of the below are notes to riff on, not complete thoughts. It's possible this will not make any sense to anyone but me. Probably you ought to read the passage cited in the title...]

I wanna be like Peter—he gets it so wrong, but gets it so right here

“who do you say that I am?”
—silence in bible study when asked, our own silence
what if it’s about more than profession of faith?
Yes, name God to others (identify God working—my job on campus)
But also see God for God
God wants to be seen, desires us, makes self-revelation
Like the Navi’i in Avatar… “I see you”
Like our crushes—“God, just look at me!”
Weird to speak of desire/romance with God?
Not far off—bridal mysticism (look it up, off topic)

Who do we say God is,
not just to be right or win political office, but to show others
a completely changed and desire-charged life
Merton—“I believe my desire to please you pleases you.”
College students
Who do you say I am?
Many think they know, many want to find out
What bearing does the church have?
Why should we pay attention?
Student Reggie—didn’t know she needed God, wanted something
Wanted to know and be known, to be changed
I offered, I showed a complex, radically inclusive, risky face
Peter and the others--gave up everything, tried to change the world
Who we say God is, and who we show God to be

What we do, how we show God’s face to others,
is all because we’ve turned when God called and said, “I see you”
to truly see God face to face and to be seen
that experience changes everything

May we see and be seen. May we love with a risky, active love and be loved in return. May we desire to please God, whether or not we are right. May we see the face of God on all we meet and may we be the face of God to all we meet.

catecheumenate

2011-08-19T17:37:00.000-05:00
Christianity 101—inaugural year
Curriculum

This Fall, we're adding a catecheumenate to the Edge House's repetoire. Or, for the uninitiated or recovering-Catholic among you, Christianity 101. The idea is that we have students who would like to be baptized or who'd like to reaffirm their faith and we ought to offer information and conversation to help those decisions. After meeting for a couple hours once a month, at the Easter Vigil 2012--at, like 4:30 in the morning--we'll give them the opportunity to affirm or reaffirm. Should be amazing!

What remains is for me to figure out what I'm going to teach them... Here's a very vague sketch. Your thoughts?

October: how did you get here?--share stories, watch Cameron Duncan's "DFK6498", talk about where we're bound and where we need freedom, begin talking about scripture and how that big story got here (maybe a short study on something relating to the exile)
homework: memorize books of the bible (very handy, that...)

November: continue conversations about scripture, in particular overview of The Story/Plot, intensive studies of several pivotal passages, clip from Firefly: disc 2, "Jaynestown", chapter 3, 9:44, from Book: "What are we up to?" through Book: "You hang onto those now."
homework: assign stories for projects--must read from several translations, short essay maybe on what's happening literally and spiritually (what's God doing? how do we react?), where you see yourself, and some creative response

December: church history--how'd we get here?, Paul, councils, denominations, etc.
homework:

January: theology—sola scriptura vs. Three-Legged Stool, major bits of theology (Christology, Trinity, soteriology, what else?), I know I have some media for “what’s God like?”—film clip? Excerpt from book?..., maybe use some of the 500 Theses from seminary, Images of Jesus handout
homework: begin working on spiritual autobiography

February: ethics—read and discuss some ethical case studies from my seminary ethics class, play the “Who Gets the Liver?” game, heroes of the faith (Good Samaritan, Constance and her Companions, the Widow and Elijah, who else?)
homework: continue working on spiritual autobiography

March: practice—make communion bread together while talking?, orthodoxy vs. orthopraxy, liturgy and worship, prayer, mission, present autobiographies
homework: share your autobiography with someone who’s not in this group

April: participate in Holy Week and Easter Vigil

sunday's sermon--Psalm 85.8

2011-08-09T12:58:00.002-05:00
Baruch attah adonai elohenu melech ha-olam. Blessed are you, Lord our God, ruler of all possibilities.
* * *
[Teach “Let Me Hear” by Philip Newell]
Let me hear, let me listen, help me listen,
because I think God has something to say.
But I keep getting distracted. Do you have this problem?
There’s always something: the laundry, or work,
or it’s not practical to spend time in prayer or to advocate for…
ooh, look! a shiny thing…
It’s been a heck of a week for me at the Edge campus ministry house:
I’ve had to say “no” to a couple wanting to have their marriage blessed
even though I didn’t want to,
I’ve had to say “no” to a student
who wanted to continue to be a part of the ministry,
I’ve gotten to say “yes” to some exciting outreach plans
for the school year and spring break,
…aaand then had to say “no” again to our friendly neighborhood bum.
Bennie sleeps on the porch. And leaves trash on the porch.
And pees on the porch. And he’s a violent drunk.
And he’s the county’s arrest record-holder.
So I don’t kick him off on a whim—
it’s not a good situation for us and it’s not good for him either. The thing is, he doesn’t listen. Or he can’t listen.
Every time I see him, I tell him,
“Bennie, you can’t sleep here” at least five times.
And he says he’s not.
And then we find evidence he’s been there, or Bennie himself,
still sleeping off his cheap liquor.
His mental illness keeps him from understanding
what people say to him.
And I wonder if we, too, have something
that keeps us from understanding what people say to us,
what God says to us.
Do we have some sort of—let’s call it a mental illness—
that distracts from the abundant life God offers?
Yeah, we do. It’s called sin.
Not a pleasant word in our world,
not a word we want to apply to our not spending much time
in prayer
or our justifications for the comfort we have.
But it’s our word, it’s the church’s word
for all that distracts us from the amazing, delightful,
peace-filled life God invites us to.
Sin is thinking you have the right answer on your own,
it’s looking down on your parents or professors,
it’s hurting other people whether we know it or not,
it’s not practicing the generous faith we claim.
Sin is not listening to God.
My spiritual director gave me an article years ago which has stuck with me.
In it, the writer says that he always thought prayer
needed to be very calm, very spiritual,
approached from a calm, spiritual day.
You know, some yoga, a cup of tea, soothing classical music,
no…you know…actual life happening around him as it does.
He says his prayers never looked like that,
that he would stew over the events of his day
for the majority of the time,
then ask a kind of perfunctory “I’m here, where are you God?”
and then be done with it.
But he came to realize that his prayer was
more expansive than that—
that the stewing was indeed part of the prayer,
that God wants us to tell him everything,
even though he already knows it.
Turning over the events of the days in the presence of God is prayer.
And most of us never get past this part—
we talk at God and then call it a day.
But that’s not all of it.
After we can’t stew any more, we reflect:
“I think this is what’s happening here,
maybe this is how I ought to reply,
ah, that one story from scripture is kind of similar…”
If we’re lucky, we make it to this reflection part of prayer
and we think we’re deeply spiritual.
And it is an advance of sorts.
The vast majority of us rarely, if ever,
let ourselves get to the third stage: listening.
Emptying ourselves of all the stewing
and all the pride that we can figure it out
and just listening to what God might have to speak.
And all of this is what we mean by turning to God in our hearts.
But what does God sound like? What are we listening for?
Some really do hear words,
others feel a strong, repeated push towards something
over months or years,
others feel God in a sudden inspiration that seems outside
of what they could have come up with.
Scripture suggests that the voice of God is peace.
When we listen, says the Psalm for today, God speaks peace
to the faithful who turn to God in their hearts.
And not peace in the cute, marketed peace-sign kind of way
but what our Jewish brothers and sisters call shalom.
It’s a complex thing, shalom.
It means first wholeness and interdependence.
And it means truth, a deep, abiding truth
that speaks to our guts as much as it does our brains.
And it means love, but a challenging love of sacrifice,
loving something that we’re not entirely gung-ho about.
Because, again, we don’t want to hear it.
The word of God is about righteousness and faithfulness
and connection being the norm.
This is what Shalom is.
It’s like the moment right after you put your kids to bed.
It’s the place after all the “yes’s” and “no’s”
that we have to say during the day,
it’s the place where it all makes sense,
fits together, and is beautiful.
When God speaks peace and we hear it,
it’s not just hearing the vibrations in the air,
“yeah, ok, that’s nice” but a full-body kind of hearing.
Often, we can only hear the voice of God
because we’ve been practicing hearing it.
What we do regularly
—church, outreach, getting to know the neighbors, shopping—
what we do regularly shapes us,
it forms us into beings who can or cannot hear God speaking.
What we do regularly allows us to drop the distractions.
Or it allows us to keep those distractions, those sins, in place.
This is the practice of the faith—listening means practicing.
And God speaks peace all the time.
Shalom, wholeness, it’s few and far between in this broken world
—but it’s here nonetheless.
God is speaking peace to us constantly
—in our marriages and family life,
at work where things can get contentious,
in the middle of exam week or co-op decision time on campus,
in the middle of a movie,
in our conversations about theology or sexuality or politics—
God is speaking peace, is offering us a different way,
the true way that we’re struggling so hard to achieve on our own.
God is speaking peace, wholeness, vulnerability, faithfulness, peace
to every one of us in every moment.
To hear God, maybe we need to make time to listen
and not just assume that we’ll get it one day.
Let’s turn to God in our hearts
and reach out for the peace God’s offering.
Let’s practice listening for peace.
[Sing again.]

sunday's sermon--Matthew 14:13-21

2011-08-01T21:03:00.014-05:00
Most images below come from Things Organized Neatly. You should check it out. Also, Things Organized Neatly, please don't sue me for posting these images. They made my sermon more effective.

(asterixes indicate a slide change)
“Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food.”
“Everyone who thirsts…” Are you thirsty?*

Are you hungry?
What for?*(black screen)
I hunger for cool new shoes. And the approval of others.
I thirst for free time and then spend it doing housework
—it does not satisfy.
What do you hunger and thirst for?
I hunger for radically inclusive church community
where everyone is not just allowed in but desired
I thirst for a church where the poor, the outcast, the broken,
yes, even the rich are welcomed with open arms.
I hunger for more time with my delightful daughter.
I thirst for deep prayer in a world which doesn’t have the time.
These would satisfy. These would be the bread Isaiah and Jesus speak of.
It seems like we here on the ground, we ordinary people
are always striving for something else, something more.
Yet the something more we receive rarely satisfies.
You know what I’m talking about: houses, cars, clothing, success at work,
people liking us for the image we present
—that stuff doesn’t satisfy, not for long.
I don’t know about you, but I kind of expect God to be, you know, obvious.
Sign-like. A big burning bush in the middle UC’s campus
or a pillar of smoke in the middle of the House of Representatives
leading us to the Promised Land.
But, no, we have ordinary old sidewalks and ballpark hot dogs.
We hunger and thirst for something huge and flashy
and we get something small and ordinary.
We’ve been talking about finding God in the ordinary the last few weeks
—have you caught on to that?—
because we rarely get the huge, flashy sign of God’s presence.
But, more than that, we’re talking about finding God in the ordinary
because that is precisely where God shows up.
Check it out. One of my favorite blogs is called Things Organized Neatly
—she posts images of, well, things. Organized neatly.
Here’s a couple examples: clay pots stacked neatly*,

matches in varying degrees of being burnt*,

books organized by color*,

all the pieces of a pocket watch*

—you get the point.
Each is made up of very ordinary things, yet seen in a different way,
are things of extraordinary beauty.*(black screen)
Or try this one:
my husband has been spending his summer away from teaching
revising his young adult novel so he can pitch it to an agent.
Parts of the revision go smoothly,
he really gets into it and hours pass without his realizing.
Other parts are much more difficult, and he struggles with them.
And every so often, having had all of those parts of the plot
swimming around in his head for months,
an elegant solution rises to the surface
which makes everything fit together.
I’m not speaking of a blinding flash of insight here, folks,
but the everyday, ordinary workings of our brains
which, to me, suggest the action of the Holy Spirit.
She moves in mysterious ways, in subtle ways,
in ways we’d call ordinary and thus not divine.
But the ordinary points to the divine.
Look: The stuff Jesus fed the 5000 with is ordinary stuff.
Bread and fish—you could buy it at any store, or make it yourself.
It’s not special.
And even the bread and wine of our weekly meal here is ordinary.
Ordinary things—fish and bread, bread and juice…us.
We’re ordinary things—we’re no saints,
we’re made of dirt if you remember the Genesis stories!
Ordinary dirt sculpted into something beautiful.
But that’s what the saints were
—ordinary people doing extraordinary things—or, rather,
ordinary people doing the ordinary things of the Kingdom of God.
Check this out.
Today (Saturday) we celebrate the feast day of William Wilberforce,
an abolitionist and politician from the 1800s.
He made long speeches and worked tirelessly for 18 years
to abolish the slave trade in England because of his faith
in the freedom we have in Jesus Christ.
You might think
“it’s all well and good for him, he was famous and powerful.”
But he was just a guy
who didn’t think a person should own another person.
All the heroes of the faith are ordinary folks
trying to live like God is really here like he says he is,
ordinary folks thirsting and hungering
for justice and truth and mercy.
When Jesus told the disciples to feed the crowd of well more than 5000 people,
they didn’t know what to do—they only had a little bread and fish,
nothing compared to the crowds gathered.
And Jesus said, “bring your nothing to me.”
This morning, I bring to God my nothing
and hope that he can make something out of it.
I bring our beloved country’s literal hunger and thirst.
From what I read, there is plenty to go around,
so why, in a country which prides itself
on its Christian history and Christian present,
do so many suffer from malnutrition?
Every time I go to the Freestore/Foodbank to volunteer,
they show us around the warehouse,
and when we get to the PowerPak station, I tear up.
Every time.
PowerPaks have food for the 36-hours of a week-end,
food that doesn’t have to be refrigerated
and doesn’t need special tools like can openers to open.
Because it’s for kids whose parents can’t or won’t feed them over the weekend.
Kids who won’t eat otherwise.
This is not right.
This is not what a Christian nation looks like.
Trappist monk Thomas Merton says
we can’t hope to bring about the Kingdom
with non-Kingdom practices—
we can’t bring about peace with weapons,
we can’t bring about abundance for all
with wealth concentrated in the few.
This is a hard thing, brothers and sisters,
because these things have become ordinary to us.
Our comfort and wealth have become entitlements
Which only means things we’ve got used to.
Our hunger and thirst have become ordinary
to the point that we don’t notice them,
we don’t see the Kingdom of God showing up in our lives
because it doesn’t seem important enough.
We can’t see past the ordinariness of our situation
—but that is exactly where God meets us
and makes of our nothing an abundant feast.
Jesus made the little bit of bread and fish
into food for thousands but that wasn’t the only point
—that was the big sign that something was happening,
but then the something happened.
The disciples fed the people.
They took the bread and fish
and handed it out to the people waiting.
They fed the hungry.
And they fed ALL the hungry.
This is the kingdom of God, brothers and sisters…
In the ordinary stuff of our lives
—scissors*,

salad*,

baby clothes*,

ingredients for cookies*,

leaves*,

tea*,

sandwiches*,

candy bars*

—God makes something out of nothing.
And do you see how many of these images were of food?
It’s one of the most ordinary parts of our lives
and yet gives us a foretaste of the kingdom of God.*(black screen)
Do you see?
Do you see how God can slip in through the cracks
where we don’t expect him?
Do you see that in ordinary things like a bit of bread and fish,
God calls us to the life of the Kingdom
where all have a place at the table,
where all receive what they need and offer what they have,
where there is neither male nor female, Jew nor Greek,
slave nor free, gay nor straight,
rich nor poor, Democrat nor Republican
and where we receive abundant life,
and where we give it away as well.
What if we lived like that Kingdom were here right now?*

What do you hunger for?
What do you thirst for?
Does it satisfy?
Come to the table, for the meal is prepared.
*(black screen)

eucharistic prayer for NOSH--Creation

2011-07-28T16:00:00.003-05:00
Church nerds among you might recognize the second half of the prayer as the ancient didache eucharistic prayer. We added an introduction to connect with our first liturgical season, God's creation of the universe.

Out of the dirt of the garden, God made every tree to grow that is pleasant to the sight and good for food and The Tree-of-Life was in the middle of the garden. And God made us out of the dirt and gave us the garden to delight in and to take care of. And God so loved it all that God joined us in creation, was made out of the same dirt. And asked that through simple things of the earth—bread, wine, a shared meal—we lift our hearts and our hands to God as we remember the life Jesus led, the people he touched, the meals he ate, and the sacrifice he made. A reminder about communion: all may, some should, none must. Much of this ritual is about the gathered community, so when you pass the bread and wine, please continue to say the words to the next person whether you take the bread and wine or not.

[concerning the wine] We thank you, our Father, for the holy vine of David your servant, which you made known to us through Jesus your servant; to you be the glory for ever.
[concerning the bread] We thank you, our Father, for the life and knowledge which you made known to us through Jesus your servant; to you be the glory for ever. Even as the grains of wheat were scattered over the hills, and were gathered together to become one bread, so let your church be gathered together from the ends of the earth into your kingdom; for yours is the glory and the power through Jesus Christ for ever.

7 cups of tea

2011-06-28T12:47:00.001-05:00
Sabbath, refreshment, and beauty.

tomorrow's sermon--Acts 20:32-35

2011-05-14T09:55:00.000-05:00
Baruch attah adonai elohenu melech ha-olam. Blessed are you, Lord our God, ruler of eternity. Amen.
* * *
Welcome to week two of stewardship at Good Shepherd.
There are a ton of illustrations for sermons available online
for stewardship season
—object lessons that show you simply and clearly
why tithing is important and doable,
illustrations which would bring every one of you to your knees
with the blinding truth of God’s love,
illustrations which would have you opening your wallets and
handing over everything for the work of the Kingdom! A-men?
Or, at least, that’s what they’d have you think.
There are jokes about ministers and horses and desert islands,
there are prop-related illustrations
that involve things like a mason jar with a few Ping-Pong balls
and some sand which, when I saw it done,
was cheesy but effective.
There are thousands of these things available,
because we in the church have realized
how difficult it is to talk about money in an engaging way.
We’re all a bit jealous of our time and our money.
I know I have a hard time thinking Leighton and I will be able
to cover our bills and things
if we give more money to the church.
And, if you don’t have the experience of Good Shepherd
as a joy-filled place that feeds your soul
for ministry in the world,
no sermon illustration ever will make you open your wallet.
Before Leighton and I had our delightful daughter Abby,
before we were even considering having kids, we had a pretty good life.
We worked and we made art and we gardened
and we went out with friends.
We watched movies and TV, we talked politics,
and there never seemed to be enough time
for everything we wanted to do.
As we considered having a child,
we became fearful of how much time we would lose.
Children, wonderful creatures that they are,
take a lot of time to care for and play with.
Where would that time come from?
How would we continue doing all the things we had come to love
and still take care of this child?
Those of you who are parents know well how much your focus shifts
when you hold that baby in your arms
—often, we can’t even remember what we did
to fill the hours we now spend with Abby.
Some of the stuff you did before stays around,
but much of it gets put in your spiritual attic
and, while you miss it, you don’t miss it much,
because you have this amazing, overwhelmingly beautiful,
intriguing, endlessly changing
new relationship in your life.
The sacrifice of something you love
brings to town an even deeper love.
Do you get it?
This is so much bigger than the annual stewardship campaign.
This is the heart of the Gospel that Peter speaks of in today’s Acts reading,
that Jesus spent his life getting folks to see
—that this faith we profess is about a joyful relationship
which is so much better than we can imagine
when standing outside of it.
Clinging to our stuff or our time leads only
to a narrower, more pinched life,
but holding it all loosely,
offering our stuff, our time, our selves to one another in the church
expands our lives, allows us room to breathe in,
allows space for the Spirit to transform us.
Last week we talked about how we see the world
through a lens of scarcity
while God sees the world through a lens of abundance.
We talked about how this faith we profess is about celebration,
about how church should be and is a party.
Let me give you some examples:
Way back in the day,
when the Ark of the Covenant was returned to Jerusalem,
the Ark of the Covenant which contained the Law of God
given to Moses
and which was so wonderfully holy that it might indeed
have melted Nazi faces (Raiders of the Lost Ark, right?),
the Ark of the Covenant which was to be placed
in the brand-new Temple as a footstool for God,
when the Ark of the Covenant was returned to Jerusalem,
all the Jews partied and David, greatest King of Israel,
stripped down to just his shorts, and danced.
He danced so passionately, with such devotion and love,
that his wife was embarrassed. He was that happy.
And even farther back in the day,
when the Israelites had crossed the Red Sea
after fleeing slavery in Egypt,
when the Israelites had made it safely
between two enormous, terrifying walls of water,
when the Israelites truly saw the mighty, freeing power
of their God,
one of their leaders, Moses’ sister Miriam,
sang her relief and joy to have survived the crossing,
she and the women took tambourines and lyres
and danced around the camp in exultation.
Brother Paul wrote his gratitude and pleasure in God
even while still in prison.
In Hebrews 12, he all but shouts,
“Do you see what we've got? An unshakable kingdom!
And do you see how thankful we must be?
Not only thankful, but brimming with worship,
deeply reverent before God.”
And Jesus exclaimed over God’s generosity,
shouting his joy that the meek and persecuted
and peacemakers would receive abundant life!
All because they saw the depth and power and good news
of God our Maker.
And so we at Good Shepherd are asking something small of you
we are asking for a 1% increase in your current pledge out of joy
My husband Leighton and I have increased our pledge
We’re now giving a huge 6%!
That’s not very big, is it?
On the other hand, it’s only been recently
that we’ve made a regular pledge at all
a few years ago
I did a little math and was embarrassed to discover
Our pledge was less than 1% of our income
And I thought we were so close to a tithe, 10%
So I figured out 2% and sent in the card
this year, 5%, next year, 6%, and after, maybe as high as 7%
I mean this in all seriousness
Increasing a pledge to the church can seem huge,
Even by a single, small percentage point
like that time before you have a kid
and you can’t imagine how you’ll manage
But ask yourself
Why does Good Shepherd matter?
Why does this community, here and now, matter to you and to the world?
What life of celebration have you discovered here?
What makes you want to dance with joy?
Have you made friends and connections here
you couldn’t somewhere else?
Have you reached out to someone who needed it?
Have you had someone from the Stephen Ministry
or the food-making ministry show up at your door?
Or received a card in the mail?
Have you talked with someone very different than yourself?
Has this community made an impact on your life?
Why does Good Shepherd matter to you?
Last week, we heard the prophet Ecclesiastes say that
we “will scarcely brood over the days of [our] lives
because God keeps [us] occupied with the joy of [our] hearts.”
And this week, Luke writes in the book of Acts that
the Gospel is “a message that is able to build you up.”
The heart of our community is celebration.
The center of our practice is thanksgiving.
The focus of our lives is love.
later, we’re going to sing a song called “When Love Comes to Town”
—it’s about deep joy in the midst of a broken life,
it’s about God being present in the craziest places
and about love winning out every time.
When love comes to town—when God comes to town—
he won’t be looking for your excuses,
he won’t be wondering how often you’ve been praised
for helping out your fellows
or how well you’ve avoided them,
he won’t be wondering if your theology’s kosher
—mm-umm, no, sir, when love comes to town,
when God comes to town,
he’ll be looking for how we’ve used the gifts we’ve been given,
he’ll be looking for how generously we’ve treated the abused
and the abusers,
he’ll be looking for how we’ve lived out this image of God
we were created in
—mm-hum, yes, sir
love comes to town every day,
God comes to town in every moment
—so you better dance like David and sing like Miriam,
you better write like Paul and shout like Jesus.
And give yourself away like it’s going out of style!

last Sunday's sermon--Colossians 3:1-10

2011-05-11T16:08:00.001-05:00
Baruch attah adonai elohenu melech ha-olam. Blessed are you, Lord our God, ruler of eternity. Amen.
* * *
My husband likes to say he succumbs to the sin of uxoriousness.
That’s the sin of loving your wife more than God.
To which I reply, “thanks?”
Uxoriousness—use it in a sentence today…
This is of course a form of idolatry,
a way to put something else in the place of God,
to make something or someone, in effect, your God.
Lots of things can be idols—golden calves, trophies, a career, money,
…and insert a deeply-felt groan here
because you’ve just realized it’s that time of year again…
It’s time for speeches about how we need your money,
heart-felt speeches saying essentially,
“give it up you tightwads, this stuff ain’t free,
oh and here’s some scripture to make you feel guilty”
that’s right, it’s stewardship season!
So, while we’re being honest about how we feel
about stewardship sermons
let’s be honest about why we don’t give more
—it’s because we come from an attitude of scarcity.
We think we ought to trust God for everything, right?
God’s the Creator and everything,
but what kind of return does God give on a $1000 investment?
What’s the deductible on God’s insurance plan?
No, God’s all right and all, but we need to trust something else,
something tangible or measurable. Something real…
We trust other things, put other things in the place of God
because we don’t think God will be enough
we don’t think there will be enough…whatever…to go around.
Now, I’m not saying we should all stop planning for the future,
but those plans are not God.
That future is usually anything but
what we expect it to be.
It is uncertain and it fills us with fear.
So we plan and worry and save and hoard
and become greedy for what we already have
—God’s promise that it will all be okay
in the end, right? And if it’s not okay…
[it’s not the end]
Here’s an example—
there are two documents in your house,
or on whatever tech device you use,
that will tell me exactly what you care about and what you fear.
They are your credit card statement and your calendar.
One will tell me what you spend your money on
—and what you don’t spend your money on—
and the other what you spend your time on.
These two paint a picture of who you are in the real world,
where your treasure and your heart are.
You might say they’re moral documents
You might say that they show us the idols we worship.
But what does that mean, “the idols we worship”?
What does it mean to worship anything?
Worship is intense devotion of time and energy.
Worship is giving worth—ultimate worth—to something.
Worship shows what comes before anything else in our lives.
Worship involves joy, maybe a tinge of fear, and a sense of awe.
It’s not unlike the devotion we show to sports teams in this town.
Now, I’m not going to lie, my team of choice is amazing
—they go out there and hustle,
they work hard, and they bring home the victory,
so there’s a reason the Cincinnati Rollergirls
are my favorite and that I’ve got tickets
to the next three bouts
—but I don’t worship them.
I used to have very disconcerting conversations
with parents of teenagers
about how their kids couldn’t come to confirmation class
—confirmation class!
Their conscious, adult choice to follow Jesus
Where they’re confirming they’ll try to love God
with all their hearts and souls
and minds and strengths
a class which lasted only 8 weeks—
they couldn’t come because the Bengals were playing
If that isn’t an obvious choice between God and an idol,
I don’t know what is.
No one wants to be called out on idolatry—
it’s uncomfortable, we fight such negative words,
and, really, it’s not us who are the problem
In the Colossians reading today, Paul equates idolatry with being greedy,
and no one wants to be called greedy either…
so we define it away from ourselves.
Greed is something people much richer than we are
have to struggle with.
Greed is extreme, greed is ugly, greed is unnecessary.
We could never be like that.
And this is precisely why folks don’t care for stewardship season—
readings like Colossians
which basically call us out on our inherent self-interest
when the church is also trying to butter us up
to give more money.
Essentially, “You’re a big sinner and you should be ashamed
—but pay up and it’ll be okay.”
Don’t get me wrong, we do some amazing things with the money
—but don’t give because we need it,
give because you need to give your stuff and yourself away,
give because giving removes the temptation
to trust in something not God
give away because you need to know just how filled
your life really is.
Here’s the deal:
whether it’s a little or a lot, acquiring and holding on to wealth
is the lens we see the world through.
Giving away wealth in any amount
is the lens God sees the world through.
We come at things from an attitude of scarcity,
God comes from a posture of abundance.
Let me tell you a story:
several years ago, the Episcopal Diocesan Convention
—Synod Assembly to y’all—was in Columbus.
We’d spent a good portion of the convention talking about money
and what we should do with what we had
—some thought we had too much,
some thought not enough—
typical conversations at convention.
Our closing Eucharist took place in the chapel at my seminary
and the place was packed.
When it came time for the ushers to bring
the offerings of bread, wine, and money forward to the altar,
it was like a comedy of errors.
Two ushers had the three plates of bread
which looked like cartoonish stacks of pancakes
—easily a foot tall each.
There were two enormous cruets of wine.
And the money was the most ridiculous.
I don’t know if someone forgot to get the larger baskets
or if people were particularly generous,
but as the ushers came forwards, the baskets were so full,
dollar bills fell out onto the floor.
They’d stop to pick them up and more would fall out.
They got to the altar and somehow crammed everything
onto the surface
and I could see our bishop just grinning
and saying “marvelous, marvelous.”
And it was.
There was such abundance there that day,
we all could see God’s kingdom right there in front of us—
there’s enough—no, more than enough—to go around.
How wonderful, how marvelous,
how ridiculously generous of God to give us such gifts.
We are far richer than we allow ourselves to believe,
in money, yes, and in talent and in time and in love
—wouldn’t we want to share that?
Wouldn’t we want to offer it to everyone we meet?
Wouldn’t it be a relief to let go of the fear and the scarcity
and the worry and the idolatry and the greed?
Wouldn’t we want to allow the resurrection
—Jesus’ ridiculously generous offer of life—to mean something? Wouldn’t we want to participate in the building of the Kingdom
of justice and mercy and abundance here and now?
Brothers and sisters, this life we’re offered in Jesus
is a celebration of abundance
This worship service every single week is a celebration of abundance
—so let’s party!

reflections on an anniversary

2011-04-30T13:02:00.003-05:00
Tomorrow is the 10 year anniversary of the signing of the Called to Common Mission statement. For those of you not aware, CCM is the full-communion statement between the Episcopal Church and the Lutheran Church (ELCA). And I find myself in a place I had hoped for but didn't expect ten years down the road.

When the agreement was first being talked about, I was suffused with hope. How beautiful that two Christian denominations would let go of our differences enough to recognize the Holy Spirit in our midst. How welcoming that could be to folks on the outside to see Christians doing what we say we should do--love one another. How intriguing it would be to pastor a multi-denominational (not non-denominational) church.

One of my first thoughts was, "Ooh, I want to be that pastor. I want to help us come together where we've historically pulled apart." And my second was, "How will this really work?"

I was delighted that a given congregation could ask for resumes and choose among a wider field of applicants so as to find the right person for the job, regardless of denomination. That's not how it works, as you might have expected, but I did not. No, a Lutheran church will look at Lutheran candidates and will only look at an Episcopalian when the options are gone. And vice versa.

But ten years out, I find myself working for the Lutheran Church (ELCA) and also representing the Episcopal Church. And sometimes Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, and Catholic, but that's another story. Here ten years later, the club of pastors whose jobs are a result of the CCM is fairly small. And we don't all know one another. But we're here, and we're offering something to our churches you don't often find in a regular church--intentional differences.

At the Edge campus ministry house at UC, we've been working on our "Rule of Common Life," akin to the monastic practice of the same name. And one item which comes up in every discussion is that of diversity. We value our differences, not because it looks pretty or attractive to donors, but because those differences in race, sexuality, denomination, faith, gender, socioeconomic status, or politic encourage conversation. It would seem that because we began as multi-denominational, our whole ethos has taken on that flavor.

I don't agree with everything brother Martin Luther wrote. And my Lutheran students don't agree with everything brother Thomas Cranmer wrote. We might all agree with brother CS Lewis, but then again, maybe not. We spend our time listening not for judgement but for connection and for understanding. We don't always succeed. But I don't think a place like this would exist without the Called to Common Mission to push us towards each other so intentionally.

last week's sermon--Ecclesiastes 1-2

2011-04-13T16:57:00.001-05:00
I’m gonna go out on a limb here, and say that Death is not okay.
Actually, it’s kind of pointless
Like stories we’ve heard of high kids who commit suicide
because they were bullied for being gay
or my neighbor a few houses down who had been clean and sober,
Who had dedicated his life to helping other addicts clean up
My neighbor who was murdered last year in his house
by God knows who
or all the civilians being killed in Ivory Coast and Libya
in complicated wars that seem to be based on who’s in power
“Vanity, vanity,” says the writer of Ecclesiastes
“all is vanity and a chasing after wind,” am I right?
Vanity is not a great translation, though, of Ecclesiastes’ words
the word is more like wind or breath,
something which cannot be seen and dissipates in seconds,
something which has great importance or maybe is meaningless
“Breath, breath, all is breath and a chasing after wind”
Death, it seems, isn’t so much gravity pulling us down,
keeping us from soaring with Jesus—
death, it seems, is pointless, empty, unfathomable.
There’s a moment in the movie The Mummy Returns
when the charming archaeologist,
—she’s the wife of the charming, rogueish hero
and mother of the charming young boy—
She dies.
And it’s so anticlimactic.
They’ve just survived a ridiculous amount of supernatural threats
And they’re resting, they’ve won!
And she gets knifed in the ribs.
Ridiculous.
And tragic.
And as her son and brother look on,
her husband the hero kneels beside her saying
“what do I do, Evie? What do I do? I don’t know what to do…”
and then in tears “come back, Evie, come back, come back”
there is only a breath between the life in her eyes and death,
it’s such a thin moment, such a pointless death
such a chasing after wind
“Breath, breath, all is breath and a chasing after wind”
When I worked as a chaplain in the hospital at the University of Tennessee,
death was a constant companion.
Whether or not our patients died,
the possibility was always there, lurking.
It often made our actions feel pointless
what am I praying for, exactly?
For you my brother, to be miraculously healed
of your emphysema after 40 years of smoking?
Or for you, my sister, to find a job
and suddenly pull yourself out of generational poverty? Absolutely! but not with much hope.
Let me tell you two stories of death from that hospital
they might illuminate what Ecclesiastes is talking about
and what it is that Jesus did for Lazarus and us:
In the first, a man in his mid-nineties was admitted to the hospital
with pneumonia
I visited him and his middle-aged daughters
—he seemed charming but frail, as you might expect
They patched him up and sent him on his way
Only a week later, he was back, this time in the ICU
His daughters were there at his bedside constantly,
praying for his recovery
But as the days wore on into weeks, the situation became more grim
The man’s daughters insisted that he remain at a full code status
Meaning that whenever his heart stopped or similar
Eight nurses descended to do CPR
and they broke his ribs every time
His bed was covered with small prayer cloths, and crosses
And several bibles opened to specific passages on healing
When I visited, every single time,
they were on their knees on the floor praying hard
for the return of his health
—and not just health,
but vitality, energy, strength, youth
Brothers and sisters—their devotion and love were palpable
and I do not mock them—
but their unwillingness to see his life as well-lived
and nearing its end was tragic.
And pointless.
He hung on for months and, based on what else I saw at the hospital,
it was because they wouldn’t let him go.
Death became the beast in the room,
prayer became a pointless exercise in denial.
Breath, breath, all is breath and a chasing after wind.
Now, in the second story,
a man in his mid-sixties was admitted to the hospital
with complications from heart surgery
When I visited, his family was no less devoted or loving
But their attitude was much different
As he slowly slipped away from them in the ICU
They prayed with and for him
But for a different kind of healing
They prayed for his forgiving folks in his life
They prayed for his own forgiveness
They prayed that they would be able to bear their grief
They prayed that he would be with God
And they said goodbye
“Daddy” they said, “it’s okay. We love you. We miss you.
It’s time to go.”
Now, I can’t imagine saying goodbye to my dad so finally
I don’t want to think about his not being here
I know I’ll have to one day, and it’s not okay.
Breath, breath, all is breath and a chasing after wind
We’re approaching Holy Week and Easter
and it’s easy for us in 21st century American churches
to look across Good Friday to Easter like it’s just a speedbump,
to not really connect with Jesus’ death
to pretend it doesn’t mean much
because we know the end of the story.
He dies, but it’s okay because it’s not for long.
But, people, he dies.
And with him are all our moments of death
—the physical deaths we’ve experienced in our friends and families
the disasters around the world that take so many lives
we cannot comprehend them
and the more metaphorical deaths as well
When you asked someone out and they said no—a little death
When you argue with your spouse
and end up not solving anything
but just feeling bad about it—a little death
when we give in to temptation
—to anger or self-righteousness
or just ignoring another person—a little death
every one of those deaths Jesus takes with him
to the grave on Good Friday
every one of them seems pointless but they’re not.
something else happens in that last breath before dying.
Something happens to us each time someone we care for dies
And it’s not pointless at all.
—why not take a little more time to talk with someone on the street,
why not let go of some theology or political ideology,
why not appreciate every part of yourself
instead of thinking you’re not good enough?
Because we do know the end of the story.
Death is not okay. But it is real. It’s not something we can ignore.
And death is not the end.
Our Christian story says that death,
while worthy of grief, is not the last thing.
There is new life beyond.
And that’s kind of the point of the gospel today
about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.
My friend and Lutheran pastor Nadia Tweeted about it:
“before Christ defeats death for good,
he first just gives it a really good slap in the face.”
This is what resurrection looks like, brothers and sisters.
This is what new life in our God is.
Resurrection—requires—death.
New life cannot grow without the end of the old one.
The plants in our gardens go dormant, die in a way,
so that they can come back lush in the Spring
We cannot live a life of charity without first letting our greedy selves die
Death is necessary for new life to flourish
But death is not the end of the story
Whether we react to the deaths we experience with denial
like the two daughters in the hospital
Or whether we react to them with tearful acceptance
like the other family,
death is not the end.
whether we’re talking about the seeming finality of physical death
or the shame of everyday emotional deaths,
it’s not the end
one of my favorite quotes is,
“Everything will be okay in the end, if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”
I saw it on a greeting card at Joseph-Beth, if you can believe it,
and the breath was knocked clean out of my chest.
Everything will be okay in the end, if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.
This is the good news in every single moment of bad news we ever have.
“True life and resurrection cannot deny the reality of death.”
But there is always, always, always new life after death.
Everything will be okay in the end, my brothers and sisters,
whether it’s tomorrow
or it’s the Rapture supposedly on May 21,
or it’s some far-off judgment day,
everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.

Ash Wednesday sermon--Joel 2:1-17

2011-03-10T15:42:00.002-05:00
[play clip from The Mummy Returns: composite clip of the army of Anubis arising from the sand and fighting the human army]
That’s a clip from the movie The Mummy Returns
—it’s a fun flick, not particularly deep,
but this bit with the rag-tag good guys
going up against the powers of darkness—it’s very moving.
There’s no way they can survive,
no way to endure the endless onslaught
of the army of the Egyptian god of the dead,
yet they stand their ground,
refusing to give in to the forces pulling them down
into despair and death.
And it kind of looks like the Old Testament.
We all think of the Old Testament as angry and judgmental, right?
That reading from the prophet Joel—how much of that did you take in?
It was a bit long, I know…
It talks about invading armies like darkness,
destroying everything in their path
God at the head, leading them on, calling for bloody recompense
—that reading from the prophet Joel doesn’t help, does it?
God just seems so cranky in the Old Testament,
so violent and approving of violence
and we go with it, don’t we?
There’s some good stuff there, but it’s mostly blood and sand
and angry people fighting each other in God’s name
It’s convenient to forget the violence in the New Testament
The places where Jesus throws the vendors out of the Temple
with harsh words like a lash
The places where Jesus curses a fig tree for not having figs,
even though it isn’t fig season, which the text points out
The place where Ananias and Sapphira, Christian converts,
sell their land and give the money to the Apostles
for the well-being of the church.
And, because they hold some of the money back
and lie about it, they drop dead. Right there.
And then Peter launches into a sermon on the spot.
Don’t tell me the New Testament doesn’t have it’s share of violence.
Don’t say Jesus is all sunshine and comforting stories,
because you’ve missed the point.
Absolutely Jesus shows us a different way, brings hope and comfort
Absolutely he brings and is good news!
But there’s a darkness mixed into the message as well.
We see the anger in the Hebrew prophets
We see the weirdly abrupt shifts of mood in the Psalms
And we don’t get it
we see them as evidence of God’s capriciousness,
God must be this vindictive, when we don’t do as God asks, right?
Scripture says it, so let’s take it seriously for a moment.
Tremble in fear, says the text, and we reject that out of hand.
We oughtn’t fear our God who loves us like a parent.
Yet the scriptures are full of language describing God as awesome
…and not like most of us use it now.
Awesome as in worthy of awe,
so inconceivably large, so powerful, so beautiful,
so overwhelming that all we can do
is crash to our knees and gape.
Maybe pray.
Maybe cry in joy and fear.
If God is omnibenevolent and omnipresent
and omniscient and omnipotent,
maybe we’d better be at least a little scared.
Joel writes, “Truly the day of the Lord is great; terrible
indeed—who can endure it?”
If God sends the armies, seriously, who would survive?
There’s a new book out that I’m eager to read
It’s called Love Wins
and author and pastor Rob Bell says in the promotional material,
“What is God like? …Millions and millions of people were taught that the primary message, the center of the gospel of Jesus, is that God is going to send you to hell unless you believe in Jesus. So what gets subtly caught and taught is that Jesus rescues you from God. But what kind of God is that, that we would need to be rescued from this God? How could that God ever be good? How could that God ever be trusted? And how could that God ever be good news?”

What is God really like?
How does God act in the world?
Seems to me that these are the questions
that scripture, at the very least, is trying to answer
What is God like?
In verse 12 of the Joel reading, we get a sudden shift
Invading armies, fear and trembling, yadda yadda…
—yet! “God is gracious and merciful
slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love,
and relents from punishing.”
This is the God we know from every sermon ever
This is the God we long for, the God who we love and are loved by
This is the God from whom we can believe good news
But what if they’re both God?
What if God is both angry and forgiving?
And what if God isn’t bipolar, as my friend Ross suggested last night,
but is complex and not easily understood?
At the risk of describing God in too small a way, I offer an example
I have a 2-year-old and she’s delightful
I would go so far as to quote God from last week’s Gospel
“this is my daughter, my beloved,
in whom I am well pleased”
being 2, Abby is innately curious and exuberant
and, being 2, she has no filters yet,
and so any roadblock is a huge crisis
by “huge crisis,” I mean, “reason to throw herself
on the floor and scream and cry”
so, the other day, we were watching Toy Story as we often do
and Abby had a cup of juice without a lid
now, this may have been my big mistake, the no-lid thing,
but she’s a big girl and often can drink unaided
I said, “be careful with that cup, Ab”
And she said, “OH-kay!”
And I said, “I’ll be right back—don’t sit on the couch”
And she said, “OH-kay!”
And from the other room I heard her say “more juice”
And I looked and she’d spilled it
All over the couch
And the floor
And my papers
And I was angry
—angrier than I ought to have been, probably
But I would never, absolutely never ever hurt her
In that moment I was both angry and forgiving
I was both frustrated with what had happened
and deeply in love with my daughter
we forget that much of scripture is poetry
—the prophets and the Psalms are experience and art
not history or biography
Joel is a poet, translating what he sees in the world into verse
Seeing his country, his faith, his enemies, and his blessings
through the lens of metaphor
Joel is writing not about a specific invasion then or now
But about every invasion Israel had had to that point,
about the fear in his gut at seeing an army arrayed on the horizon,
ready to descend,
about the experience of being at war
and he’s writing about invasions of locusts
which, by all accounts, were fairly common in Israel
locusts which, when swarming, make a sound like a raging fire
locusts which destroy an Eden-like landscape in minutes
locusts which might seem like an army,
which might seem like divine retribution for our sins
Joel is writing a poem where God’s anger is the invading armies
and it is the devastation of locusts,
and where all of that fear and despair becomes,
in the blink of an eye,
hope
This is not the work of some dumb desert-dweller
who only saw God as angry,
nor is it a literal picture of God
leading heavenly armies to destroy us now
This is a painting of a multi-faceted God
who loves us
and is annoyed by us
and who created us in the beginning for community and love.
And who relents.
Who does not hurt us, no matter how often we say
“it’s God’s will” in response to something bad
who scatters the invading armies like so much sand
and who calls us back every week, every day,
every hour, every minute
to faithfulness, justice, compassion, and prayer
What if the imposition of these ashes is our responding to that call
Is our saying that we ourselves have been the invading armies
to someone
and that the armies we see invading us
—whether Islamic extremists, Christian extremists,
Communists, the British, secularism, conservatism, etc.—
these armies, like us, are but dust, and to dust they shall return.
What if the imposition of these ashes is us standing our ground,
Like the guys in The Mummy Returns
Receiving these ashes is our refusal to give in
to the forces pulling us down into despair and death.
What if the imposition of these ashes and the communion that follows
Are a gift from God of patience and strength
and protection and deep, abiding love
What if these ashes signify humility—of course—and also new life?
[play second clip from The Mummy Returns: composite clip of the human army preparing to face a second wave of the army of Anubis, the sand-army rushes forward and at the last second disintegrates into black sand which disappears. The humans rejoice.]

Newsletter article 2.27.11

2011-03-01T15:44:00.000-05:00
“Did that hurt?”
This is the number one question I get about my tattoos. Followed by “What’s that say?” and “Why would you do that?” (This last, usually from my father.)

Does it hurt? Of course it hurts. Not to be gross, but it’s basically an open wound for a day or so. It stings for a few hours after it’s done, and then it feels bruised for a day or so.

So why do I do it? Each of my six tattoos is a physical marker for a moment in my life I want to remember. From the moment I realized God was calling me to be a priest to the birth of my daughter, each one is representative of a difficult but rewarding experience. I hesitated to talk about it here, since they’re so personal, yet they also strike me as a good metaphor for the gospel.

Gospel comes from the Greek euanggelion which means “good news.” The four Gospels in our scripture are good news to all of us living in the middle of bad news. Jesus—his deeds, his words, the very fact of his existence—is good news in our bad news. And, while good news is always good, we don’t always receive it that way. Too often, the good news that we don’t have to rely on ourselves and our big brains for salvation reads like bad news—I don’t want to lose control, I have some pretty cool ideas if you’d listen, who’s this God-person anyway. Too often, healing from whatever wounds we have—whether they’re physical or spiritual—is worse than when we got them. In the movie Wit, Emma Thompson’s character notes that the treatment for her cancer makes her much sicker than the disease itself.

And, to be fair, sometimes the good news is simply that—good news. Sometimes it is freeing and transforming and delightful right there on the surface. Thank God for those moments. But as freeing and transforming as the good news is that Jesus brings, we sometimes don’t want to hear it. It’s painful or scary. Yet when we accept it, when we step back to see the painting Jesus has made on the canvas of our lives, it’s beautiful.

The process of getting a tattoo is painful, but the result is beautiful. To me, anyway. The healing of my skin reminds me that God heals all our wounds, that God created us resilient, that even the worst pain can leave us different but wiser.

sunday's sermon--Matthew 17:1-9

2011-03-01T12:36:00.002-05:00
Apologies again for the weird formatting.

the disciples get a bad rap in the Gospels
they never seem to understand anything Jesus says
and even when they're shown convincing proof
that he can do what he says he can do
they don't believe and seem puzzled when Jesus rebukes them
just before the Gospel we heard today,
the disciples are seen complaining that they're hungry
and have no bread to eat
just before that Jesus had fed the 5000 with just 5 loaves and 2 fish
and he is understandably frustrated that they can't make the connection
we might say they have no vision
it seems Peter doesn't have vision either
many of us know the story of the Transfiguration well
—and think Peter is an idiot
it's hard not to read it that way
he's gone up the mountain with Jesus to pray
and when Jesus suddenly glows with an unearthly light
it's as if Peter's seeing Jesus for the first time in all his glory
his heart is full
and he's got butterflies in his stomach like he's in love
and he sees God, really sees God in this Jesus
and it's amazing
and he thinks
"I'll put up some tents so we can stay here always
cause this is so cool."
what an idiot, right?
how could he not see what was right in front of him?
how could he not see God revealing Godself and not interrupt?
we, of course, are rational and perceptive people
and we would certainly have been silent and pious
in the face of such holiness…right?
I don't think so
at the sight of my buddy suddenly clothed in dazzling white
and talking to long-dead prophets
I probably would have screamed like a little girl
the history of the church doesn't give us a positive example either
every time a mystic or prophet had a vision,
we codified it
isolated the moment from creation
created a worship service around it
or added to our protocols so we'd be ready the next time
we are nothing if not prepared for the unexpected
the thing is, God breaks in anyway.
why do we do it?
why keep ourselves so scheduled that there is not time for pause or silence or prayer?
is it because we don't actually feel the presence of God?
that we feel like frauds if we admit we don't know what we're doing spiritually?
that we need to hide from a chaotic and seemingly immoral universe by being busy?
think of the times you've tried to make a difference and failed for whatever reason
for years people have been trying to revitalize historic Old Saint George church in Clifton
making it a gathering place, a café, anything
Leighton and I used to go there for lunch every week
they always had fresh, seasonal foods
like corn on the cobb or summer tomatoes
or ribs that melted off the bone
and we always met interesting people there
musicians, business people, homeless men, and visionaries
Old Saint George burned down a couple years ago—it’s vacant
many of us know people who are addicts or mentally ill
and their behavior can be irrational and hurtful
we try to help by forcing them into rehab or intervening
and often it doesn't work and they spiral away
why bother?
in her recent book Leaving Church
Barbara Brown Taylor laments this same situation
she was a small-town parish priest
working hard to make a difference
when she realized there was no joy in what she was doing
She writes, "I pecked God on the cheek the same way I did Ed, drying up inside for want of making love."
that's something we don’t talk about in church
but that's just it
we've been making dinner and making money and not making love
maybe our need to build tents on the mountaintop is because we are so in awe
because we long for something beyond ourselves
not a god-shaped hole
but a pull towards the god we somehow already know
and who knows us
the story of the transfiguration is not about Peter's being an idiot
and trying to pin down what can't be pinned down
it's about his longing for God
he is amazed and overwhelmed by the vision before him
all his life he's desired to see God
to have proof of his faith
to experience that deep joy
and he does
he sees the immediacy of God
the physical incarnation of God in all things
more than that, the story of the transfiguration is about God
God desires us in return
God created us out of love, out of desire for another
how can we not speak of falling in love with god and god with us?
isn't that why you're here today?
You've met God somewhere
on the road
at work
in a stranger
in your family
in a book
even in church
and you've fallen in love with Jesus
the Psalm assigned to yesterday's feast of the Presentation
speaks eloquently of this desire:
"my soul longs, indeed it faints for the courts of the Lord;
my heart and my flesh sing for joy to the living God."
That is beautiful—"my soul longs for the Lord…"
can you feel that?
like the speaker's heart is pounding
and there is an ache in her chest
and she is leaning towards God
to hear the words and just be in the presence
And what does God say in response?
At the transfiguration
after Peter's vulnerable cry
and attempt to cling to the experience
after he falls to the ground in embarrassment and awe
his face flaming in recognition of what he's said
Jesus leans down and takes him by the hand and says
"Get up and do not be afraid."
Or maybe he's saying "I love you. Don't worry."
we're going to keep trying to make a difference
we're going to keep messing things up
we're going to keep doing some pretty fantastic things
and in every moment of every one of those things,
God is present
God is transfiguring us
no matter how low we are
no matter how perfunctory our attention to God
no matter how highly we think of ourselves
God is present
God is transfiguring us
in your longing for more and better
in your longing for understanding or connection
in your longing to reach out and invite in
God is present
God is transfiguring you
God desires you and your love
even when you don't.

sunday's sermon--Matthew 5:21-37

2011-02-12T22:14:00.001-05:00
Baruch attah adonai elohenu melech ha-olam. Blessed are you, Lord our God, ruler of all possibilities.
* * *
My daughter Abby is 2. It’s delightful. Except when it’s not. They talk about the terrible twos and you think, “yeah, it’ll be tough, but we can handle it” but you don’t know what that’s like until you’re in it. You really don’t. It’s more like the Sudden Unending Wailing for no Good Reason twos.

Basically, Abby wants what she wants when she wants it. She doesn’t like no. And she doesn’t like rules. A limit of one hour of television does not go over well. I once heard that toddlers are just like us grown-ups only without anything holding us back.

We don’t want rules and restrictions any more than Abby does. And so today’s lessons put us in a bit of a bind. The Old Testament lesson tells us if we obey, we’ll be prosperous, and if we don’t there will be only death and misery. Matthew talks about self-mutilation and extreme interpretations of the law. Even the Psalm talks about how delighted we are to be under the Law of the Lord, that we delight in God’s rules.

Do we? I mean, really?

How many rules govern Washington Park? Or maybe I should say “Governed”? No sleeping over night, no soliciting, no spitting, no standing, no doing anything. Awhile back, my friend Bob McGonalgle was trying to get arrested for distributing food here to bring attention to the plight of the homeless and the ridiculous laws around them. How many more rules govern the park now that it’s a construction zone, do you think?

It’s not that rules themselves are bad—I think we can all agree that having traffic lights is a helpful thing for our safety and civility—and it’s not that a given law, whether Cincinnati’s or God’s is unnecessary or too much. But they can seem so at times.

The most popular book and movie series in recent years is Harry Potter—and how often does the hero Harry follow the rules? How often does he do his own thing and delight in doing it? This is, of course, why many folks didn’t like it—because Harry wasn’t a good little boy, following the rules and doing what he was told. But if he hadn’t been creative and curious and determined not to let the people he cared about get hurt, evil would have won. Within his world, rule-breaking was the heroic response. It’s not the Bible, sure, but it is human nature writ large…

And just last week we heard Jesus say that he’s the fulfillment of the law, not the destruction of it. He even goes so far as to say not even a single cross on a T in the law will be removed because of him. So much for the kinder, gentler Jesus, the Jesus who says, “it’s okay, man—come hang out with the tax collectors and prostitutes, the tattoo artists and people who live in “bad” neighborhoods—they’re more fun anyway!”.
And this week, he says, if your eye offends you, pluck it out. Sorry, this is not PG rated, folks—this is the gross part, the angry, judgmental part of the New Testament we like to forget. Jesus says pull out your own eye if you look at something you shouldn’t. And cut off your own hand if it does something it shouldn’t. Now, as Lutherans, we don’t read these things literally—you know that right?—so don’t go home and mutilate yourselves after church. But how are we supposed to take this?
He follows that up with saying that adultery is not just sleeping with someone you shouldn’t but the very thought of it—your fantasies themselves are adultery. As is divorce. This is extreme, man. Kind of like taking the Pharisees—the literalistic, religious establishment—even more seriously than they take themselves. It makes the Law pretty much impossible to follow, you know? And maybe that’s the point.

My husband says, Jesus was saying it’s not enough just to follow the rules, that following him, loving God, it’s a way of life. Can’t just check off the boxes, it’s about constant effort/work. Jesus is saying it’s about a different way of life. Being a Christian is not about rule-following—though there are certain things that we do and do not do—being a Christian is about living a different life. It’s about seeing hope where others see only failure. It’s about connecting to one another when the world says just do it for yourself. It’s about seeing something beyond our current situation, about seeing something bigger in everything we do—whether it’s raising our kids or tutoring someone or asking for change. It’s about not being alone and it’s about trying to be better.

And, more than that, it’s about God knowing that we can’t possibly fulfill it all. Jesus makes his point so extreme to point us towards God’s grace. It’s not about checking off boxes but about relying on God completely.

In my daughter’s case, she’ll figure out what rules she can break and what she can’t, just like she’ll figure out that no matter what she does, I will always love her. Seems like that’s the point of these lessons, that’s the point of talking about God as a Father, as Divine Parent. As human beings, we know what it is to be loved, but when we become parents, we know what it is to love so deeply that we are brought to our knees.

In another place, Jesus says he came to give us life and life abundantly. THIS is life abundant—to live for one another, to live with one another, sacrificing ourselves for each other and receiving each others’ sacrifices. THIS is life abundant—to return here every week to be filled with the bread of life. THIS is life abundant—to love one another as a mother loves her baby, to love one another as God loves us.

Amen.

sunday's sermon--Isaiah 58.1-12

2011-02-06T07:38:00.001-05:00
teach song “you shall be like a garden, like a deep spring whose waters never fail”

That’s so pretty—really, you guys, good singing.
But that’s not going to save you.
I’m sorry, but you heard Isaiah
—“day after day they seek me and delight to know my ways,
as if they were a nation that practiced righteousness
and did not forsake the ordinance of their God;
they ask of me righteous judgments,
they delight to draw near to God.”
“as if they were a nation that practiced righteousness”
Brother Isaiah says we people here in church tonight,
we people want to know God,
love reading about him and singing about him,
love designing stained glass windows
and wearing fancy crosses around our necks,
as if we knew what God was really about.
As if we actually cared what God said
and did what God wanted.
We sing prettily as though what we sing
and what we do with our lives made a difference.
But it doesn’t.
Harsh.
Isaiah says as long as we argue and oppress
our prayers will not be heard.
Isaiah says IF we sacrifice ourselves for others
and work for their betterment,
THEN we’ll be that deep spring.
But not before.
Our worship here tonight is empty, pointless, he says,
if it is not accompanied by justice out there.
Harsh.
I’ve heard this before
—from high school students, from college students, from folks in bars—
church people are hypocrites,
church people don’t believe any of what they’re saying,
they’re just saying the same thing over and over and nothing changes.
Did you know that something like 75% of young people
in the Millennial generation
—those same young people who we want to be in our congregations,
with whom we want to share our passion for God
and worship and justice,
those young people have predominantly negative things
to say about the church?
According to research from the Barna Group
published in the book unChristian,
Christians are perceived as
judgmental, hypocritical, antigay,
too political, sheltered, and conversion-oriented.
Harsh.
It’s not like we haven’t done anything
—look at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa
in the wake of apartheid
—Archbishop Desmond Tutu
fostered thousands of difficult, truth-telling conversations
which have helped to heal the country.
Look at Christians’ role in reforming child labor laws in the 1800s.
Look at Habitat for Humanity
or any of thousands of soup kitchens, faith-based advocates, and literacy centers.
We do work for justice.
Mostly. Well, some. Not enough, that’s for sure.
And it doesn’t take a 6th century BCE prophet to show us that.
But maybe it does take a 6th century BCE prophet to show us the way out.
Maybe we need Isaiah to show us a path of hope.
Maybe we need Isaiah to show us how to practice righteousness
so God doesn’t have to say “as if.”
Brother Isaiah says that the religious practice God wants is
“to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?”
He says, “Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
and bring the homeless poor into your house,
when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own kin?”
The religious practice God wants is
“…a daily fast from domination, blaming others, evil speech,
self-satisfaction, entitlement and blindness to one's privilege.”
The religious practice God wants is
our wasteful love given to everyone we meet.
Everyone is in need of justice and freedom,
everyone is hungry and thirsty for something,
everyone is naked and vulnerable—so go love them.
My Mormon friends tell me the practice in their churches is
for every member to have a job, a calling.
You move to a new town, you show up at your new church,
and you’re given a job to help the community
—both worship and outreach!—
to run smoothly.
They are to live out their worship in their relationships.
These same friends will also tell me that
the process of receiving your calling is flawed,
to say the least
—but isn’t that a bit of what Isaiah is pleading?
That we don’t simply show up for worship
and consider ourselves done.
That we don’t just put a dollar in a panhandler’s cup
and consider ourselves righteous.
That we live out our worship,
that we worship God with our lives, no matter what it costs us.
Through folks at the Edge campus ministry house at UC,
I know a woman who used to be homeless.
Truth be told, in some ways, she and her family
are still living as though they’re homeless.
They move from one crisis to the next, always on the verge of ruin.
Her 18-year-old son wants to go to college
—he’d be the first in several generations—
and some of my students and I are helping him apply.
To some, this is a small thing—fill out some paperwork, no big deal—
but to him, it’s everything.
And to me
—Alice Connor who can’t say no to anything
and who struggles to have enough time
to even hang out with her husband—
it’s a sacrifice.
But Lord knows, Isaiah and God didn’t say it would be easy.
To fall in love with Jesus,
to delight in Christian community is to sacrifice.
And when we’re practicing regularly, that sacrifice is a delight.
Seems to me that Isaiah has something else to say to us in the 21st century,
2600 years later.
Seems to me that when Isaiah says Israel needs to practice righteousness,
when he says “you,”
he’s not talking about a specific individual but about all of us.
When we give the $20 bill instead of the $1,
when we help a grown woman learn to read,
we’re not doing it for our own,
individual blessedness but as part of the body of Christ.
We are a deep spring whose waters never fail.
In doing as God asks, in taking risks,
we are fountains of divine love,
we are more deeply alive than if we were stagnant pools
concerned only with ourselves.
It’s about community.
We don’t do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God
and our neighbors because that will save us
—we are saved by grace alone.
And we don’t do them simply because they’re difficult
—we do them because of the joy we have in offering ourselves to others.
We do these things because we’ve received God’s grace,
not in order to receive it.
Our choices matter to God
because God doesn’t act in isolation any more than we do.
God expects us to participate in God’s life
of justice and creativity and delight.
God is, if you’ll go with the metaphor, the fountain
and we’re the drops of water.
Or God is the flashlight
and we are the photons of light, breaking forth like the dawn
This place, this building, this people, this table
—all are food for the journey.
Our worship at a particular moment in the week
fills us for our worship in every other moment.
So, be filled here,
so that y’all may be a fertile garden for your neighbors’ lives,
so that y’all may be a deep, cool, unfailing spring for the world.

sing “you shall be like a garden, like a deep spring whose waters never fail”

sunday's sermon--Matthew 4:12-23

2011-01-23T16:58:00.002-05:00
Asterixes indicate where I would show the congregation a charmingly hand-drawn image on a large card to illustrate the point. Typically something silly or sarcastic. Use your imagination.
* * *
Once upon a time, brothers Simon and Andrew were fishing—because they were fishermen, the Gospel tells us. And similarly, brothers James and John—the Sons of Thunder, the Gospel tells us—were mending their nets. And then this Jesus comes by, calls them to follow, and they do. No objections, no stalling, no complaints. Or none that the writer tells us about anyway. And we’re supposed to take this as some kind of model, I suppose, along the same lines as the saints. Look how obedient they were, look how much more they loved God than you do. Or something. God calls, we go, no objections, no stalling, no complaints. No, “my daughter’s still at daycare—let me pick her up and take her home to her daddy first”. No “but Jesus, I’m working at living out your message at my work and I’ve had a bunch of promising conversations with some coworkers about faith and I thought you’d called me here”. No, “seriously, Jesus, this is going to be difficult—I don’t think I’m ready for it.” Simon and Andrew and James and John just went and that’s what we’re supposed to do.
But I want to know what happened in that moment when Jesus called that switched those men from fishing to following. Had they already heard of this Jesus? Had they even heard him speak? Had they been wondering for some time if fishing was what God wanted them for? And that moment of change—switching from one worldview to another, recognizing a call from God—how does that happen?
I have a theory that it’s like magnets*. You’ve played with them, right? You put the two North ends together and they repel each other. You can force them to touch if they’re small enough, but you can let them just hover near each other, you pressing them together while they push each other apart. It feels like there’s something between them, something tangible, something bigger than just holding two magnets. It has energy and, it seems, life.
There’s a theological space that’s like this, one that’s difficult to express and sometimes difficult even to see when you’re in it. It’s called a liminal space, liminal meaning a threshold between two states—it’s a place where you’re not entirely in one or another space but between them—like standing smack in the middle of a doorway*. Liminal space—the space between—is like this:
• Have you ever had to sleep in a bed* with someone you didn’t care for much? Maybe at summer camp or a retreat, maybe on a family vacation with a sibling or snoring aunt. And you spent the night trying to be as far away as possible from them, stealing the covers but never touching. That space between you becomes almost tangible, especially in delirious sleepless hours.
• Or, closer to home, you may have noticed Pastor Jess hanging around over the last couple months—coming to worship, saying hello in the lobby, carrying the ever-present cup of coffee—and you might think, “didn’t we say goodbye to him? I thought he was going to Iraq?”* Well, he is, but deployment is a curious thing. You say your goodbyes to your community, but you don’t put boots on the ground til months later. You’re gone, but you’re still here. The space between being gone and being here can be awkward and it can be a gift. To live in that space between two things is sometimes to see the truth about both of them.
• I had a moment of this kind of awkwardness this week. I invited my next-door neighbors to church*. And, since I don’t do it that often, I stumbled a bit over my words. We are friends, my neighbors and I, our daughters play together and we chat about politics and the weather and things. But we’ve never talked about specifically religious things. And I found myself trying to cross the space between those things and floundering. I was nervous to be sure. I felt a bit like I was standing between two big magnets,* my body and soul vibrating with the energy between them, living in a somehow more real and more bizarre space. I’m not sure if I was able to cross over that space between us. Time will tell.
• Sometimes we can’t cross that space between us. When a relationship ends*—because of divorce, the break-up of a friendship, or even death—we still feel the presence of the relationship, but cannot cross the space between. What was between us to start with had grown large and intense and looms even larger at an ending. How can we reach across, even to touch a shoulder? How can we reach across and bring them back? Or when a relationship begins*, or is on the cusp of beginning, or when we simply want it to begin, that liminal space is there again. Our desire for another person—friend, romantic partner—is like a bubble of energy between us. I desire your friendship, but we don’t know one another well enough yet and so I can’t quite touch. I have a crush on you but you’re with someone else—so close and yet so far.
• One of my students at the Edge House at UC—who, incidentally, you’ll probably meet when you come to our NOSH at Good Shepherd event next Sunday as I know you’re all planning to do—one of my students struggles with being called by scriptural stories*. He reads and understands them, of course, but can’t quite cross over the boundary between story and self. Sometimes he recognizes himself in them but that recognition doesn’t lead him to a deeper understanding of the text or himself. I say he struggles, because he doesn’t give up—he lives in the space between.
• One of those stories we’ve been talking about at the Edge House is the Exodus, a story of God calling God’s people into the wilderness*, a liminal space. Consider that the Israelites were in bondage in Egypt and when God liberated them, they spent 40 years wandering and complaining about it. They looked backward to their bondage, to their homes and gardens, and whitewashed their experience of slavery. “If only we could go back, this desert liberation is terrible, we’ll never get to the Promised Land.” The wilderness is the space between Egypt and Canaan, the space between bondage and liberation, the space between known and unknown. God called them into something more, something greater than what they had been living, and they went. Mostly willingly.
But, you see, it’s more complex than God calling and our going. There’s this space that we can feel intensely, that we know is there but which we can only describe in story, where the very air is alive and we are both enlivened and frightened. This space between, this liminal space, is where we meet God. Our Celtic Christian brothers and sisters call this a thin place,* a place and time where the world as we know it is so thin that God almost breaks through, like pressing your fingers into a balloon or the place in your pb&j where the jelly soaks almost through your bread. God seems more real, closer, more intense here than anywhere else.

And sometimes we notice it and sometimes we don’t. It’s not like everyone who’s been through a divorce* says “yup, that last, worst argument, with the throwing of vases and the hurtful words, what a liminal space that was” yet God is there, unseen but almost tangible like the space between the magnets.*

This is what happened for Simon and Andrew and James and John—what happened between the moment of fishing and the moment of following Jesus? What shifted in their minds and hearts that they were able to just walk towards him? What has to shift in our minds and hearts that we can do the same? It’s this: the world is not an either/or proposition. It’s “YES, and…?”. The world we live in is not cut and dried, it’s in process, and the call of the good God who created everything is always “YES, and…?”. Maybe Simon and Andrew and James and John were aware of their competing urges—stay home and fish, it’s what you know, you’ll never be anything else vs. there’s something amazing/entrancing/transformative about this Jesus. And in the space between those things, they saw God standing before them, calling them into something greater. Calling them to follow—YES, and to be fishermen for people.

Consider, today, what spaces between you’re living in. Consider how we might be wandering in our own deserts and what Promised Land we’re walking towards. When you’re overwhelmed or anxious or delighted, listen for God saying, “follow me, follow me,” especially when you’re not ready. And listen for God saying “YES, and…?” with a delight that we cannot resist. Watch for God showing up in the spaces between and saying, “come and see!”

sunday's sermon--Matthew 4:12-23--DRAFT

2011-01-22T09:07:00.002-05:00
Asterixes stand for cards with simple line drawings on the as a visual aid.

Simon and Andrew were fishing, because they were fishermen, the Gospel tells us. And similarly James and John were mending their nets. And then this Jesus comes by, calls them to follow, and they do. No objections, no stalling, no complaints. Or none that the writer tells us about anyway. And we’re supposed to take this as some kind of model, I suppose, along the same lines as the saints. Look how obedient they were, look how much more they loved God than you do. Or something. God calls, we go, no objections, no stalling, no complaints. No, “my daughter’s still at daycare—let me pick her up and take her home to her daddy first”. No “but Jesus, I’m working at living out your message at my work and I’ve had a bunch of promising conversations with some coworkers about faith and I thought you’d called me here”. No, “seriously, Jesus, this is going to be difficult—I don’t think I’m ready for it.” Simon and Andrew and James and John just went and that’s what we’re supposed to do.

But I want to know what happened in that moment when Jesus called that switched those men from fishing to following. Had they already heard of this Jesus? Had they even heard him speak? Had they been wondering for some time if fishing was what God wanted them for? And that moment of change—switching from one worldview to another, recognizing a call from God—how does that happen?

I have a theory that it’s like magnets*. You’ve played with them, right? You put the two North ends together and they repel each other. You can force them to touch if they’re small enough, but you can let them just hover near each other, you pressing them together while they push each other apart. It feels like there’s something between them, something tangible, something bigger than just holding two magnets. It has energy and, it seems, life.

There’s a theological space that’s like this, one that’s difficult to express and sometimes difficult even to see when you’re in it. It’s called a liminal space, liminal meaning a threshold between two states—it’s a place where you’re not entirely in one or another space but between them—like standing smack in the middle of a doorway*. Liminal space—the space between—is like this:

• Have you ever had to sleep in a bed* with someone you didn’t care for much? Maybe at summer camp or a retreat, maybe on a family vacation with a sibling or snoring aunt. And you spent the night trying to be as far away as possible from them, stealing the covers but never touching. That space between you becomes almost tangible, especially in delirious sleepless hours.

• Or, closer to home, you may have noticed Pastor Jess hanging around over the last couple months—coming to worship, saying hello in the lobby, carrying the ever-present cup of coffee—and you might think, “didn’t we say goodbye to him? I thought he was going to Iraq?”* Well, he is, but deployment is a curious thing. You say your goodbyes to your community, but you don’t put boots on the ground til months later. You’re gone, but you’re still here. The space between being gone and being here can be awkward and it can be a gift. To live in that space between two things is sometimes to see the truth about both of them.

• I had a moment of this kind of awkwardness this week. I invited my next-door neighbors to church*. And, since I don’t do it that often, I stumbled a bit over my words. We are friends, my neighbors and I, our daughters play together and we chat about politics and the weather and things. But we’ve never talked about specifically religious things. And I found myself trying to cross the space between those things and floundering. I was nervous to be sure. I felt a bit like I was standing between two big magnets,* my body and soul vibrating with the energy between them, living in a somehow more real and more bizarre space. I’m not sure if I was able to cross over that space between us. Time will tell.

• Sometimes we can’t cross that space between us. When a relationship ends—because of divorce, the break-up of a friendship, or even death—we still feel the presence of the relationship, but cannot cross the space between. What was between us to start with had grown large and intense and looms even larger at an ending. How can we reach across, even to touch a shoulder? How can we reach across and bring them back? Or when a relationship begins, or is on the cusp of beginning, or when we simply want it to begin, that liminal space is there again. Our desire for another person—friend, romantic partner—is like a bubble of energy between us. I desire your friendship, but we don’t know one another well enough yet and so I can’t quite touch. I have a crush on you but you’re with someone else—so close and yet so far.

• One of my students at the Edge House at UC—who, incidentally, you’ll probably meet when you come to our NOSH at Good Shepherd event next Sunday as I know you’re all planning to do—one of my students struggles with being called by scriptural stories. He reads and understands them, of course, but can’t quite cross over the boundary between story and self. Sometimes he recognizes himself in them but that recognition doesn’t lead him to a deeper understanding of the text or himself. I say he struggles, because he doesn’t give up—he lives in the space between.

• One of those stories we’ve been talking about at the Edge House is the Exodus, a story of God calling God’s people into a liminal space. Consider that the Israelites were in bondage in Egypt and when God liberated them, they spent 40 years wandering and complaining about it. They looked backward to their bondage, to their homes and gardens, and whitewashed their experience of slavery. “If only we could go back, this desert liberation is terrible, we’ll never get to the Promised Land.” The wilderness is the space between Egypt and Canaan, the space between bondage and liberation, the space between known and unknown. God called them into something more, something greater than what they had been living, and they went. Mostly willingly.

But, you see, it’s more complex than God calling and our going. There’s more happening between us and God, more space between us where the very air is alive and we are both enlivened and frightened. There’s this space that we can feel intensely, that we know is there but which we can only describe in story. This space between, this liminal space, is where we meet God. Our Celtic Christian brothers and sisters call this a thin place,* a place and time where the world as we know it is so thin that God almost breaks through, like pressing your fingers into a balloon or the place in your pb&j where the jelly soaks almost through your bread. God seems more real, closer, more intense here than anywhere else.

And sometimes we notice it and sometimes we don’t. It’s not like everyone who’s been through a divorce* says “yup, that last, worst argument, with the throwing of vases and the hurtful words, what a liminal space that was” yet God is there, unseen but almost tangible like the space between the magnets.*

This is what happened for Simon and Andrew and James and John—they were fishing and this guy Jesus showed up and all of a sudden they were in a space between. And they knew it…what happened between the moment of fishing and the moment of following Jesus? What shifted in their minds and hearts that they were able to just walk towards him? What has to shift in our minds and hearts that we can do the same?

For Simon and Andrew and James and John, it seems that they knew they were in that liminal space. They maybe were aware of the competing urges—stay home and fish, it’s what you know vs. there’s something amazing about this Jesus. And in the space between those things, they saw God standing before them, calling them into something greater. Consider, today, what spaces between you’re living in. Consider paying attention to how people stand or what they don’t say. Notice when something feels awkward or particularly buoyant. Consider how we might be wandering in our own deserts and what Promised Land we’re walking towards. When you’re overwhelmed or anxious or delighted, listen for God saying, “follow me, follow me” and “come and see” with a delight that we cannot resist. Watch for God showing up in the spaces between and saying, “come and see!” Paying attention doesn’t make God more likely to show up, but it does make us more likely to see him when he does.

good poetry

2011-01-12T12:23:00.002-05:00
good poetry makes my skin prickle--sometimes a slow build like falling in love, sometimes all of a sudden, like an orgasm.

good poetry makes my skin prickle--like an icy, loving hand caressing an inch from my skin.

good poetry makes my skin prickle--"not with a bang but a whimper," "like I've got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs," "my soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning."

good poetry makes my skin prickle--like the Holy Spirit is about, making trouble and laughing.

good poetry makes my skin prickle--like all the creation's truth is in those few words.

sunday's sermon--Matthew 24:36-44

2010-11-27T09:06:00.000-05:00
“Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.”
Reminds me of the prayer in Compline that lots of people love:
Keep watch, dear lord, with those who work or watch or weep this night…
Keep watch—remember, don’t forget about
or stay awake, don’t fall asleep, wake up!
You may have heard something else in today’s gospel reading
“Then two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left.
Two women will be grinding meal together;
one will be taken and one will be left.”
What does that mean?
That isn’t what I think it is, is it?
Is it like those bumper stickers you see:
“Warning: in case of Rapture, this car will be unmanned.”
Meaning what?
That the driver (and presumably the other riders)
are saved/forgiven/righteous
And therefore will be taken up to heaven in The End
Leaving the rest of us behind?
There’s a little problem here
How do you know your car will be unmanned?
I work at the Edge Campus Ministry House at UC
Our housekeeper says she grew up in a church where
only the 144,000 mentioned in Revelation
could take communion—and she wasn’t one of them
How do you know when it’ll happen when Jesus explicitly says you can’t?
How do you know YOU are righteous and others aren’t?
And if you DO know that your righteousness is so great,
Isn’t that the sin of pride,
landing you smack back in the driver’s seat?
I’m not joking here
A substantial portion of Christians believe that
one day, all the believers will be caught up into the sky,
leaving their families and lives behind to fend for themselves
in the coming Tribulation.
Is it real?
Can we pin it down to a date or plan of action? Not really
There isn’t much in the Bible and the concept
and term Rapture came into being in 1800s
what’s Jesus talking about?
Since the story of Noah and his family being saved from the flood
Comes right before
Maybe the ones who are spared are the ones left behind
“taken” might mean punished rather than spared
I’m not going to tell you what it means—surprise, surprise…
The point ≠ knowing the time or who or what is happening
The point is to focus on the here and now
Keep awake, keep watch, pay attention, wake up!
God is on the move
Like Aslan in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
God is working and will surprise you
“you do not know on what day your Lord is coming”
You don’t even know what God will look like!
When you see God, it will not be as you expect
It will not be to exclude the unrighteous like the Rapture
And it won’t be all love and peace and harmony like we want either
God moves when you least expect it
A lot of folks were upset about The Golden Compass, a movie based on the book by Philip Pullman
Some are concerned that it has themes of atheism
and downright hostility towards the church
They’re right
But I met God in reading the books nonetheless
We don’t expect to see God in atheists or in movies
and then God shows up saying, “pay attention—wake up!”
maybe you’ve heard someone say
“Christians don’t want to see murderers and rapists in prison
being entertained, using fancy gyms or libraries,
or being given comfort and compassion.”
In the words of St. Johnny Cash,
“then maybe they ain’t Christian”
The experiences these men and women have behind bars
Are beyond our knowing
And God lives there with them
Looking at us through the bars saying,
“pay attention—wake up”
most of us really don’t expect to see peace in the Middle East
we pray and hope but deep in our hearts,
we don’t see Jerusalem ever being at unity with itself
as the Psalm says
yet we keep trying, multi-laterally, for a solution
no matter what boats get fired upon
or who moves into the West Bank
what do you see in that as you keep watch this Advent?
My youth group used to volunteer at the Comm. Land Co-op in the West End
We spent hours hours loading a dumpsters with broken bricks and concrete
Demolishing a wall in a dark, scary basement
And removing a water-damaged ceiling
All to help prepare a house as affordable housing for a low-income Cincinnatian
if you’ve ever spent much time doing demolition on an old, dirty house
you know it’s hard, filthy work
We all ended up with black soot streaking our faces and clothing
face masks keep it out of your lungs
but also make the air you breathe hot and moist
Fogging up your glasses
The basement is moist and smelly and not a little creepy
And then you take a break—go outside for a moment
Emerging from the dust and muck and darkness and closeness
the cold air is crisp and focuses your mind immediately
wake up!
What Jesus is talking about in Matthew’s gospel is waking up
Waking up to the world around you
The relationships, the arguments, the beauty
How aware are you of your contribution to a problem?
How aware are you of another person’s feelings in a given moment?
How aware are you of the presence of God, of the movement of God?
God is on the move
Nudging us towards what is right, sometimes shoving us
Think about when you’re driving
And you drift a little into the next lane, not really paying attention
And something pulls you back
Your skin prickles unpleasantly
You sort of “come to”
You pull over into your own lane
And a car whizzes by within inches
Or seeing into the hearts of those you consider your enemies
School adversaries, your boss or co-workers, even political radicals
Have you had a moment when you suddenly saw them
In their vulnerability
Doing or saying something that you yourself have done?
Suddenly understanding their motives
No matter how much you disagree?
This is awareness—this is being awake, keeping watch
This is what Advent is for
We are waiting for the birth of our savior
And even though we know the end of the story
—Christmas and stars and sheep and the baby—
We can’t forget the process of getting there
Advent is about waiting and keeping watch
Mary’s still pregnant, remember
As are we—pregnant with possibility
Expecting the unexpected
Observing for a moment what we’ve done so far
and letting the things we might do next unfold gestate
this Advent season,
I invite you to keep watch each day
Take 10 minutes every day just to sit and watch
And be aware of who you are
And whose you are
Take 10 minutes every day
to ask yourself what you’re waiting for
take a step back
breathe in that crisp, cold air outside of your busy, close, dark life
look for patterns
look for God moving in your life and in the life of the world
Keep awake therefore Pay attention Wake up!

sunday's sermon--Luke 21:5-19

2010-11-13T18:08:00.001-05:00
As usual, please pardon the bizarre formatting. I can't be bothered to fix it.
* * *
“Then he said to them, ‘Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be great earthquakes, and in various places famines and plagues; and there will be dreadful portents and great signs from heaven.”
[lift sign: “THE END IS NIGH”]
did you hear that?
Earthquakes, famines, plagues, signs, portents?!
How is this apocalypse not now?
[begin pacing]
Haiti wasn’t that long ago, you know
And Chile, and HIV in Africa, and the Gulf Coast
And suicide rates for teens are going up
And our food is more chemicals and murky ethics than food…
And I’ve read the political blogs
Our kids are going to grow up to be
debt-saddled, sex-crazed, sheltered,
free-thinking, bigoted hoodlums
because of big government.
Or small government.
I can’t remember which.
“do not be terrified” he says—must be easy if you’re the Son of God
this apocalypse is clearly now, clearly now is the end, or soon!...
WHAT SHOULD WE DO?
Dear God in heaven [stop pacing]
I don’t want to worry y’all but I am Freaking. Out.
[calming breath] Ok. Moment of clarity.
Earthquakes, famines, wars, signs—when is this not the case?
Right. Maybe St. Douglas Adams was right [advance slide: “Don’t Panic”]
So, what’s the point of this, if it’s not to scare us?
Jesus actually says, “Do not be terrified.”
Maybe, like the scriptural appearances of angels
We’re told “don’t panic” because we already are panicking
We’ve already freaked ourselves out
assuming we know what’s gonna happen
[reverse slide: black]
this story Jesus tells
about disaster and war and politics and doom and gloom
this story has been told before.
many times.
Daniel of Daniel and the Lion’s Den told it
Malachi and Isaiah and other prophets told it
Jesus told it
Mark wrote it down and Luke borrowed it from him…
And it has pretty much the same words every time
This story is called Apocalyptic
Or, if you like $5 words, Eschatology
Eschatology is the study of the eschaton—the end—
and it’s not what you think [advance slide: “Don’t Panic”]
Apocalyptic is not what you think
It’s not telling the future in a Nostradamus kind of way
And it’s not a puzzle for us to try to figure out
Partly because that’s never worked
Partly because it cannot work
People for centuries have confidently claimed
the last days were upon us
people for centuries have pulled numbers and notations
from the text
and figured out the code that tells us the date of the end
but that’s not the point [reverse slide: black]
Jesus himself in the text says
“the end will not follow immediately”
Violent events “do not signal that the end is near”
“all attempts to figure out the texts…
make us master of the word rather than vice versa”
plus, Jesus says we’ll never know the hour or the day
And apocalyptic is not meant to scare you.
Well, it’s meant to scare you a little, but we’ll get to that.
Apocalyptic means “a drawing back of the curtain”
It’s a revealing of another truth
Apocalyptic literature is, at its base, a literature of hope
To the Jewish people who are ground under the heel of Rome
To a people who,
have been waiting for God to fulfill
the Great Promise for centuries
To a people who feel completely helpless
Apocalyptic is a story of deliverance, of justice, of hope
What this story of earthquakes and famines
—and the rest of it that we didn’t read—
is about is the oppressed being freed
and the oppressors being brought to justice
and, more importantly, about who’s really in charge
apocalyptic literature said to the Jews [advance slide “Don’t panic”]
“hang in there, don’t freak out
it stinks right now and it’ll probably continue to stink for awhile
but they’re not in charge
I AM
Be faithful” [reverse slide: black]
But what does it say to us now?
Here in America, most of us in this room are not the oppressed
We are the middle class,
the mostly educated, civic-minded,
and yes, upstanding Lutheran folk
Certainly we have our struggles—
the wealthy are not exempt from misery and sin
by any means
but we are not the garbage-pickers of Brazil
we are not the despairing gay kids who commit suicide
we are not the mothers trying
to nurse their cholera-ridden children to health in Haiti
we are not the housekeeper
struggling to survive on $140/week
or are we? [advance slide: “Don’t panic”]
this apocalyptic literature has been misinterpreted for so long,
it’s hard to say what it means to us now [reverse slide: black]
but I wonder if it’s saying that it’s not about Us and Them?
It is not about We, the righteous of Good Shepherd,
being embraced and redeemed
while They—the sinful, oppressive
…Episcopalians? Athiests? Muslims? Whatever…
are judged and burned, much to our satisfaction
Lutherans know better than that
We are, in Luther’s words, simul Justus et peccator,
both saint and sinner
We are all both us and them.
We are all oppressed. And we are all oppressors.
We are all beloved. And we will all be judged.
But we don’t know when and we don’t know how
Roberta Bondi, one of my favorite devotional authors, says
“…if you think you know when it’s coming,
the very fact you think so is proof that you don’t.”
so, what are we supposed to do with this lesson?
[advance slide: “Don’t panic”]
it seems to be saying both, “don’t panic” and “the end is nigh”
and so it is
we need an apocalypse
for the parts of our lives where we are beaten down
where we are self-hating or bruised by the world
we need a revealing of God’s love
we need an apocalypse of hope
we need an apocalypse
for the parts of our lives where we are complacent
in our current good works,
in our easy political fixes for complex problems,
in our justification of what we have
we need an apocalypse of justice
we need an apocalypse
we need a pulling back of the curtain to reveal Truth
because it means a chance to remain faithful [reverse slide: black]
because here’s where it’s supposed to be a little scary
God is not saying “time to panic” but “time to participate”
This is what we promise in our baptism
That we will commit to the Word of God
That we will work for the revealing
of God’s peace, hope, justice, and love
That we will be faithful to our brothers and sisters
no matter what it costs us
One commentator on this passage writes:
“Those who wish to find a more vibrant religious experience, should look not for signs of the future but for signals that it is time to live by Jesus’ call for obedience here and now.”
So _____ and _____ who are baptized today, this is my prayer for you:
“… let your responses to the hype and horror of accumulating disasters not be determined by the one-liners of media editors or religious demagogues, but by the same Spirit who is now the centre of your life.”
babies cry when they’re being baptized
and, once, when my friend Bonnie was being baptized
she cried, too
because this Christian life is hard and scary
every baptism is an apocalypse
every baptism is revealing of a deeper truth
every baptism reminds us of God’s call to faithfulness
and of God’s infinite faithfulness to us
you should cry
and you should shout with laughter [advance slide: “Don’t panic”]
because God is moving,
doing a new thing, says the prophet Isaiah,
“God is doing a new thing, now it springs forth,
do you not perceive it?”
Do you not want to be a part of it?
It’s big and scary and exciting and it’s change and it’s nigh.
Don’t panic, be faithful instead.
Don’t panic, God’s in charge.
Don’t panic, participate.
[advance slide: black]
[end of sermon slides]

the fear factor

2010-08-07T13:46:00.003-05:00
I am freaking out.

My list of administrative and planning tasks for the campus ministry at the Edge House is about half-done and, though there's a bunch left, I was feeling pretty good about it. Pretty accomplished. Then I started catching up on Benson Hines' web log on campus ministry and I'm freaking out.

First there's a post about cool and formative ideas for a retreat, then one about how important the first month of classes is, especially for freshmen. It's really great information--ideas that I can use to deepen my presence on campus and relationships with my returning students. There are 23 more posts to read and I just can't.

It doesn't seem to matter that my Campus Ministry Team and I have decided to target specific populations on campus rather than the whole place. It doesn't seem to matter that I've been reading the book of Ecclesiastes which has inspired me to be more relaxed. It doesn't seem to matter that last year was more wildly successful than I'd hoped and that I've got some fabulous plans for this year. It doesn't seem to matter that my returning students are brilliant, amazing people who all want to get more involved in the ministry and bring more people into the fold.

All I can think right now is that there is just too much possible. Too many students to reach, too many issues to address, too many competitors to the Word we're offering, too many ways it could all go wrong.

This is the place in the web blog post where I should share how I've turned away from this fear. This is the place where I offer hope to the rest of you who feel the same about campus ministry or whatever it is you're passionate about. Right now, I can't. Oh, I know it's there, but I can't really see it.

this week's sermon--Ecclesiastes 1:2,12-14;2:18-23

2010-07-31T21:49:00.001-05:00
There is nothing new under the sun. Can I get an “amen”? [sigh] There is nothing new under the sun.

I’m going to be honest with you all, I don’t know what to do about B. B’s a homeless guy who hangs out on the porch at the Edge campus ministry house where I work. He sits on a chair, watches folks pass by, tells us the same story ten times in as many minutes, eats a sandwich when we offer it—he’s clearly unbalanced, but he always seemed harmless. But he’s been sleeping on the porch, too, sleeping off a drunk. And he’s been leaving garbage. And peeing on the porch. And just two days ago, he kicked one of my ministry partners when she told him he needed to leave. According to the public defender’s office, he’s the current record-holder for arrests in Hamilton County with more than 470 and has more than three warrants out right now. And he’s a violent, mean drunk who has walked away from or been kicked out of every social service agency in town.

So, what to do, eh? As a person of faith, what do I do? He can’t sleep and pee on the porch, that much is clear. And I can’t have someone who could turn violent in a moment around my students—that’s not fair to anyone. So, we have set up a no trespassing order and, after the kicking incident, have filled out an arrest warrant—so we’re one of the three. The behavior cannot go on—and I think Jesus would be with us on that, at least. Jesus was no doormat and offered challenges to those he met both in word and action. But what’s the hospitality side of this? How can we actually help B in any meaningful way? Can we, even? I don’t know. I don’t know.

And this might lead some folk to despair. Some of ya’ll might be thinking “all is vanity and a chasing after wind”. Maybe. “There is nothing new under the sun” you might be thinking, and you’d be right. We’re not the only ones to deal with friends or relatives who have mental illness or alcoholism or even poor table manners. We’re not the first people to feel overwhelmed by poverty or to struggle with evangelism. On the deeply spiritual TV show Battlestar Galactica, a line which gets repeated often is “All of this has happened before and all of this will happen again.” No seriously, it’s a great show.

Y’all might know Ecclesiastes better by another passage: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted…” That’s chapter three, almost directly after this reading we heard from ______________.

Ecclesiastes might have been a crotchety old man or maybe he was just a realist. Either way, his book is filled with a kind of heaviness. He seeks after and finds wisdom, yet it does not last and only shows him the futility of human endeavors. He seeks after pleasure, yet it does not last and dies with the person. He builds and plants and creates and, though he enjoys the building and planting and creating themselves, the results do not last but crumble and cannot be taken past the grave. “All is vanity and a chasing after wind.” And who among us has not had a similar experience? At the very least, many of us have watched toddlers play. Or, rather, destroy. Typical of preachers, I’m talking about my own family—my daughter Abby is a year and a half and she loves building towers. Or my building towers for her. She loves admiring them for a moment, then destroying them like Godzilla. And I could take the depressing route and say, “Why should I toil in vain and build towers that my daughter knocks down? It is vanity and a chasing after wind” No, I build it again, because I see her delight. Maybe you know more viscerally that experience of “chasing after wind”—maybe you have built a business only to see it fail or to succeed better for another owner, maybe you poured your heart and soul into someone beloved who was suffering only to see her die.

Many folks think Ecclesiastes is depressing, but some of us find it comforting. Perhaps it’s the Lutherans I work with rubbing off on me, but it suggests to me that it’s not our works—good or evil—that save us. God does that. What we do or create is important, but that ultimately, it’s all in God’s hands. That I don’t have responsibility for making everything turn out okay. Phew.

I wonder if we have a hard time with evangelism because maybe we think the story ends with “this is vanity” rather than how it actually ends. The assigned lesson for today ends with “all their days are full of pain, and their work is a vexation; even at night their minds do not rest. This also is vanity.” Did you find yourself wondering what you’re supposed to do with that? A bit like my quandary about B, you had something complicated and heavy dropped on you and now what? I’m not sure why this is, but the compilers of the lectionary often cut off the reading before it is ripe. Remember that more famous bit of Ecclesiastes that I mentioned comes almost directly after our reading? Yeah, Here’s part of what we missed:
“There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink, and find enjoyment in their toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God; for apart from him, who can eat or who can have enjoyment?” This changes everything.

I think we sometimes dislike Ecclesiastes because he is us. He writes what we all think—that we have a hope, but it’s pretty tissue thin and what does what we do amount to anyway? Particularly when it comes to spirituality? We think, if we shared our stories with friends, neighbors, strangers, no one would listen to us, and even if they did, what would we say in the first place? It’s pointless and a chasing after wind. We think we have to have all the answers—about how salvation works, about who’s in and who’s out, about the church’s problematic history, about the Trinity or the two natures of Christ or whatever—but we don’t. That’s not the story! That’s not the good news that God offered in Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. We only need to be honest with one another about our lives and our experiences of God. This, brothers and sisters, is evangelism. It’s sharing part of your story with someone else, it’s building relationships with folks you meet, from friends to aggressive homeless guys who pee on your porch. It’s certainly not easy, and I don’t yet know how to build relationship with B. It’s not easy, but it is freeing.

The good news is that we don’t have to shoulder the responsibility of fixing everything. The good news is that eating, drinking, and enjoying our toil—whether it’s our paying job, whether it’s putting storm windows on someone’s house, whether it’s writing a song or running a marathon, or being rejected in our attempts to connect—the good news is there is nothing better for us than to try and all of it comes from God.

The good news is “there is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink and find enjoyment in their toil” because as brother Paul of Tarsus wrote, “If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.” Hallelujah.

last week's sermon--Luke 11:1-13

2010-07-28T16:05:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time a young man went on a retreat. As a kid he’d been a bully, but he gave that up quickly because his priest had told him it was wrong. On the retreat however he remembered that he had teased a skinny little girl about her buck teeth and her glasses. She cried every time he teased her and then whenever she saw him. He really liked to see her cry. Then she and her family moved away and he grew out of his teasing phase, and quickly forgot it altogether. But at this retreat, a nun gave a talk about bullies. That conveniently repressed phase of his life came back and horrified him. He felt terrible. How could he have been such a jerk. The poor little kid. He might have ruined her life. He talked to the nun about it. “Typical boy behavior,” she observed. “But I stopped doing it. I grew up. I haven’t been a bully for a long time. Will God forgive me?” “Yeah, probably,” said the nun, “but I’m not sure about the little girl.” He went home from the retreat really upset. He had done a terrible thing. He had to find the little girl and apologize.

For a couple of weeks he couldn’t sleep he felt so guilty. So he began to search for the girl. He discovered where she had moved to and then that she was a lawyer and worked for a firm near him. It took him another two weeks to work up the nerve to seek her out. Then by accident he encountered her in the grocery store. She had grown up to be gorgeous. He stumbled and bumbled and muttered and apologized. “You were a bully all right,” she said. “But you were kind of cute too. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”—That’s the way God is.

Another once upon a time, in cold November, my husband and I were leaving Christ Hospital in Clifton…with our brand-new, delightful, much-beloved baby. We’d been there three days and, though we were terrified by our new responsibility, we were excited to get home, eat some dinner with my folks, and introduce little Abby to her new home. We packed up, checked out, took off. I was more waddling in pain, but whatever. Leighton started driving out of the carpark, but we heard a kind of lub-lub noise. I suddenly remembered that one of my tires had had a slow leak. And it’d had three days to slowly leak and was now flat. Ok, we pulled over and Loving Husband Leighton got out to change the tire. Only he couldn’t. Not that he didn’t know how but that he actually couldn’t. One of the lug-nuts was stripped. Ok, so we call AAA. Meanwhile, little Abby has woken up hungry and with a dirty diaper. Of course. So, while Leighton’s waiting for the guy from AAA, I painfully waddle myself and my new baby through the biting cold into the hospital in search of a bathroom in which to change my first diaper ever. When I returned, I found that the AAA guy had arrived and he, too, couldn’t budge the lug-nut. So another guy had been called to tow the car. By now it was 9pm. We were tired and hungry and just wanted to get home. But how? We racked our brains for people who (a) we had phone numbers for, (b) who had a car seat, and (c) would be willing to come get us. We called friend Mark who dropped everything to help us. He showed up with an almost empty gas tank, but that’s another story. With just a phone call, Mark came and helped us out—That’s the way God is.

Another once upon a time, one of my students at the University of Cincinnati—Edward his name is—was hanging out at our campus ministry house. He was there alone, holding the fort as it were so other students could stop by if they liked. And, while he was in the kitchen fixing a cup of tea, someone came in. But not one of our students. When Edward came back into the living room, Elijah was sitting on the couch, his cell phone plugged in and charging. Edward was a little astonished but took it in stride. They talked about this and that and it became obvious to Edward that Elijah was not on the up-and-up. He said that his brother had forgotten to pick him up from campus, that his car had broken down, that his girlfriend was waiting for him to come home with diapers, and other things. They shared some tea and a soda and when Elijah asked for money, Edward wisely said, “no.” And, while Edward didn’t have the wherewithal to call Elijah on his dishonesty, he offered what hospitality he could, even knowing he was being lied to—That’s the way God is.

What is God like in these stories? In bringing together the people God does, what is God saying? How is God acting in them?

“Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, ‘Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; for a friend of mine has arrived and I have nothing to set before him.’ And he answers from within, ‘Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.’ I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs. So I say to you, ‘Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.’ For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”—That’s the way God is.

What is God like here?

Some folk would say that, at the beginning of this passage, when the disciples saw Jesus praying and finally work up the courage to ask him to teach them to pray, Jesus looked at them, and loved them. And didn’t answer their question. They said, “teach us to pray” and Jesus said, “this is what God who you’re praying to is like.”

I’m going to be honest here, folks—I don’t know what to do about Elijah. Or about Bennie, another homeless guy I know. Or any other of the down-and-out folks I run into on campus. Or folks who’ve been abused or are abusers. Or about folks who have it comparatively easy and don’t know what to do about it themselves. And I don’t know how to pray. I mean, of course, I know how to pray, right? The Lord’s Prayer, at least, is an easy one. But you know what I mean—what to say? What words to use to get my point across clearly and convincingly and, of course, beautifully? How do we convince God to do what we think needs doing? What do I do with my hands? We want to do this RIGHT, right? The disciples didn’t know how to do this either and they asked—“teach us to pray.” And we ask that same thing—“Lord God of our fathers and mothers, we hallow and bless your name and we want to talk to you. Teach us how. Teach us to pray.” And then Jesus looks at us and loves us and says, “this is what God is like.”

On my way back, from the Edge House yesterday, I had a little set-to with God. In my car. Out loud. I told God everything I knew about Bennie, this homeless guy who sleeps on the porch of the Edge House, though he’s not supposed to. I told God about how Bennie’s life was surely complicated and about how he drives me crazy. I raised my voice in anger that despite my conversations with him and even regular police sweeps, he stays on the porch, leaving his trash and sometimes peeing in the corner. I cried in frustration that I had to clean up his trash. And then I cried in repentance, knowing that cleaning up other people’s messes, serving our brothers and sisters, is exactly what we’re called to as Christians. What am I supposed to do for Bennie, when he’s been kicked out of every helping agency in Cincinnati, when Jesus tells me to serve him, when I don’t know how? And I asked in desperation, what do you want me to do?—And this was prayer. It wasn’t beautiful and it wasn’t the “right” words, but it was prayer.

All this because the God I know is one who listens. Who perhaps metaphorically rubs my back and murmurs understanding sounds. Who sometimes offers advice and sometimes keeps silent.

God is like many things: like the surprise visitor who may or may not be wanted, like the host falling over himself to offer food and drink no matter the hour, like the sleeping neighbor who first questions the request but ultimately responds. God is like a parent—loving and tearful or even angry but not abusive. God is like a homeless guy sleeping on your porch or asking for change on the corner. God is like a king or queen ruling the realm for the common wealth. God is like a farmer sowing the seed—sending us out to grow in Claremont County or Cincinnati or the Dominican Republic, sending us out as guests in others lives at school, at work, in our neighborhood organizations or sports leagues. And at the heart of this being sent out, God is our creator, is our Father and Mother, is the abba we cling to in the infancy of our faith.

That night Leighton and I struggled to get home from the hospital, that was three days after little Abby had come into our lives. Three days after the night we met her, when, in a delirium of medication and exhaustion, I saw Leighton hold our daughter for the first time, watched him fall in love with her, watched him tell her he’d always protect her and never leave her. I saw him pledge with his eyes and his arms that he would watch and care and challenge and listen no matter what. That’s the way God is. Amen.

sunday's sermon--Luke 10

2010-07-10T22:13:00.003-05:00
Once up on a time, there was a Certain Man. “A Certain Man,” right? What was he like? No one knows. The story is vague on this point. So vague, it reminds me of Bella in Twilight whose character is so empty that any girl or grown woman can easily put herself into the story. So vague you can imagine anyone in this Certain Man’s place—your toddler grown up, an alcoholic friend, your pastor, someone like you, someone different from you, someone who wears glasses so she can see, someone blind, someone so holy you can’t bear to look at them.

This Certain Man was walking down the road from Clifton to Avondale—maybe he came from church, maybe he was going to a party, maybe he was going to make mischief—and he was set upon by robbers—by people who couldn’t see farther than their own greed or by people who couldn’t see farther than their own destitution. They beat him with a tire iron, they kicked him and took his clothes, they took his wallet and his dignity, leaving him naked and dying in a deep ditch on the side of the asphalt in a stagnant puddle.

This Certain Man opened his eyes, focused them on a Starbucks coffee cup sitting in a moldy mess near his nose, groaned mightily with the little breath he had left, and began to cry. He cried with the pain we’ve all felt—when it hurts to cry but it’s all you’ve got left, when the injustice and randomness of the pain overwhelms and the tears are mingled with rage and helplessness.

And, lo and behold, someone heard his cry. Would you believe it? A priest was walking by! Episcopal, Catholic, Jewish, or Buddhist—who knows—but a priest! And this Certain Man cried out, “Brother can you help me? They beat me and took from me and I’ve fallen into a hole. Will you help me get out?” And the priest, he looked in the ditch, he looked at the man, and he looked right through him. He couldn’t see past his own sense of urgency, past assuming this Certain Man was drunk or a serial fall-in-a-ditch kind of person. So he wrote down a prayer on a slip of paper and tossed it into the ditch with the man.

And the Certain Man opened his eyes, focused them on the slip of paper now absorbing the scum on the surface of the water, saw the words dissolving in front of him, and began to cry. He cried for every prisoner of war or conscience and every wallflower at the junior high dance, he cried for every collapsed building in Haiti and every small, struggling church, he cried for every addict and every sinner.

And, lo and behold, someone heard his cry. Would you believe it? A business woman was walking by! Procter & Gamble, Kroger, small-business owner, government employee—who knows—but an upright citizen! And this Certain Man cried out, “Sister, can you help me? They beat me and took from me and I’ve fallen into a hole. Will you help me get out?” And the business woman, she looked in the ditch, she looked at the man, and she looked right through him. She couldn’t see past getting her suit dirty before a meeting, past getting more involved in a stranger’s life than she was comfortable with, past what else he might ask of her. So she wrote down a couple self-help book titles on a slip of paper and tossed it into the ditch with the man.

And the Certain Man opened his eyes, focused them on the second slip of paper lodged against his bruised and bleeding arm, and began to cry. He cried for his pain, for his loneliness, for the world’s cruelty and and the world’s vulnerability.

And, lo and behold, someone heard his cry. You won’t believe it. ‘Cause this woman was walking by. And not just any woman, but a woman like the American West’s Calamity Jane. Calamity Jane in her rough men’s clothing, with her bull-whip, with her abrasive, foul-mouth and non-existent manners. They say that when she walked into a bar in Deadwood, South Dakota, the long-time, inveterate drunks, the men who virtually lived in the bar—would leave, disgusted by her obscene language and attitude. She drank and fought and swore with the best of them. This is the woman who passed by and heard a Certain Man crying out.

And she stopped.

She looked in the ditch, she looked at the man, and she saw him. And seeing him, not just looking at him but truly seeing him, meant that she was responsible. The others tried not to see, we try not to see this Certain Man’s pain. We know that if we really look at him, if we see him, then we see him with God’s eyes. Abraham’s concubine Hagar—another person we might have crossed the street to avoid—named God “el-roi”—“the God who sees” because God heard her cries of misery and saw her as she was and had mercy.

Problems should be solved by those who see them, someone once said. So we try not to see—because it hurts too much to really see the problems. Because there’s not much we can do to solve the problem anyway. It’s too expensive or too time-consuming or too complicated or requires too many people to work together. Or because we don’t know what to do.

The historical Calamity Jane didn’t think so. When smallpox came to Deadwood, Calamity Jane stayed and nursed people back to health. Or held their hands as they died. This rough, unexpected woman laid cool cloths on their heads and gave them comfort. Our Calamity Jane, or whoever she is, jumps down into the ditch with this Certain Man, getting mud and muck all over her clothes, bruising her leg as she does so. And the man says, “Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.” And Calamity Jane says, “Yeah, but I’ve been down here before, and I know the way out.”

And she gently lifts the man out of the ditch, cleans his wounds with alcohol and binds them with strips from her clothing. This foul-mouthed woman who no one would have anything to do with, who no one would even look at twice, cradles the man in her strong arms and carries him to the Days Inn on the corner. She pays the desk clerk two-days’ wages and says, “You treat him right, ya BLEEEEEP, and if you need more BLEEPIN money, I’ll be back and pay you whatever the BLEEP you need.” She wipes this Certain Man’s forehead one last time, and leaves, not asking for repayment, not leaving a forwarding address.

* * *

Blessed are the eyes that see what you see, Jesus said to his disciples, just moments before he told them this story. Who was the Certain Man’s neighbor? The one who had mercy on him—the one who saw him.
The one who had been there before—whether or not she’d been robbed and beaten and left for dead, our Calamity Jane had been rejected, had been despised, had been hopeless. She saw herself in the man and felt his pain. His cry had been her cry at some point. And she saw in the man the face of God.

Blessed are the eyes that see what you see—we are all recovering from something, whether it’s substance abuse or sin—and we have all been there before. Blessed are we when we don’t ignore another’s pain or joy but see it, recognize it, name it. Even when we don’t know what to do, even when we don’t know the way out of the ditch, blessed are the eyes that see what you see—because what we see is God. And the God who sees, see us.

We don’t have to be beaten on the side of the road to cry out and we don’t have to feel the extreme misery of that Certain Man for someone to see us. You know it as well as I do—sometimes we’re the man in the ditch, sometimes we’re the priest or the business women (maybe more often than we’d like), sometimes we’re the Days Inn desk clerk—the next person to see the problem and respond, and sometimes we’re the Good Samaritan, the Calamity Jane, seeing in the other person a need we can fill, seeing in the other person a big or small part of our own lives. And seeing means responding. “Eternal life is found not just in knowing the commandments but in doing them.” And in that response, we all live happily ever after.

sunday's sermon--Galations 6

2010-07-02T18:37:00.001-05:00
The Apostle Paul is not known for his clarity of writing. Certainly there are times when he seems crystal clear, like in Romans 8, “For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” He has his moments. But I’d hate to have been in a restaurant with him back in the day, “And what will you have, sir?” “Greetings, dear one in Christ. I thank God for you and for all you’ve done for the saints. I would like most especially to order and procure a flank steak yet of the hamburger variety. Do not be deceived, dear one, for the flank steak is of the better part yet is also of the hamburger…”

Well, maybe not, but today’s lesson leaves me with some confusion: “If anyone is detected in a transgression, you who have received the Spirit should restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness…bear one another’s burdens and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” he writes, but then he turns right around and says “all must carry their own loads.” What to make of that? Everyone should help everyone else with their troubles and each person should carry his or her own burdens. Within a sentence-distance of one another. It’s not entirely obvious what he’s meaning here, except maybe for the sentence before, “you who have received the Spirit should restore such a one”—restore—it’s about restoration. It’s about putting one another back together, for we are all broken in one way or another. And because so much of both Hebrew and Christian Scriptures are about group salvation rather than individual, it’s about returning as a community to our original state of one-ness with God. It’s about radical forgiveness and hospitality. And about a peculiar kind of freedom. We are not so much called into an individual freedom wherein we are not taxed for tea without representation but one in which we have obligations. Peculiar, indeed. We are supposed to help carry one another’s burdens in addition to our own and in turn, let others bear ours. It’s a kind of a dance, or a musical round with the weight and the parts shifting from one person to another, never being dropped.

In fact, let me teach you a round and you’ll see what I mean.
Teach: Peace, perfect peace, perfect peace. [key: G]
Canted part:Peace, perfect peace—with Jesus by our side—
That wasn’t so bad was it? You relied on your friends
Peace, perfect peace—with Spirit hovering over—
You hold your own part, then pass it off to your neighbor…
Peace perfect peace—I cue you in to sing—
And you bear one another’s burdens…musically.

Could you feel that give and take? Where one group begins, the others wait, listening, feeling out where the group is. Then a second group responds, taking up their own part, which is also part of another group’s burden, following, making harmony, holding responsibility for the music. The musical line is handed back and forth among us and no single person has to control it—if you forgot the notes or when to come in, someone else had it and you could follow her. Perhaps this is what it is to bear one another’s burdens and our own at the same time.

For many of you, music is a powerful reminder of joy, that there is order in the chaos of our lives, that in a moment of misery or frustration or triumph, there is beauty and therefore truth and hope.

For some of you, this experience of singing is not a helpful image. For folks like my loving husband, an occasion of public song is an occasion of discomfort and exclusion. He doesn’t sing. Doesn’t like singing. Maybe there are more of you out there—and you know as well as I do that there are other things you do that show you that mutual reliance—playing on a soccer team or a baseball team, working on a construction project with a group, or for that matter, raising children—if that’s not a communal dance, I don’t know what is.

And this is freedom in Christ—not as the world sees it, but as we Christians see it.
Freedom that we celebrate today as a country is wonderful—I love that I can vote and assemble with people of like minds and that we all have the right of due process under the law—great stuff. But remember what Pastor Jess spoke about last week, about not making our families into idols. That idols are anything that stands between us and God. Perhaps our nation can become an idol at times. When we equate good citizenship with Christianity or assume Jesus would vote the same way we do, we all commit the sin of idolatry. Perhaps we all need the restoration Paul talks about in Galatians—that freedom looks different when we become Christians.

Freedom in Christ involves obligations—and do not be deceived, brothers and sisters, sometimes we dislike what we’re asked to do. Sometimes we have to choose what is right over what is easy, but we can grow to love them in the practicing of them. And we certainly grow from the practicing. We take care of our ailing parents or spouses because we have to, of course, and because our love and our God tell us this is what we do. We come to worship each week because we are set free, given a 2nd, 3rd, or 4th chance to try again. We call up a friend or relative and listen or forgive or invite them to church—whatever it is we’ve been avoiding—because we are a sacrificial people. We give away our time and money because God tells us to, and because in giving away, we become whole. We are restored. Our Jewish brothers and sisters, at least theologically, delight in these obligations, these good works. Like the music we sang earlier, there’s an obligation there to sing a harmonious note but also a freedom. Listening to and participating in congregational singing is freeing—we can lose ourselves in the melody, we can make up new parts, we can let go of the idols we hold in our regular lives. And all because we are tied to the music—we bear one another’s burdens and others bear ours.

This song is what we’re called to this Independence Day. We are witnesses that there is a better way, that we don’t have to buy into political spin or the God of Consumerism or the sacredness of national security. And we don’t have to buy into the Lutheran Way or the Non-Denominational Way either. We are citizens of the Kingdom of Heaven and the way we celebrate freedom is in helping others carry their burdens. Friends, enemies, the person sitting next to you in the pew who you don’t really know what to think about, complete strangers—all are one body, one Spirit in Christ and we have one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism.

So, sing with me again, a different tune now:
Teach: Open my heart... [key: F]

sunday's sermon--Acts 2

2010-05-26T20:40:00.001-05:00
Please forgive the formatting--I am too tired to fix it.

Happy Pentecost!
Two baptisms on Saturday/tonight, a passel of confirmations this morning—God is good! All the time! All the time, God is good!
but it wasn’t always easy
for a long time, people weren’t together like this
we Christians didn’t used to be able to gather without bloodshed
for a long time, peoples across the world didn’t understand each other
there’s people walking around all over the world who don’t understand each other’s languages now
do you know Russian? Gaelic? Chinese?
Me neither–I wouldn’t understand if someone came up to me right now
people walking around all over the world don’t understand English–hard to believe, I know...
and it was the same 2000 years ago
when that story from Acts took place
the people who were there didn’t speak Russian or Gaelic or Chinese
but they also didn’t necessarily speak the same language as each other
–they could get by on a little Greek or Latin
but these weren’t their native tongues
so they went about their business
going to school, running businesses, raising children
having no idea what another person was saying
having no idea how that other person thought
see, language isn’t just about words
we communicate with our bodies, with our actions, with our beliefs
language is about culture, about what we value
and it is so difficult to understand what someone else means
even if you do speak the same language

Sister let me be your servant, let me be as Christ to you
Pray that I may have the grace to let you be my servant too.

When I was a youth minister, we held a semi-regular Parents and Teens event
if there were ever two groups who didn’t understand what the other was saying, it’s these
the idea was to talk about the same questions but in separate groups
adults in one room, teens in another
and then come back together to share their thoughts
we asked
what are you afraid of that’s coming up soon? What do you wish your parent or teen knew about your life? How do you talk to your parent/teen?
what did we hear?
They don’t get it, why don’t you just ask us, how can I trust you?
From both groups
I’ve seen teens at their worst
I’ve seen them angry and sulking, I’ve seen them broken
I’ve been them, not so long ago
in the middle of a fight, in the middle of heart-wrenching sorrow
where is the Holy Spirit? Who can understand this pain?
We went into those parents and teens events not understanding the other
not hearing what she had to say, not speaking the same language
and if there are ever groups of people who feel alone and isolated
because no one understands, it’s teens and parents
but this is almost a small problem in our world now
our history is one of violence and misunderstanding
The writer of Acts says
the Spirit is like the sound of a “rush of violent wind”
Our God is like a violent wind
and we have taken that violence to heart
few of us in this room speak Arabic or even fluent Mexican Spanish
How can we peacefully resolve the wars
in Iraq and Afghanistan
or the controversy over Mexican immigration
when we can’t communicate with one other?
we don’t understand, we don’t speak the same language
few of us in this room would look on
while a young woman was beaten in front of us
or would we?
Three years ago, a young Iraqi woman named Dua Khalil
was beaten to death by members of her family
and members of a crowd of onlookers
several men looked on
and captured the moment on their phones
the police in the area just watched
this was an “honor killing”
the men in Dua’s family thought
she had brought dishonor on them
and so they killed her brutally
and this kind of thing happens all the time, around the world
even here in the US
women are beaten and abused the world over
because they are seen as
as artist and critic Joss Whedon writes
“weak, manipulative, morally unfinished, and expendable”
how alone was Dua? Who could give her help?
Whose hand was stretched out to offer her life?
Who was speaking to her in a language she could understand?
Where was the Holy Spirit in that moment?
In the middle of this beating,
in the middle of heart-wrenching sorrow,
where was the Holy Spirit?
Who can understand the language of this pain?
We can.
Who among us has never felt alone?
Who among us has never felt rejected?
Who among us has never inflicted pain?
WE can understand this language, WE can reach out and understand the other
This is what (you/our students) are confirming today:

I will hold the Christ-light for you in the nighttime of your fear,
I will hold my hand out to you, speak the peace you long to hear.

the Apostles, the book of Acts says, were “all together in one place”
All together–
not moping or sulking in their own houses
or refusing to have anything to do with each other
out of pride for their homeland or tradition
no, the apostles were “all together in one place”
celebrating? Worshiping?
Mourning the loss of Jesus who’d ascended? Hanging out?
They were together when the Holy Spirit came to them
and they heard the word of God in their own languages...
They were alone no longer–there was another person who understood
There was another person who knew where they were coming from
There was another person who knew their sorrow and their pain
and who had a word of comfort
and after the mountain-top experience of the tongues of fire and all
Peter told them the Good News of Christ
in their own languages, they heard of the Apostles’ passion and connectedness
and they say 3,000 people were baptized that day
3,000 people heard the Word of God
and were moved to commit themselves to God
and each other in baptism
who can understand the language of our pain? God can
God’s Holy Spirit was there that day
the Spirit moved in those Apostles and in that crowd
the Spirit touched each person in the midst of their pain
in that moment of heart-wrenching sorrow or of overwhelming joy
or of apathy or of exhaustion or of disconnectedness or of doubt or of love
the Spirit touched each person and drew them together
“they were all together in one place”
that connection is what we’re about
that commitment, that understanding, that belonging
we are not alone
there is a moment of clarity, a moment of connection
when you understand another person’s point
another’s frustration or joy
there are people in the world who are refusing to be weak, manipulated, or expendable
There are women who will stand up when Dua Khalil could not
They are about connection, understanding, persistence, the surprise of the Spirit
Where the Dua’s of the world are asking “why?”
Other women are saying, “take my hand”
And those conversations between parents and teens yielded fruit
Those folk were having some great conversations together
half of the parents in those conversations we started
called or emailed the church office to say
they’d had some of their best conversations ever
with their teens
They’re listening to one another
recognizing that they do speak different languages
and that they’re in this together
I wonder if (you/our confirmands) have had the same experience?
Of speaking different languages than your folks
and of trying to learn that other language?
If not, give it a try
—it’s hard to believe, but your parents aren’t that dumb
—nor are your teenagers, parents
“we’re all together in one place”
you are not alone, someone understands, someone hurts with you
and we are not meant to be alone
we are meant to share this love, this connection we have with the world
when Jesus said “Go make disciples” it was not a suggestion
but a commission
and it was not for the sake of numbers but for the sake of relationship
we will not survive without each other
here is your challenge: find someone this week who you don’t understand
someone you don’t think you could ever understand
or someone you don’t think could ever understand you
find someone who speaks a different language
verbal, physical, cultural
and get to know them
learn their language, learn how to talk to them, learn why they
speak/act/exist the way they do
show this person that they are not alone simply by knowing them
show this person the Holy Spirit
written in every word you speak and in every line of your face
and (last night I told) little _________ and _________, you are not alone–
today you join the great cloud of witnesses, the Body of Christ
when you feel that water on your skin, remember that you have been reborn
remember that you have a higher purpose
remember that you are loved

I will weep when you are weeping, when you laugh I’ll laugh with you.
I will share your joy and sorrow till we’ve seen this journey through.

book thoughts

2010-05-03T07:14:00.003-05:00
I suspect I will not make it to my goal of reading 50 books in 2010. However, I've read several recently:

3 and 4 The Mirror of Her Dreams and A Man Rides Through by Stephen R. Donaldson

Handsome one-volume edition given to me by Loving Husband, these books were my favorites in high school. I pored over them in multiple readings, certain that they held the spiritual truths that would help me understand God, Christianity, my faith, and why the world was so bizarrely crappy and beautiful. They did help. And upon an adult reading, they're still good. Not as life-changing as before, but well worth the read.

5 Doctor Who: The Writer's Tale by Russell T. Davies and Benjamin Cook

Interesting look inside not just Dr Who but a writer's process. Collected emails from a year of writing the TV show.

6 The Hunger Games and 7 Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins

Amazing. Absolutely fantastic. If you like things that are awesome, why haven't you read them yet?

In the future, North America has been destroyed and rebuilt as the Capitol and the Districts. The Districts (only twelve, now that District 13 was annihilated for insurrection)live hardscrabble, unstable lives under the thumb of the Capitol, constantly on the verge of complete starvation. Every year, the Capitol puts on the Hunger Games for which each District must supply two Tributes--a boy and a girl between the ages of 12 and 18--and in which they must kill one another. The winner and last one standing will live a life of luxury.

Very well written from page one on. Engaging, complex, and a propos for our world of greed and environmental challenge.

8 The Teaching of the 12 by Tony Jones

A new translation and commentary on the Didache, a very early church "how to" document from one of the earliest Christian house-churches. The commentary is not particularly inspired, though it constantly points me back to the included text which is itself fascinating.

The Didache is probably contemporaneous with Paul's writings but seems to have no knowledge of him. It includes a brief order for the Eucharist which includes no references to the Last Supper or Jesus' death and resurrection.

What to make of this little document? Ought we take it's insights to heart because of its age? Or is it just a small off-shoot of Christianity which was left behind for a better way?

last Sunday's sermon--John 10:22-30

2010-05-02T10:12:00.001-05:00
Alleluia, Christ is Risen! The Lord is Risen indeed! Alleluia!
So what?
I mean, for us now, more than 2000 years later, if we’re really honest with ourselves, a lot of the time it’s just a story. A really great story—fun and challenging—but ancient history all the same. We long for the stories to be as real as the person sitting next to us and at the same time are glad they’re not, because what would we do if faced with the real Jesus or the real resurrection?

We’ve been talking about this on campus—I’m a new campus minister at UC, I meet with students for meals and pastoral conversations, and I’ve started a small discipleship group where we talk over one another’s stories and theologies. Recently, we considered the question of what difference Jesus death and resurrection really makes. The conversation went something like this:
ONE, incarnation is so important—Matthew and Luke focus a lot of energy on Jesus’ birth stories, particularly that it’s miraculous; John’s prologue includes, “In the beginning was the Word and the word was with God and the Word was God…” “…and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us;” and even the name that we give the Messiah from our Jewish brothers and sisters is emmanuel, God is with us. Clearly the simple fact of God becoming human is of exceeding importance—it implies a weight and power to this physical existence, that what we do matters.
TWO, next, Jesus as teacher is so important—and I don’t mean “just” a teacher, I mean as the son of God, as The Teacher, as the teacher whose teaching came directly from God, as the teacher who lived everything he taught.
THREE If these are true, if Jesus’ life and teachings are so overwhelmingly powerful and memorable, then is his death necessary to validate his ministry? Is his death, as we tell the story, necessary for our salvation? And is his rising to life again necessary to make us pay attention? To show us the grace we receive freely? Hasn’t that all already been done in the mere presence of Jesus among us? So, Jesus has risen—so what?
My students have been pondering this question in all seriousness. Not in a sarcastic, “what difference does it make?” kind of way but “no, really, how does this make a difference?” One student described the struggle he was having as a cherry on top of a milkshake: is the cherry integral to the experience of the milkshake, or is it a lovely garnish but unnecessary to a well-made shake?

And it’s the pivotal question for Christianity—what difference does Jesus make? Not just the death and resurrection, but his whole person. Are we different now than before as a group of people? Are we different now as individuals than before we knew Jesus? Theologian Shane Claiborne puts it this way in his book Irresistible Revolution:
“If you ask most people what Christians believe, they can tell you, ‘Christians believe that Jesus is God’s son and that Jesus rose from the dead.’ But if you ask the average person how Christians live, they are struck silent. We have not shown the world another way of doing life. Christians pretty much live like everybody else; they just sprinkle in a little Jesus along the way.” (117)

So here’s your million-dollar question. Or maybe your milkshake question. In your life, what difference has Jesus made? If I walked down into the congregation and picked you out to share, what story would you tell us about how you treated someone differently, about how you took the right path not the easy one, about how you chose love over appearances? What is your story of resurrection?

Do you remember a few years ago, a man walked into an Amish school room and shot several of the girls before shooting himself? And how the families of those girls reacted? Grief, yes, but also with grace. They contacted the man’s wife and took care of her. They forgave the man and took care of his wife. That, that is not normal. That is because of Jesus.

Nearer to home, the other day, I was meeting a friend in Clifton and parked on the street near the IGA. There are often two or three folks on the street near that IGA with signs saying they’re homeless, asking for change. I don’t know about you, but I often tense up when I see them. I was faced with a decision—to give or not to give, right? And to acknowledge or not to acknowledge their presence. And as I approached them, I decided to create a third option. I approached them, asked how each was, shook their hands, wondered aloud if there was anything I could do for them, listened. Each exchange took only a little longer than it might have. And it became about people rather than an ethical dilemma. They’re still in poverty and I still don’t know what to do about that, but we parted with a smile of recognition. That…was not normal. That was because of Jesus.

Now, I share this story not to pat myself on the back but to tell you that these resurrection moments happen all the time. At any moment, we can make a decision to react differently than expected, to live for that moment as though everything Jesus said and did and was is 100% true. In that moment, when you share part of your life, part of your story with someone else, you become an evangelist. And it is a beautiful and thing. When you allow Jesus to change what you do, the question changes from “so what?” to “so that…?” Do you get it? Think about that story of resurrection in your life—fills you with, what? Joy? Excitement? Gratitude? And doesn’t it kind of push you a little—“tell someone,” it says, “find out if someone else has the same story,” it says, “go try something else,” it says. I should note that, in addition to being a campus missioner, I am also on the Evangelism Commission for the Diocese, and this is precisely what we’re encouraging folk to do. Share your story.

Notice that it’s all about the story. That story of Jesus back in the day, the story woven in our Scriptures, the stories we tell one another about our lives and fears and hopes. These stories aren’t just pretty and they aren’t just history—they matter, they are everything. And the resurrection is the only real ending, because without it, the story just stops and we have no motivation to follow in Jesus’ steps. Without the resurrection, we aren’t even a milkshake.

So the “Jesus is alive, so what?” question is really replaced with “Jesus is alive so that…what?” Jesus is alive so that we no longer live in fear of the end. Jesus is alive so that death is not the end. Jesus is alive so that the story continues. Jesus’ story is a gift—life, death, and resurrection—Jesus said and did and was so that we would love him and show that love. That story is THE STORY. What difference does Jesus death and resurrection make? It means that death is not the end of the story.

Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!

last Sunday's sermon--John 21:1-19

2010-04-24T20:12:00.000-05:00
Scripture is a little odd. It’s got these great, pretty bits like “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” and “Consider the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin…” But just as often it’s confusing—I sometimes read passages and think “What?”
And I think I’m not the only one.

After the resurrection, Mary Magdalene sees the empty tomb and she tells the other disciples: she’s saying, “woah, what?” and maybe they’re saying, “sorry, what?” So she goes back and she sees the resurrected Jesus but doesn’t recognize him, she thinks he’s the gardener: what? And then Jesus appears dramatically to the disciples in a locked room…Twice! What? And of course, Thomas the Doubter famously says: what?

You just heard another one of these stories. Some of the disciples are fishing and Jesus shows up and they don’t recognize him: what? Wait, after seeing him once already, after longing for his return, they don’t recognize him? And Peter figures it out and jumps naked into the lake: what? And then Jesus makes them breakfast on the beach, very Martha Stewart of him: wait, what?

They just didn’t get it, couldn’t get it before. No matter how many times Jesus said it, now they don’t believe their eyes with evidence right in front of them. For us now, more than 2000 years later it’s often just a story—if we’re really honest with ourselves, we want these stories and people to be real, we long for them to be as real as the person sitting next to us,…but we don’t really think they are. They’re ancient history, they’re fun and challenging stories, like LOST.

Because when was the last time that you denied Jesus—intentionally, several times in a row—and then were given a second chance by the man Jesus? When was the last time you said to Jesus as Peter does “Lord you know I love you” and when was the last time Jesus said to you, “feed my sheep”—and you did it? Because what else could be your reaction when the man you left everything to follow, the man whose words kindled a fire in your heart, the man who made everything more focused and also more confusing, the man who you saw beaten and killed in front of you—what else could be your reaction when he’s standing right in front of you? I think a gawping, “what?” would make complete sense. Followed immediately by, “Lord you know I love you.” Right?

But he’s not here, is he? Is he? Because the disciples didn’t recognize him—here or other times—when he walked on the sea, they didn’t quite know it was him, Mary Magdalene mistakes him for the gardener, the disciples don’t seem to know it’s him until he shows his wounds, and the fishermen—who knows who they thought he was? They didn’t recognize him after his resurrection—not because they were stupid, and not because they didn’t want to or had given up. They didn’t see him because they didn’t expect to see him.

They didn’t expect to see him…and there he was, telling them to fish on the other side of the boat—of all the things to say when you’ve come back from the dead—so, since they’ve had no luck at all, even though this is a silly suggestion—as though the other side of the boat is going to be so very different—they give it a try and have the single greatest haul in the history of fishing. So many fish it takes all of them to haul it in, so many fish that the net really should break, but it doesn’t.
What?!

It’s amazing and wonderful and a little scary and miraculous. And suddenly they looked up and saw Jesus…I had a professor in seminary who said that whenever we say “Come Lord Jesus” in worship—often at communion—he looks up and tenses a little, because he fully expects Jesus to respond to the call, he expects Jesus to show up.

Do you expect to see Jesus?

He could be anywhere, anywhen, anywho even…Paul had a vision of him on the road to Damascus years after the resurrection. Julian of Norwich saw him in a vision in the 1400s. People see his image in grilled-cheese sandwiches all the time—what? And that seems ridiculous sometimes. We don’t expect to see Jesus out and about in Cincinnati…

We think we’re so rational, so right not to give into these emotional moments. Jesus is resurrected, but that’s the end of that—our moral and spiritual existence is now based on a memory, a story, not the real deal. Because we don’t expect to see him. But in our communion service, in the Eucharistic Prayer, we often say “we remember” and it’s not this rational kind of memory. It’s a Greek word, Anamnesis—sense memory—we were there and we are there. Like pitching a baseball 10,000 times so that your body can do it without your brain. The Meal we offer, the lives we live—they aren’t divorced from those stories—we practice them over and over so that we can do them in our sleep because practice is how we learn to see Jesus present with us.
Mystic Julian of Norwich had a vision of God. She saw in her hand something like a hazelnut: she writes, “In this little thing I saw three properties. The first is that God made it. The second that he loves it. And the third, that God keeps it.” You might well ask, “What?” along with the folks on Lost—this little thing represents all of Creation, it is a reflection of God. In this one tiny thing, Dame Julian saw the overwhelming love of God, and the sustaining power of God—it wasn’t just made and then let go, but cradled and cherished by God. So, too, are all of us, and all that we encounter. Dare I say it, even disease and hardship are encompassed by that love and reflect back to us the face of Jesus.

He is here all the time in the guise of other people offering something surprising, in the guise of a new shoot coming up in the garden (continually resurrecting), in the guise of tv programs pushing you to consider things differently, in the guise of a flamingo balancing impossibly on that one skinny leg and in your toddler daughter’s delight in seeing that same flamingo
We don’t see Jesus in our lives, not because we’re stupid or because he’s not there, but because we don’t expect to see him. Because we don’t practice seeing him. But what if we did? What if we approached meetings and conference calls expecting to see Jesus there? What if we went to classes expecting that Jesus would reveal himself somehow? What if we did our grocery shopping expecting to see Jesus on the skin of an orange or the face of our checkout clerk?

All it takes is practice—and maybe asking “What?” deliberately and often.

heresy is necessary

2010-02-09T11:36:00.001-05:00

[We] must move from the idea that there is an Orthodox Christian stance and a heretical positioning that transgresses it, to the point in which we see Orthodoxy itself as heretical...[T]here is no absolute foundation to orthodoxy, that it was formed contingently over time through debate, discussion and argument and that its necessity was then retroactively constructed and maintained by the victor. A point that almost any non-partisan historian of religion will attest to.
--Pete Rollins

god on the small screen

2010-02-09T11:35:00.001-05:00
One of the most popular sitcoms on television is Two and a Half Men. It's a show about two brothers and one's son who live together in a fabulous house, make poor life choices, and hijinks ensue. My husband notes, "they're horrible empty people living horrible empty lives with no glimmer of hope and nothing ever changes." Certainly it's fiction, but fiction tells us a lot about ourselves. The show fills me with despair because the emptiness never changes--it's the definition of nihilism.

A lot of folks wouldn't watch the reboot of the show Battlestar Galactica because it was too dark. Dark it is, but never empty. The decisions people face are difficult, ethically and emotionally. People learn and change. And they care about their learning and changing--they are real people living complex, full lives whose choices, while often ridiculously impossible offer hope. These people make the best choices they can given the situation, not the choice that garners the most canned laughter.

Maybe Battlestar Galactica isn't your cup of tea, but I challenge you to consider what you watch with an eye for God's presence in it. We are given both comfort (escapism?) and challenge in the gospel--how does what you watch embody those gifts?

good stuff

2010-01-27T17:22:00.001-05:00

Any college ministry that quickly settles on its target audience, mission statement, core group of students, major goals, or other fundamentals should question whether it has done sufficient work to learn the campus tribe, build meaningful relationships, and develop the ministry strategy.
--Reaching the Campus Tribes by Benson Hines

disaster relief

2010-01-15T09:37:00.003-05:00
You may all be wondering what you can do in the aftermath of the earthquake in Haiti. Here are some options:
give blood, either today on UC's campus or next week--blood banks are ALWAYS in need of blood. Plus, if you give on campus today, the Red Cross gets $5 per person which will go towards earthquake relief.
give money. Places like Episcopal Relief and Development, Lutheran Disaster Relief, LCMS World Relief, and Nazarene Compassionate Ministries send funds and personnel to disaster areas with very little overhead, meaning your money has more bang.
give time. Sites of natural and man-made disaster across the world still need help rebuilding years later. Consider going with us on Spring Break to New Orleans to help with rebuilding there. Call or email me if you would like to go.
pray, that those suffering might find hope, healing, or an easy death. Pray for the relief workers and military personnel who are clearing the rubble and caring for the wounded. Pray that we may find it in our hearts to love our neighbors of all stripes.
keep your eyes open. The UC Campus Ministries Association is hoping to offer some sort of prayer rally/action in the coming weeks.

book thoughts

2010-01-12T20:40:00.002-05:00
You may have heard about the Fifty Books Project--it's a viral, communal challenge to read fifty books in one year, approximately one book per week. I've done it in years past and was surprised to find I broke fifty each year. Last year, pregnant and then a new mom, I failed completely. Unless you count multiple, nuanced readings of Pajama Time and Mama, Do You Love Me?

This year, I'm determined to beat fifty books with a mix of theology and fiction. Follow along, won't you?

1 Irresistible Revolution, Shane Claiborne
Challenging book suggesting that we take Jesus' words seriously rather than neutering them--what if he meant for us to make peace and sell our belongings? At times abrasive and often deeply moving, it convicted me and the complacence I've fallen into.

2 Kidnapped Santa Claus by Alex Robinson
Fun, graphic novel take on the L Frank Baum short story--pretty, pretty art and elves with schoolgirl crushes. Plus, bad-ass Repentance--fun for the whole family!

sobering post

2009-12-27T17:48:00.003-05:00
From Cheryl Lawrie, one of my favorite bloggers and worship curators, comes this brief conversation about life inside and outside prison. Food for thought.

check it out

2009-12-27T17:43:00.001-05:00
Some very provocative questions for your consideration.

this blog in wordle

2009-12-11T11:41:00.001-05:00
Check it out!

notes from the Edge--Interchange article

2009-12-09T13:49:00.004-05:00

I think I’m beginning to get it. This thing we call “campus ministry” is amorphous, protean, perplexing, ephemeral, and many other five-dollar words. But at the end of my first quarter as a campus minister at the University of Cincinnati, I think I’m beginning to get it.

Like a lot of folk, I wrestle with whether I’m doing enough, doing it right, doing what God wants from me. On a college campus with upwards of 35,000 students, the challenge can seem insurmountable. Is campus ministry supposed to draw hundreds of students? Is it supposed to make a big splash on the campus? Is it supposed to result in lots of baptisms? Is it supposed to be quantifiable such that my funding will be renewed? Maybe, but all of this makes me tired. What gets me energized is on-the-fly conversations with students about theology, about the struggles they are facing, about how they got to where they are. What makes me happy is a student’s tentative exploration of the Christian story or her excitement for a service project. What shows me God’s action is the faithfulness of students in returning to us and in being willing to step out of their self-made boxes. These are not things that can be easily reported and they’re not things that happen every day. Success, as many folk in the campus ministry blogosphere have recently pointed out, is not what you think. Success, as Henri Nouwen points out in his book Lifesigns, is fruitfulness rather than productivity.

An example:
I have been spending time contacting students and professors over the quarter, taking them to lunch, inviting them to the campus house at the corner of Clifton and Martin Luther King, meeting them on campus and engaging in conversation. I’ve called them, emailed them, Facebooked them, Tweeted them, texted them. I’ve put up fliers. I’ve prayed. And slowly, I’ve developed a “clump” of students interested in what we’re doing, interested in pursuing some portion of the spiritual life.

The weekend before exams, I had one of those days which makes it all worth it, a fruitful day. A student came by to talk about her passion for an anti-suicide awareness campaign called To Write Love on Her Arms–we made concrete plans to engage the campus in conversation. After a conversation about the small group of homeless folk who have been making camp in the woods nearby, a couple students and I walked down and emptied their overflowing trash can. A professor dropped by to go over details for a DAAP art project at the campus house–we’d been conversing and dreaming for the entire quarter about what this collaboration might look like. In the evening, we celebrated the Advent season with a rollicking gospel worship service, fried-chicken dinner, and service project for the First Step Home with at least 30 people–more than we’ve ever had at a single event (besides orientation activities).

Each of these moments is the slow-growing fruit of a longer conversation. They are stories not results. They have developed out of relationship rather than expectation or schedule. They are success. I get it. For the moment.

logos

2009-12-08T09:18:00.004-05:00

...[T]he very existence of such powers argues a counterforce. We call powers of the first kind dark, though they may use a species of deadly light as Decuman did; and we call those of the second kind bright, though I think that they may at times employ darkness, as a good man nevertheless draws the curtains of his bed to sleep. Yet there is truth to the talk of darkness and light, because it shows plainly that one implies the other. The tale I read to little Severian said that the universe was but a long word of the Increate's. We, then, are the syllables of that word. But the speaking of any word is futile unless there are other words, words that are not spoken. If a beast has but one cry, the cry tells nothing; and even the wind has a multitude of voices, so that those who sit indoors may hear it and know if the weather is tumultuous or mild. The powers we call dark seem to me to be the words the Increate did not speak, if the Increate exists at all; and these words must be maintained in a quasi-existence, if the other word, the word spoken, is to be distinguished. What is not said can be important--but what is said is more important.
--The Sword of the Lictor, by Gene Wolfe, p 124-125.

today's sermon--Luke 21:25-36

2009-11-29T12:15:00.001-05:00
I am afraid of the dark. There, I said it. I’ve been afraid of the dark since before I can remember, and I’ve never really shaken it. I used to panic when fumbling for a light switch, or run up a flight of stairs from a dark hallway to a light one, waving my arm behind me to beat away the monster that was chasing me. I still fight off my overactive imagination when entering a dark room, remembering all the scary movies and news clips I’ve seen.

When my dad was in seminary, we went to the Great Vigil very early every Easter Sunday. It was pitch black outside. We’d gather around in the cold morning air and they’d light a blazing fire to symbolize the light of Christ which pierces the darkness…but which to me only put up a thin, weak wall between us and the surrounding darkness.

It seems like that darkness is all around this time of year. It gets dark so early in non-Daylight-Savings-Time. Some of us experience Seasonal Affective Disorder, feeling sad and mopey and unmotivated for no discernible reason. Many of us remember loved ones who have died near the holidays and cannot contain our grief. Last week we wrote out our New Year’s resolutions and stuck them to the boards in the lobby and this week we step into that new year, into Advent, into a season of waiting, of uncertainty. Our new year begins in darkness, like that Easter Vigil. We light one little candle to help us find our way in the dark and… it doesn’t seem like it really helps. Where are the Maglights that will flood the room with light and with which we can smack down the monsters that wait for us?

You don’t believe in monsters any more? I think you do. They’re drunk drivers and communicable disease. They’re poverty and not being able to take care of our kids. They’re rejection and decline. For a lot of people, the decisions the ELCA Assembly made this summer regarding sexuality are monstrous. For others, the monster is our brothers and sisters leaving us because of those decisions. The conversations we have seem sometimes to lead into darkness where we can’t see the way. The monster you fear in the dark could be your own sinfulness—we’re all broken and so often we can see it clearly—hurtful words, disdainful actions, willful ignorance. Maybe the darkness your path enters is doubt—how true is this Christian story? Am I living it the right way?

The holiday cheer this Advent and Christmas can feel like a veneer. We convince ourselves it’s okay to spend more than we can afford or buy meaningless gifts, because it’s Christmas, right? We watch the news and hear about random shootings or piracy or starvation or abuse. We know what goes on out there and sometimes we’re the ones doing it. It doesn’t help to have an apocalypse for our gospel reading this New Year’s Day. Luke’s Jesus talks about confusion and distress and foreboding and fear. He says we can only pray to escape the things that are coming. And what are we supposed to do with that?

Some Christians would say we’re right to live in fear, that at any moment calamity could fall upon us, that God’s judgment is only the blink of an eye away, that a time of darkness and pain and war is coming…And I would say, if you think it’s not here now, you’re not paying attention.

It’s more than evil we fear, it’s uncertainty. Finding our way in the dark fills us with fear because we can’t see the way. Finding our way in the dark is hard because it’s dark. We don’t know which path to choose because we can’t see where they lead. This present darkness, as Paul wrote to the Ephesians, is terrifying. The dark is here now…

But you know what else is here now? The Kingdom of God is here now. The joy of resurrection and redemption and peace and belonging is here NOW. And again I say, if you think it’s not, you’re not paying attention.

Jesus says, “When these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” Your redemption is drawing near. These apocalyptic events, the overwhelming moments in your lives, they are a sign that redemption is coming. They do not exist by themselves but inter-mingled with hope.

Those early Easter mornings years ago, we kids would all fall asleep once we were inside the chapel. The adults continued on with the readings from salvation history and at dawn, we awoke to the sunlight streaming in the tall windows. I remember I was overcome with joy and renewal and felt that something very good had pushed away the dark. Recently, spending an hour talking with a homeless woman in Chicago or playing with my 1-year-old daughter, I feel that divine hope renewed and the darkness pushed away again.

When have you felt that hope? When have you been delighted recently? That’s God lighting your path. When have you reached out to someone hurting? When has someone reached out to you when you needed it? That’s God lighting your path. We like to think our world is all darkness, but that’s too easy. It’s easy to complain, to focus on the misery. Seeing hope isn’t easy and it doesn’t negate the fear, but it does offer a way forward.

How do we find our way in the darkness? We reach out, fumble for the hand of the person next to us, hold on to someone else. We strike a match, light a candle, prepare ourselves with works of kindness. We open your eyes—and wait to see the coming of the Christ child. In him, the light is intermingled with the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.

Your redemption is drawing near, the light is coming. Jesus keeps speaking—he speaks of a fig tree which, after the winter, after the Seasonal Affective Disorder, the tree puts out new leaves. Anyone who’s paying attention knows that flowers and fruit will follow the new leaves. Anyone who’s paying attention knows that birth follows the labor pains. Anyone who’s paying attention knows that apocalypse is not the end, but a signal of a new beginning. It is all part of the process—relapse is part of recovery.

This Advent, this new year, is about becoming. Becoming a Christian is about leaning towards something—God, Kingdom, love made manifest—it’s about yearning and process. It is not about arrival but finding our way.

God is coming, and God is here.
Alleluia, God is coming, Alleluia, God is here!

clarifying thought from the blogosphere

2009-11-26T09:52:00.003-05:00
MadPriest's "Thought of the Day":
I have read, or have listened to, words from the Bible almost everyday of my life and I believe I can now say, without any doubt, that there are two great evils that a person can commit: hurting people and hypocrisy. On these two sins hang all that is evil and all who promote evil.

i could deal with this if it weren't for that

2009-11-19T13:13:00.001-05:00

Driving back from the grocery store yesterday, I thought to myself how wonderful being a mom is. I get a primal satisfaction from planning Abby's lunches and playing games with her. I thought to myself how happy I'd be with several little ones running around and me with only their laundry, health, education, and spirituality to worry about. I thought to myself that it's this pesky job that's in the way, that keeps me from being completely fulfilled.

Last week, returning home from a long but good day at the UC campus, I thought to myself how wonderful being a campus minister is. I get a primal satisfaction from brainstorming new events and conversing intently about folks' lives. I thought to myself how happy I'd be focused entirely on the campus and my husband, with only their very special needs and concerns to worry about. I thought to myself that it's this pesky motherhood that's in the way, that keeps me from being completely fulfilled.

When I have a migraine, I think I could be okay if only either the nausea or headache would go away. But when I have only one of the two, it's no better. Seems like there's always something standing in the way of happiness. Seems like we put something in the way of happiness--that our happiness/joy/fulfillment is conditional. We can only be happy if certain conditions--established and changed in a moment--are present.

"If it weren't for this one thing," we think to ourselves, "I could deal. I could be happy. It's just that one thing."

But that one thing becomes an idol, something that stands between us and God and which we mistake for a god. Workload or homework, a partner's behavioral tics, perceived persecution--all become idols of negative space. That is, they take up space along the edges of things, filling our vision to overflowing with what-has-to-be-done rather than what-is-being-done. We give them power and they take over. We let these things keep us from giving of ourselves in whatever context we find ourselves in. I once heard it said that Jesus didn't go out of his way to help people--that he was busy enough helping the ones who crossed his path. It is where we are--busy-ness, multiple pleas for our attention, sickness and health--that we are called to celebrate and where we will be fulfilled. There will always be something else to deal with. But there is also always the space and people where we are to celebrate and encourage.

questions to ask your church/community

2009-11-11T12:03:00.000-05:00
At the Navigate Conference in Florence, KY this week, DG Hollums asked these questions at the end of his talk:

Does this expect them to come to us? Is there sending involved?
How are relationships forming outside our walls?
Does this promote the kingdom or ourselves/churches?
Are people’s lives being transformed through relationships? Is the community you live in being transformed?Can this become a movement that you no longer control? Is the spirit in control?

I'm going to use these for prayer foci, bible study questions, house church conversation, vestry/council challenge.

discipling college students

2009-10-15T18:28:00.004-05:00
Did you know "disciple" is a verb?

Friend and office-mate Chris asked some folk for thoughts on "simple steps for discipling college students." Keeping them simple as asked, here are my thoughts:
Meet them where they are. So where are they? Go there.
Provide free food but don't stop there.
Listen. Really listen. Don't tell them what to do.
Have clear expectations of their journey--don't refrain from challenging them.
What do you think?

overly-sentimental or needful realism?

2009-10-02T18:39:00.004-05:00
I just put Abby to bed. She was sleepy enough to go gracefully, which doesn't always happen, and so adorable as she rubbed her eyes and blinked at me. Just before I'd read her Pajama Time and Mama, Do You Love Me? and before that I'd changed her into clean diaper and PJs and fed her potatoes and carrots and zucchini for dinner, which she loved.

And all I can think about right now is all the babies in the world right this moment who have none of that. The vegetables, the clean diapers, the books, the love, the intention. And I'm stuck between being aware of my mama-hormones which make me more susceptible to flights of emotion and of the world's deep need.

Recently NPR reported on the Cameron Todd Willingham case in Texas. A number of years ago, Mr. Willingham's house burned down, killing his three small children. He was tried, convicted, and executed for arson and murder. Years later, it's coming to light that the forensic evidence used to convict him was based on folklore, evidence which even at the time was considered laughable. What killed me was a reporter noting that witnesses on the night of the fire said they saw Mr. Willingham on his porch, covered in soot, screaming, "My babies are burning up!" I can't even imagine. No, that's wrong. I can imagine, and that's the problem.

Children have no way of raising themselves, of protecting themselves, of making their own decisions. It could be said that they make decisions all the time. Sure, we're in agreement about that when it comes to which block to pick up or whether something should be chewed or later whether someone is a friend or an enemy. But children are basically helpless, little people in a world of big, violent, forgetful, selfish people.

It could also be said that, particularly in America, we coddle our kids too much. That we protect them from things far beyond reasonable measures. And that every argument falling from a politician's mouth includes something about protecting the children. All true as far as they go.

BUT the painful truth is that there are millions of children in the world whose parents don't or can't take care of them. Who eat junk food or even garbage. Who hear only "don't" and never "good job." Who never hear Pajama Time or Mama, Do You Love Me?. Whose understanding of life is insecurity and hunger and fear. And that's a sin.

I'm feeling increasingly called to consider these issues. If you have thoughts on the subject or agencies already in existence you'd like to share, please do so on this blog's original site: http://justusetpeccator.blogspot.com.

some thoughts about week 1

2009-09-23T19:37:00.005-05:00

I recently heard that if you're not exhausted by the end of the first week of classes in the campus ministry game, you're not doing it right. It's Wednesday and I've been exhausted for at least two days.

But it has been phenomenal! At The Edge House at UC, Sunday evening's Make-Your-Own Sundae drew about 70 students throughout the two hours and Monday's Mini-Masterpieces and pizza at least 80. Last night's Theology Throwdown (thanks DG for the name) drew about 15 or so and we had a feisty, quickly-moving conversation. It's amazing to finally be doing the thing I've been preparing for for months.

AND my boss, the lovely and vivacious Larry, told me that what I'm doing--house revamp, ministry reboot--is what he's been dreaming fondly about for years.

And what's maybe more amazing is my co-planners. Co-ministers? Let's go with friends. Jamie and Chris have been gifts to me in my stumbling around in the campus ministry dark. We're all new or relatively new to the party and are leaning on one another for many things. Absolutely no way I could have survived this week without them. And we're only half-way there.

I read Benson Hines' campus ministry blog and feel...lazy. Or amateur. He's got such great stories and ideas, most culled from ministries around the country, and I wonder if I'll ever be in a position to do what he writes about. But that's just the exhausted part of me. The other, energetic part says, "let's go!"

today I am doing a new thing

2009-09-17T12:44:00.004-05:00
I've figured out what's got me running so scared about campus ministry. I know, I put forth this air of utter competence and joyous energy--how could I possibly have doubts? Well, I do. Don't you?

It's not meeting people. It's not doing cool programs and/or worship. It's not interacting with faculty and administration. It's the students.

More specifically, it's empowering the students to be leaders. Everyone who's anyone at the campus ministry party says the key to successful (however you define that) ministry is a student-owned and -run operation. I'm all for it. It's all about the priesthood of all believers, about empowering the laity, about the priest/minister/grand poobah not being in charge but just another guy with a specific set of skills. It's about community sustainability. Again, I'm all for it. I'm just not sure I'm all about it.

Do I, extroverted and sometimes control-adjacent Alice, have the skills and gifts for giving the power to someone else? Looking back at five years in my previous parish, I wonder. I created an elected youth council to govern and vision for the youth group and many of the youth were active in planning and encouraging others. But they weren't where I had hoped. But process theology tells me that we never truly arrive--we're always on the way. It's less about hitting a particular, self-inflicted goal and more about how you exist and change in relationship.

Pray for me and for officemates Chris and Jamie that we stay semi-sane and feel the breath of God periodically.

someone else's blog

2009-09-16T13:34:00.001-05:00
In my continuing, in-depth series of posts of other people's blogs, check out officemate Chris Bean the Nazarene (say it out loud)'s recent post.

excellent article

2009-09-08T09:15:00.001-05:00
Wonderful opinion piece about whitewater and American willful ignorance.

Only you can prevent stupidity.

today's sermon--Song of Songs 2.8-13

2009-08-30T13:42:00.009-05:00

Grace and peace to you, brothers and sisters, from the mission field of University of Cincinnati. A mission field, I say, because it is ripe, not for the harvest, but for discovery. I am poised and ready for discovering how the good news already present, where God’s already acting. This is sharing the good news—not my sharing with them, but their sharing with me and one another how God has acted in their lives. Evangelism is about that—joy and excitement in our life together, pleasure in seeing where God’s acting in mysterious ways. Evangelism is about sharing our delight with other people. It’s like falling in love with God and God’s creation.

Let me ask you a question: What’s it like for you to be in love? Think about it—think about a time you fell in love. Could be any age—your Kindergarten sweetheart, your high school crush, your first boyfriend or girlfriend, your spouse—what was it like? In the beginning, you get that heart-pounding, skin-tingling anticipation, longing to be with the object of your desire. Later, there’s deep, abiding trust, comfort in one another’s skins and minds and continual challenge. And even later, you become like one another, like a man grows to look like his dog.

And everything in your life changes because of that love. You changed your schedule so you could catch a glimpse, changed your hair so he or she would catch a glimpse of you. You changed how you spoke, how you dressed, how you thought—whether you knew it or not. Love changes everything. Now, hold that feeling in your heart, and now think about a time you fell in love with God—this church, this denomination, this people, this Christianity. What was that heart-pounding moment? When did you long to be a part of it? Have you reached the stage of trust and comfort and challenge with the people of Roselawn Lutheran? How often have you fallen in love with the church? How many times have you fallen in love with Jesus? And everything in your life changed because of that love, or had the potential to change, anyway. You changed your schedules so you could be present in the community on Sunday, you changed how you talked or dressed or acted, you changed your reaction to a panhandler or a grocery clerk or your partner, you sacrificed and you rejoiced—whether you knew it or not. It wasn’t rules or rationalism which made you stay—it was love. Love changes everything.

You may think I mean metaphorically “in love”—like being overcome with compassion and connection with a community and thought it was neat. All great things, but I’m talking about really being in love—like, you like us like us, you know? Let me give you an example. There are two choices for the Hebrew Scripture lesson for today. The lesson chosen for this parish on this day was from Deuteronomy—you just heard it read a moment—“you must neither add anything to what I command you nor take anything away from it but keep the commandments of the Lord your God with which I am charging you.” It’s simple, clear, directive…sterile? “Don’t add or take away anything”—implies no interpretation, no change, no vitality. There are many folk who take comfort in rules, laws, clarity. Our Jewish brothers and sisters would say the Law is a gift from the God who loves us. They’re right—God is indeed already active in the Law. But God is a living God, a God of surprises and mysteries, a God who cannot be contained by our words. Remember Abram wheedled with God to save Sodom—God changed his mind. Jesus changed his mind when the Syro-Phonecian woman showed him her faith. Could God also be a God who changes? Could God need us… for deeper relationship? Could God need us to requite God’s love?

The other option for the Hebrew Scripture lesson was from the Song of Songs. We rarely get to read from Song, I’m not sure why—too challenging? too sexy? too inappropriate? Yet we’re all obsessed with sex—whether we’re doing it right, how to have it more often, who other people are having it with, how they feel about it, what it looks like (sexy or icky), whether our kids should know about it—and here it is in the Bible in glorious, beautiful words:

⁸The voice of my beloved! Look, he comes, leaping upon the mountains, bounding over the hills.  ⁹My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag. Look, there he stands behind our wall, gazing in at the windows, looking through the lattice.  ¹⁰My beloved speaks and says to me: ‘Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; ¹¹for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.  ¹²The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtle-dove is heard in our land.  ¹³The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

“Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away” and later “my beloved is mine, and I am his” and later “I will seek him whom my soul loves. I sought him and found him not” and still later, passages which might make you blush. “My beloved”—Jesus used that phrase when talking to his disciples. “My beloved”—this is unashamed love poetry—maybe like the stuff you and I both wrote to our teen loves—maybe more like Shakespeare, but love poetry nonetheless. The first narrator, a woman in love, is unashamed of her love, longing to be with him, searching the streets for him, showing him with everything that she has and everything that she is that he is her beloved. And the second narrator, a man in love, does the same—it’s a mutual, requited passion. They are complete in the other and love changes everything for them.

Great. Lovely. What’s it doing in the Bible? There’s no mention of God here. And it’s, you know, PG13. Scholars have been arguing for centuries about the Song of Songs. Some say it is a love song about the sacredness of romantic or erotic love, that in Creation, God created us not just for procreation but for joy, for delight in one another, for love. Others say it’s an allegory, a story that clearly shows the Church as the woman in love with God, the man, that it illustrates the spiritual joy we find in God. Another authority who hasn’t gotten much press—maybe as little as the Song of Songs itself—is a 13^th c. Dutch mystic named Hadewijch (I know, hang on). Like other mystics, she had visions of God, and these visions were both visual and tactile; unlike many mystics, she often wrote about her experiences in unabashedly sexual terms. Her poetry is what we might call the romance novel of her day. She called God minne which means “Love.” Hadewijch found ways to describe her experience of God, in terms common to all people, drawing comparisons between spiritual and physical ecstasy; she developed a theology of knowing and loving God which is physical and mutual. Physical and mutual. In other words, Hadewijch said, just as we long for God, so God longs for us. God longs for us. God wants us to love God back. Love changes everything.

So, the joy we find in this church, the delight we have in one another’s company, yes, even the challenge we offer one another, is love. Is God active and moving in our midst. AND God is in love with us. God desires us. God wants us to share our love stories with others. Wants us to change our ways and live that love. God, dare I say it, writes soppy love poetry to us in the form of the Bible. Because what else could our scriptures be, with all our faults and all of God’s forgiveness, what else could our scriptures be but a long, complicated love story?

Jesus looked at the crowds and he loved them.

God so loved the world that he gave his only son.

God loved the world so much that he made it in the first place.

Love.

Love. Changes. Everything.

book thoughts

2009-08-24T13:48:00.002-05:00
It is fascinating to me just how bad Twilight is. This from a veteran romance novel reader. I've read them since I was a pre-teen, sneaking them from the piles in my Grandma's room and reading 3 or 4 of the single-complication, Harlequin variety a day. It's a guilty and perhaps dubious pleasure. And despite a few titles and authors who've made something interesting of the genre, and despite the educated and highly entertaining ladies over at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, Romance novels are Not Very Good. Twilight by Stephanie Meyer is a romance novel. Sort of.

The problems are threefold:

~the hero, Edward Cullen, is perfect
In some contexts, this might be an overstatement. In the world of Twilight, it is an understatement. Your typical romance novel hero needs flaws: a scar from a gun fight years ago which gives him a rugged charm; an emotional wound dating from his mother's death; a weakness to Kryptonite. Typically he has all three, making him all the more attractive, something to "fix", am I right, ladies? Edward Cullen has no flaws. He's model gorgeous, which the narrator (cypher for Ms Meyer?) never ceases to let us forget. He's smart. He's funny. He's caring. He's always right. And he's boring. The supposed flaw that his skin glitters in the sunlight not only doesn't make him interesting, it makes him kind of campy. Even the imminent danger he poses to the heroine because of his vampiric nature doesn't save him from dullness.

~the heroine, Bella Swan, has no personality
The book begins promisingly enough, suggesting that Bella is a sarcastic, vaguely artsy introvert. She is clearly clever and willing to strike out on her own, moving to the overcast and provincial town where her father lives. "Excellent," the reader thinks, "An acerbic, independent woman, crippled by her shyness but with a core of moxy." Absolutely not. Bella faints at the sight of blood, gets nauseous at the drop of a hat, and immediately succumbs to Edward's overbearing statements that he can't get too worked up around her. Thus, not only is he boring and she wimpy, they don't even have real chemistry. All the characterization exists in phrases like "'What do you mean?' he challenged." or "'I like that dress,' I opined." If the reader has to be told that Bella is being sarcastic, she's not.

~there is no real conflict
Meyer's protestations of Bella's blood pounding and Edward's longing gazes to the contrary, they never really get it on. To be sure, it's pleasant not to read smutty bits in a teen novel, but the plot is so chaste as to make me question Meyer's intent. Is this, or is this not a romance novel? When Edward has managed to secret himself in Bella's bedroom one evening and they've been cuddling and canoodling for a bit, he asks, "What do you want to do?" She, still breathless from his perfect presence in her humble room, considers and says, "I don't know." You don't know? Really? The "action" sequences are few and peppered between large swaths of Edward and Bella sitting around and talking. The villains of the novel are either easily avoided or easily defeated. Even the early uncertainty between Edward and Bella, the part where they either hate one another or misunderstand each other's actions has a certain inevitability about it. What is there to overcome?

The movie version of the book has a certain fascination about it, probably explained solely by Edward's (Robert Pattinson) ridiculously gorgeous looks. The book, too, is fascinating--fascinating that it holds such fascination for so many women.

today's sermon--Ephesians 6.10-20

2009-08-22T21:11:00.003-05:00

I feel very uncomfortable with this Ephesians passage. About as uncomfortable as when I read the earlier parts of Joshua where the Israelites destroy all the people in Canaan, the Promised Land. And about as uncomfortable as when I read parts of Ezekiel—the violent, explicit bits where God doesn’t come off so well. It’s not like war or violence have no precedent in history or scripture—it’s just that they seem so over-the-top and so…predictable.

Jesus himself was prone to dramatic, violent gestures—he overturned tables and screamed at vendors in the Temple, maybe even whipped them, according to some; he cursed a fig tree for not bearing fruit when he knew full well that it wasn’t fig season. Yet we all know Jesus’ words and life to be overflowing with love and compassion, at odds with his zeal. So battle-ready images seem out of place, especially in church, am I right? Let’s hold hands and sing “Seek Ye First” and eat cookies and coffee instead.

Yet it is a struggle, this faith we claim. For some more than others, but a struggle all the same. Maybe we don’t like the language of war or maybe we’re too comfortable with it, but either way, it’s a constant in our lives. Instead of ignoring it, can we coopt it for our spiritual lives? Become Prayer Warriors? I think Jesus might have liked that term, because at its base, it doesn’t make sense. Instead of cherry-picking the parts of Scripture we like, can we struggle with this passage for a moment, dwell in that place of discomfort to see if maybe God has something to say to us?

Consider what the writer of the letter to the Ephesians says we’re going to face: rulers, authorities, and powers of this present darkness, spiritual forces of evil. All called in theological shorthand “powers and principalities”—what’s this about?

The text says it’s the spiritual forces of evil that we fight, not the flesh and blood ones—which is odd, because I could have sworn that war has a physical toll. I would have thought Jesus’ words about justice for the dispossessed and captives meant some sort of call to earthly justice. But Ephesians insists on the spiritual aspect of warfare, the principalities and powers which rule in our hearts instead of God. What are these principalities and powers now? I suppose one obvious answer might be politicians and the political system—massaging the message to mean what they need it to mean—but also might mean corporate greed or indifference. Those who work for corporations sometimes pushed to make the unethical choice and those who buy the products encouraged not to think about where those products come from. Powers and principalities might be greed, or accumulation—our houses cease being homes and become receptacles to keep our stuff safe. Or distance created by technology meant to help but which can create yet another barrier, another shield. Maybe it’s fear—of being alone, of having nothing, of seeing ourselves clearly. The powers and principalities you have to fight will be different than mine and one another’s—but seeing them clearly ought to be the first step—what is taking the place of God in your heart?

Now, consider what we’re supposed to do about it: put on the armor of God—what’s that? When I go to work as a campus minister at University of Cincinnati, I wear armor. Not literally, of course, that’d be weird. But I do wear the Converse All-Stars of self-expression, the laptop bag of welcome, and the clergy shirt of tradition. It’s armor of a sort, preparing me for the complex conversations I’ll have, for the battles I fight each day.

This passage is not about sitting passively—armor is not for just sitting still on your horse in an empty field. But neither is it about forcing conversions at the end of a sword. Certainly God does the heavy lifting—but we have to get ready. I wonder if we’re talking less of war imagery and more of preparedness, of transformation. At the time the letter was written, much of the Near East was under the heel of Rome, occupied by foreigners, invaded. Those invaders were, for all intents and purposes, in control. I wonder if the writer of Ephesians chose the look of a Roman soldier, not only because folk would recognize it, but also as a subtle transformation of who was in charge. Their armor is just metal, but ours is made of Justice, Truth, Righteousness, and the Word of God! Transformation from one thing to another is not just living our normal, comfortable lives with a little Jesus thrown in here and there but a soul-deep understanding of God’s love and our thanksgiving for it. To truly change your heart and mind away from an attitude of apathy or entitlement and towards one of compassion and sacrifice requires a huge change—we must be transformed in our preparation for battle. Consider what you wore to worship today, or how you dress for school or work: the two-piece suit of action, the necktie of willingness to talk to strangers about the weather, the backpack of compassion, the iPod of delight in others’ accomplishments, the earrings of really listening…

I mentioned my discomfort about this scripture passage on my Facebook status. A friend commented that the part of the passage that had always struck him was the bit about putting on your feet “whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace”. What makes you ready to live the life you’re called to? What makes you ready to take on even a corner of the powers and principalities of the world you live in? What makes you ready to speak about your faith or about the joy you find in this place?

In the end, it’s about trust—trust in one another in community, trust in God—the armor we put on is not about offense or defense but about putting on God like a garment. God, who loved the world so much that God gave us God’s only son—God, who wanted us so much that God created the world in the first place—God is already out on the field of your battle, waiting for you. God is already in your math class and your 8am conference call and your marriage and your next-door neighbor’s house. God forged the iron of your breastplate of righteousness, wove the poly-cotton blend of your dress shirt of patience, knitted your socks of humility. So go out after our holy lunch here, filled and prepared to do something and trust that God will be with you.

today's sermon

2009-08-16T10:46:00.005-05:00
Larry preached today and two things struck me:
perhaps God is less interested in how the film turns out in the end than in how the dailies look.
when I was giving birth, my mother held my hand and repeated "exhale, just remember to exhale--your body will inhale for you--just exhale." we need to remember to exhale/let go of our worry/sin and God will fill us with breath--just exhale.

location, location, location

2009-08-15T13:59:00.003-05:00
When I mentioned to my former supervisor that I now wear my clerical collar most days at work as a campus minister, he rolled his eyes. This is, of course, because he had to practically force me to wear it when I worked with him in a parish church. And that's what I have been musing about this afternoon: why the difference?

In the parish church, in theory, most folks know that I'm a priest--they hired me, after all, and see me celebrate on Sundays. Being a youth minister means you can get away with more casualness but, in turn, casualness might also say something about the worship or theology of the place. Certainly it could say, "I don't value this place" or "I don't know enough to dress up" but for many folk, it said, "Bring yourself as you are" or "It's not as staid as all that." In other words, there are expectations of looking and acting a certain way in church or at the church building and looking different can help complicate those expectations in a good way.

Similarly, there are expectations about what campus ministers look like: Birkenstocks, crazy hair, tattoos, nerdy-chic glasses...wait a minute, that sounds familiar. My point is that folk assume a much more casual attitude and image on campuses and perhaps a way to complicate those expectations is to be a bit more formal. Thus, I wear my black and white most days. With Chucks. But that's a tangent.

I'm remembering a casual Eucharist that my house church held recently. We were on retreat in Hocking Hills and at dinner one evening, we read a little scripture, chatted about it a bit, said a brief (but theologically sound) eucharistic prayer, and shared the Meal with our meal. We prayed together and shared remembrances with one of our number who would be leaving for a new life in Boston at the end of the retreat. The Eucharist itself was simple and meaningful, I think, particularly as it was our own Last Supper as the group was currently made up. And, though we all knew that the bread and wine were just as sacred in that place as they were in the Big Church at home, there was a lot of giggling and conversation as they were passed. I'm not certain I would have wanted absolute silence either, but I wonder if I should have been a bit more formal myself? That is, if I as the celebrant had been less nervous and more confident, perhaps noting somehow the casualness of the evening contrasted with the reverence of the Meal, I wonder if it might have been a bit smoother?

The point being, some formality is needed and desired in a situation of extreme casualness just as some casualness is in a formal situation. Like Chucks with a tuxedo. It's a question of what your desired effect is--for me, right now, I want to show folks something new that they hadn't thought of. That worship can be more spontaneous or that it can be more reverential; that church should be fun, or that God is present on a secular campus.

sunday's sermon [notes]

2009-08-12T09:20:00.002-05:00
for John 6:35-51--make of them what you will
> my comfort foods [Ham Glop, etc.]
> what’s your favorite comfort food? why? memories associated?
> Ratatouille moment w/critic [SPOILER]
> Manna as comfort food
> Eucharist as comfort food
> Jesus is the bread of life
> anamnesis, Passover
> not just comfort but challenge
> get back on the bike
> the meal is waiting for you
> food for the journey

haiku status updates

2009-08-08T20:35:00.002-05:00
For your convenience, all the haiku status updates via Twitter thus far:

Aching left shoulder/must have slept on it funny/while dreaming of you.
11:12 AM Aug 3rd from txt

EDIT: Breaking news--driving/north on interstate, canoe/still attatched to roof.
1:04 PM Jul 31st from txt

Driving north on the/interstate--good company,/good car snacks, good times.
1:01 PM Jul 31st from txt

Rainy Saturday,/snoozing baby, full teacup--/still dissatisfied.
9:38 AM Jul 25th from txt

Partying like a/rock star-if rock stars sit in/the nose bleed section.
2:40 PM Jul 19th from txt

Baby babbling/reminds me of childhood and/glossolalia.
10:31 AM Jul 16th from txt

My cell phone contract/stinks to high heaven and will/expire July 8.
3:56 PM Jun 25th from txt

Down from the mountain./Filled with glorious fresh air/and intense knee pain.
8:11 AM Jun 24th from txt

Driving by myself./Delicious freedom made more/so by those at home.
10:07 AM Jun 18th from txt

RT from Threadless.com: haikus are easy/but sometimes they don't make sense/refrigerator
8:10 AM Jun 17th from txt

In motel room with/baby, husband, and cable./Life is beautiful.
7:42 AM Jun 16th from txt

Last service on my/last Sunday at Redeemer./Going to bed soon.
5:33 PM Jun 7th from txt

Just had productive/and joyful meeting. Is that/an oxymoron?
6:36 PM Jun 5th from txt

Crack in the windshield/zigs and zags, creeping ever/closer to ruin.
10:25 AM Jun 1st from web

I've been playing Four-/Square since before you were born./I still suck at it.
8:05 PM May 10th from txt

Other signs of spring:/coughing,sneezing, runny eyes/and nose, itchy skin.
12:11 PM May 2nd from txt

Signs of spring: crocus/blooming, bright green leaves, tent worms/falling on my head. #haiku
4:00 PM May 1st from txt

Getting more done now,/ironically, than before/advent of baby.
11:35 AM Apr 28th from txt

Big celebration:/Abby has successfully/rolled herself over!
9:39 AM Apr 27th from txt

Four deceased raccoons./Its disturbing and not a/little expensive.
10:59 AM Apr 26th from txt

Freaking gorgeous day./I mean, seriously, it/is. Have you seen it?
10:10 AM Apr 26th from txt

Haiku for homeless/simulation: weather is/too damn nice for this.
2:06 PM Apr 25th from txt

Late returning film./Have now spent two whole dollars/on The Mummy 3.
4:10 PM Apr 24th from txt

A morning without/the baby. Whatever will/I do with myself?
7:57 AM Apr 23rd from txt

Hail hits my windshield/suddenly and disappears/just as suddenly.
10:54 AM Apr 21st from txt

revision courtesy of Loving Husband: Night. Max & Erma's./Carry-out takes about as/long as dining in.
8:25 PM Apr 20th from txt

Night. Max & Ermas./Delicious burgers coming./All's right with the world.
8:22 PM Apr 20th from txt

Making up a dish/for dinner tonight. Let's hope/it doesn't kill us.
4:53 PM Apr 15th from txt

My week of working/very little has gotten/off to a bad start.
4:18 PM Apr 14th from txt

Is talking to the/baby justification/for talking to self?
3:31 PM Apr 13th from txt

Post-Easter let-down/made worse by overcast sky/and pile of laundry.
2:39 PM Apr 13th from txt

The Resurrection/is about justice. God wants/repentance and love.
6:55 AM Apr 12th from txt

Jesus desperate,/moments from agony. Says/Pilate, "What is truth?"
7:25 AM Apr 10th from txt

Maundy Thursday is/hard, empty-making, joyful,/flat, and exhausting.
5:05 PM Apr 9th from txt

kielbasa shortcakes/for dinner: they are not as/bad as they sound, yo.
6:28 PM Apr 7th from txt

Post box near my house:/convenient, reliable,/and now, strangely, gone.
10:12 AM Apr 7th from txt

Snow in Holy Week:/appropriate, no? and yet/my heart longs for spring.
10:56 AM Apr 6th from txt

might finish digging/up the front garden before/dark. Or she might not.
5:36 PM Apr 4th from txt

Deep breath in and out,/pleasant aches. Morning yoga,/how i have missed you.
8:19 AM Apr 3rd from txt

Shaky from hunger./Tomato soup and caesar/salad hit the spot.
12:50 PM Apr 2nd from txt

Pushing your daughter/on a swing and her laughing./What could be better?
6:28 PM Apr 1st from txt

Preschooler made me/rethink stance on cookies: ice/cream's portable, too.
2:34 PM Apr 1st from txt

Why must you always/interrupt me when I'm in/the middle of a-
7:06 PM Mar 31st from txt

Back aches, sun in my/eyes, stomach heavy with fried egg./best commute ever
6:23 PM Mar 30th from txt

To do: laundry, walk,/consolidate grad school loans,/become Enlightened.
5:01 PM Mar 30th from txt

It's going to get/worse before it gets better./The truth just hit me.
4:12 PM Mar 30th from txt

Walking home, cold wind./Should have brought a jacket. Still,/invigorating.
11:24 AM Mar 28th from txt

McKay's used book store/is a labyrinth of joy/minus minotaur.
1:00 PM Mar 26th from txt

To do: catch up on/reading, eat salad, make art,/let go of expectations.
9:36 AM Mar 25th from txt

hardees for breakfast/cinnamon raisin biscuits/make me weep with joy
7:52 AM Mar 24th from txt

Yardwork is thankless./except for new shoots and buds/which are quite polite.
4:32 PM Mar 22nd from txt

Early spring, freezing./Traffic a block over. Birds/chanting early mass.
6:30 AM Mar 22nd from txt

Sitting on the porch,/watching cars and trucks go by./Abby is enthralled.
4:10 PM Mar 20th from txt

No haiku today/too exhausted to compose/cleaning house instead.
8:42 AM Mar 19th from txt

Left screaming baby/with Nana. Feeling guilty/and also relieved.
9:00 AM Mar 18th from txt

Up early. It's still/dark and silent. Abby's eyes/open, silence flees.
6:57 AM Mar 17th from txt

The moneychangers/and Jesus in the Temple:/Law as fence or door.
4:31 PM Mar 15th from txt

away from home, full/night's sleep, no midnight feeding./I miss the baby.
7:59 AM Mar 14th from txt

haman taschen and/tea for breakfast, pie for lunch,/regret for dinner.
7:32 AM Mar 13th from txt

Steam rises from my/teacup like souls to heaven/or flies from rotten meat
7:03 AM Mar 12th from txt

Aesthetic splendor:/sunset, Van Gogh, Beethoven,/and paisley trousers.
6:50 PM Mar 11th from txt

Folding diapers in/the morning is like praying/God is here with me.
5:38 AM Mar 10th from txt

Hot buttered biscuits/peach preserves and country ham/Need a bigger belt.
12:52 PM Mar 9th from txt

Rain is immanent/clouds hang like dropped ceiling/clothes still on the line?
7:30 PM Mar 8th from txt

Jesus is awesome/ditto Buddha and Moses/Who me? I'm okay.
6:01 AM Mar 8th from txt

today's sermon--2 Samuel 11:1-15

2009-07-26T14:32:00.004-05:00
Please pardon the bizarre formatting--I don't feel like making it into paragraphs.

A sort of procedural note before I begin today
I will be making many references to some excellent TV shows in the coming years
So, to make sure we’re all on the same page
It might be best for y’all to go ahead and
Put a bunch of them on your Netflix queues or order from Amazon
If you’d like a simple syllabus,
they’ll be available in the lobby after worship…
there’s a science-fiction sho on the BBC you may have heard of,
a spin-off of Dr. Who (that’s on the list)
called Torchwood—this last week was an experimental 5-episode season
instead of 12 episodes over several months,
it was essentially 5 short movies
anyway, no spoilers here, but in the end, the hero Captain Jack Harkness
commits an unforgivable act
Jack the hero
Jack the lovable con man
Jack the savior of humanity
Jack goes from hero to villain in five seconds
Fans are asking, “How can we watch the show anymore?”
Knowing what he does,
Regardless that it was necessary to save the Earth,
Knowing one piece of information can ruin a relationship
and you can’t un-know it
This story about David—it’s the same thing
David’s the greatest King of Israel
He’s named as the writer of 150 Psalms,
bringer of decency and faithfulness to Israel
he’s the spunky little boy who brought down Goliath with a slingshot
and according to St. Matthew, he’s also Jesus’ granddaddy generations back,
an idea that brings Jesus legitimacy
David was a Good King, a hero—a hero’s hero
So it was wartime—
Soldiers fought other soldiers for freedom and honor and oil and…well…
whatever it is people have been fighting for since the beginning
And our heroic David, victor of many battles, was sitting at home,
watching reality tv and reruns of Touched by an Angel (not on the list)
Well, there must have been a good reason
for the king not to be with the army
—I mean, it was 3000 years ago—
we don’t know what it was like
I’m sure he wasn’t being lazy or anything
So he looks out his window and sees a woman bathing on her roof,
Naked as we all are when we bathe
—“nice” he thinks—
and then he thinks, “am I or am I not the King
—I don’t have to just look…”
[it’s going to get a little sexy here—a little PG-13]
and when she arrives, the object of his desire
David finds out that she’s already married
—oh, good—he’ll do the right thing, send her home—
he’s a hero’s hero after all, right?
He wouldn’t…yeah, he does
[Now, as an aside,
we don’t know how Bathsheba was feeling about this
Was she terrified for her life and that of her beloved husband?
Was she annoyed to have the phone ring while she’s in the bath,
to be summoned to the king’s side?
Was she thrilled by the illicit pleasure of being with the king?
Who by all accounts was very handsome?
Was it rape?]
So, David takes Bathsheba to bed and then sends her home
—he’s taken what he wanted—
And to add insult to injury,
the story says Bathsheba was in the time of cleansing after her period
—she was, according to the Law anyway, unclean
No one, not even her husband, was allowed to touch her
I’m not feeling very good about David right now,
but I suppose we all falter
Even heroes have Achilles’ heels, right?
Y’all watch TV, too, I know.
Sp even if you hadn’t already heard the story, you could guess
what happens after the King takes a married woman to bed
She’s pregnant. Of course.
Well now David has a serious problem—now there’s proof of his indiscretion.
No—let’s lay it on the line, his sin.
He has screwed up, so focused on his wanting and his taking
that the consequences haven’t crossed his mind.
Now something has to be done.
Since he’s a hero, a Good King, he’ll certainly own up to his sin
—make reparation, take care of the child, something.
That’s what heroes do,
they help the helpless, protect the widows and orphans.
He sends for Bathsheba’s husband Uriah the Hittite
who’s out fighting in the war
—that war that David should be leading right now?—
he brings Uriah back from the front lines,
covered in sweat and dirt and the smell of death and says,
“go wash your feet”
—which of course doesn’t mean “wash your feet”—
it means “go sleep with your wife”
Go sleep with your wife so that when you find out she’s pregnant,
you’ll be thrilled to be a new father,
you’ll assume the baby is your own,
though he has rather Davidic features…
Devious, yes. Still forgivable, I suppose.
Who hasn’t tried to cover up an indiscretion
—how many of us have tried not to get caught in something we shouldn’t be doing?
Maybe told a white lie to avoid suspicion?
Uriah, though, seems to have more integrity than the good King David…
he says, “no, how could I take comfort and relax
in my home with my wife
while the army is still camped in tents,
in harm’s way, in the thick of a war?
They have no wives to go to, no soft bed to sleep on
—how could I take what I want when they have nothing?”
And he sleeps on the floor of the palace.
So David gets him drunk,
thinking that will make Uriah want to go visit his wife.
No dice.
And so David, in a desperate desire not to be discovered in his sin
(because clearly at this point he knows what he’s done)
takes the unforgivable option
He goes from hero to villain
in the 5 seconds it takes to write a note.
“Eyes only: General Joab, deploy Uriah the Hittite to the front line of the next battle. Ensure he’s the first over the top and a casualty of enemy fire.”
How can David be a Good King? How can he be a hero?
I can’t unknow this—I can’t look at him the same way anymore.
He’s not a hero—he’s a Bad King—he’s a creep.
Jesus’ granddaddy is a murderer and an adulterer and a slimy git.
And that’s the end of the reading.
What are we supposed to do with this?
Let me turn this conversation over to you:
what do you make of the story? How do you feel about David? About Bathsheba? About Uriah? Do you see any connection to your own life? Where is God in this story? What is God telling us through this story?
How would you think about the story
if I told you that, in just a few verses, David will marry Bathsheba?
And that later on, she bears him a second son named Solomon?
Does that justify it? Does it make it worse?

We see these sorts of sins in the news all the time
—governors and secret trips to mistresses,
cigarette companies deceiving the public about addiction,
teens posting inappropriate videos on youtube and denying responsibility
And we live it
—when was the last time
you bought something that you really wanted
but perhaps couldn’t really afford or didn’t really need?
Something that you had to justify to yourself as you were paying?
When was the last time
you tried to hide something you’d done so that others wouldn’t find out,
so that you could keep the thing you wanted, that you took, that you have?
If no one knows, it’s not a sin, right?
There’s got to be some grace here—we’re a church of the good news, after all
The real end of the story is something we’ll read next week—
I’ll give you a sneak preview.
It’s a wonderful, complete about-face.
The prophet Nathan, a wily and intense man,
shows David the hurt he’s caused,
shows him the wrongness of his path
and David listens and repents.
He doesn’t pull the politician’s card of the non-apology
—“I’m sorry people were hurt by my actions.
I did not have complete information.”—
but says “Have mercy on me a sinner.”
He sees in full the consequences of his actions,
feels grief and remorse in his soul, and repents.
He turns away from his wrong-doing and towards God.
we speak of saints and sinners as easily and neatly divided like sheep and goats,
but we all know in our hearts that doesn’t work.
Maybe that’s the point, the lesson we should draw from this story—
David, greatest king of Israel, forefather of our Lord Jesus the Christ—
David was human and messed up just like the rest of us.
He performed amazing deeds and he made terrible mistakes
He is a Good King and a Bad King, saint and sinner.
We, too, are both saint and sinner, good king and bad king.
Our victories and our failures may not be as dramatic
—few of us lead armies, or decide the fates of nations—
but they are just as important in the eyes of God
All of us give in to sin from time to time, and rationalize our choice,
telling ourselves and others that what we did wasn’t really so bad
It can be hard—it is always hard—but we need to catch ourselves
and say, “I messed up.”
No justifications. No excuses. “I messed up, and I am sorry.”
We are always in need of repenting
and always in need of celebrating the spark of divinity within us
being both saints and sinners means that the story doesn’t end here
it means we were created by God,
we are beloved by God,
and we are redeemed by God
Amen.

book thoughts

2009-07-19T09:26:00.002-05:00
Moo, Baa, La La La by Sandra Boynton

One of the greatest books I've ever read. It's educational (sounds animals make), silly ("three singing pigs"--genius!), and open-ended ("what do you say?"). It even has ambiguity, both in its open-ended-ness and, more importantly, in the representations of the characters. Boynton's art style offers animals whose attitudes are far from clear. What might look like sadness on the surface might, upon further contemplation, suggest despair or confusion. A face alight with glee might also be one of manic loss-of-control. A pig uttering its species-appropriate "oink" looks strangely disgruntled, perhaps even filled with longing for the days of show-biz.

What more could you ask from great literature?

sermon idea only barely related to the lessons

2009-07-12T15:21:00.003-05:00
One of my many charms is a predilection for preaching a completely different sermon to myself while listening to someone else preach. Today was one of those occasions. In a move which could only be described as provocative (or maybe blood-thirsty), the Revised Common Lectionary assigned the fantastic story of Salome's dancing for her step-father and her asking for the head of John the Baptist on a platter as a reward. It's awful and awe-ful and unfair, as the preacher rightly pointed out. Where is the good news here? She began speaking about how unfair all of our lives are, but my mind turned in a different direction altogether.

Last night, Loving Husband and I watched Ratatouille and, while the movie was pretty darned great, one moment struck me. [I should note that there will be a SPOILER in this post. Won't ruin the movie for you, but proceed at your own risk. Or just go watch the movie right now and we'll wait for you.]

So near the end of the film, the restaurant critic is waiting ominously in the dining room while chaos and artistry vie for supremacy in the kitchen. We know the critic to be a dour, excessively disapproving sort--one who delights in writing negative reviews. And we know that the fate of the restaurant and of our two heroes--their identities, really--hang on the critic's experience of the food. Because we're all smart people here, I don't mind saying it's a foregone conclusion that the critic will come around, but how? With such build-up, it seems impossible for anything to change his mind, much less for the animators to be good enough to capture it. And yet they do so with one of the most graceful and most beautiful of moments I've seen on film.

The chef prepares a "peasant dish" of ratatouille, a simple vegetable stew, unremarkable to anyone. Of course he puts his own spin on it--what can it be? There's no way for us to know except through the critic's experience. Because when the plate--elegantly stacked as all haute cuisine is these days--arrives on his table and he takes his first sneering bite, he pauses. He pauses mid-chew and is, with us, catapulted into a childhood memory of having wrecked his bicycle, needing his mother to comfort him, and her serving him a dish of comforting ratatouille. And just as suddenly, we're catapulted back into that restaurant where the critic's face is shining with joy. It is a revelation, both to him and to us. No words could do the moment justice, no argument could convince the critic of the food's worth, but the memory does.

I've had that kind of moment. Loving Husband and I went to dinner at Hollyhock Hill in Indianapolis. When they brought out the sixth pre-dinner dish of food, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. But it was when I noticed that there were both cottage cheese and apple butter on the table that I swooned. I used to mix the two when I was small and called it "Witches' Brew." I spooned equal amounts into my salad bowl and stirred them with anticipation mounting. With the first bite there came a moment like the critic's when my taste buds remembered the smell of grass and the grain of the paneling in my neighbor's house. It was a taste that I had forgotten and which revealed to me my youth.

And that, my friends, is what the book of Revelation is about. I'm not certain about all the seals and the 144,000, but that moment of seeing clearly, of physically remembering something forgotten but pivotal and even simple, that is what John of Patmos' Revelation is about.

open source church

2009-07-06T12:17:00.002-05:00
This is a thought-provoking article from Episcopal Cafe. She articulates very well what I've been thinking recently, particularly the bit about needing fewer cathedrals and more bazaars.

And, yes, I am catching up on my blog reading--why do you ask?

supervising sex

2009-07-06T09:21:00.002-05:00
In the ongoing religious conversation about sex, comedian Lynn Lavner has this to say:
The Bible contains six admonishments to homosexuals and 362 admonishments to heterosexuals. That doesn’t mean that God doesn’t love heterosexuals. It’s just that they need more supervision.

Click here for the [brief] Episcopal Cafe article from which I stole it.

book thoughts

2009-07-05T15:39:00.005-05:00
Began reading (or skimming, really) the new Evangelical Lutheran Worship today. There's good stuff in there--prayers, liturgies, music--but I was most interested in the illustrations. I know, went to school for three years and all she can talk about is the pictures.

There's one at the beginning which is an image of Jesus as the cycle of the year--it's stunning. Very simple and clean-lined but clearly evocative of the cycle of life and death and of Jesus' part in it. And on the first page of the Psalms is a marvelous image of the tree by the stream of living water which plays such a large role in Jewish poetry. These images speak to me, perhaps more than the words they are inspired by. They would make striking tattoos.

I haven't yet gotten to the copyrights page to find out who the artist is but I live in anticipation.

excellent sermon

2009-06-29T08:08:00.001-05:00
...preached by the Sarcastic Lutheran on the woman with the issue of blood.

Check it out.

goodbye redeemer

2009-05-21T21:17:00.002-05:00
This article will be published in Church of the Redeemer's newsletter next week.

Gosh—my last Redeemer News article ever. That's big. I remember the last few weeks of college, going around campus with my friends saying things like, "This is the last time we'll ever go to Chemistry for Dummies," and "This is the last time we'll ever go to a play here," and "This is the last time I'll ever skip across campus." It got a bit ridiculous, really—-when we were manufacturing things that could be the last time we did them when in fact it was the first time…well, you get the point. We were a bit hysterical at that point. I'm not there yet, but just wait. One Sunday, I'll be in the middle of the Eucharistic Prayer and suddenly say, "This is the last time I'll ever dance a jig in Redeemer's Sanctuary," or something.

These endings are important, though, aren't they? We can't just laugh them off or say that it'll all be okay in time. There's a little bit of death when someone leaves a church, clergy or no. It will be okay in time but that's not a lot of comfort in the moment. I've learned from watching Charlie celebrate at funerals that the grief of someone's death is just as necessary to feel as the hope we have in Christ's resurrection. And I do feel grief. In the last five years, I've fallen in love with you. From my first summer when I had no idea what I was doing—-either in youth ministry or in using the copy machine—-to three years ago when I let my sense of justice and youthful excitement run away with me, to the past few months when you've welcomed my daughter with joy. You have made me a priest.

It is not easy to discern a new call. I suppose it smacks of being tired of the old one. Or at least uninterested in it. But that can't be further from the truth. Redeemer is a vibrant place, full of challenge and hope. I can see a fantastic road ahead of you. And I see a smaller path branching off towards UC. I have done what I came here to do—-whether I knew what that was at the beginning or not—-and now it's time to follow the Spirit somewhere else.

Bishop Thompson once said that we're all interims. Certainly the clergy have a habit of leaving, but so, too, do you. It is the community which continues—the Redeemer community and the Christian community. This life we live is beautiful and exciting and heartbreaking. And temporary. "Weeping endures the night, but joy comes in the morning" the Psalmist wrote. We live in the present moment, the olam of the Hebrew Scriptures, the deepness of the now. This is who we are, here and now: broken and beautiful human beings, breathing in the breath of God.

And so my last Redeemer News article ever. If I could leave you with anything it would be the courage to rely on God and to step out of what you know. Deep peace be with you all.

for a good time, read a comic book

2009-05-01T14:03:00.001-05:00
Happy Free Comic Book Day!

Head on over to your local comic shop (yes, any comic shop--they pretty much all do it) and pick up a free comic! Each shop has its own rules, but you at least get one for Absolutely Free!

absence

2009-04-30T09:00:00.002-05:00
I'm a terrible long-distance friend. When we're in the same town, participating in the same groups, attending the same functions, we're thick as thieves. But then someone moves. We exchange tearful goodbyes, certain we'll talk at least weekly, check one another's Facebook/blog/Twitter, and meet up for caffeinated beverages as often as possible.

Several days pass.

I think to myself, "It's too soon to call--she's only been gone a little while."

Several weeks pass.

I think to myself, "Ok, now it's embarrassing that I haven't called."

Several months pass.

I think to myself, "Now I can't call--I'm too ashamed."

And so it goes.

There's a palpable absence in these relationships. I am constantly aware of the fact that the friend isn't there and of my own communication failings. It becomes a living, breathing thing between us, a beast of regret and recrimination.

Perhaps I'm being melodramatic, but we all have relationships in our lives which exist more as an absence than a presence. There's a person-shaped hole.

And it's not like it used to be--calling up a friend involved long-distance charges which could bankrupt you. Writing a letter was much cheaper but more involved. Do I have enough to say to fill up a letter? Is there anything newsworthy to report? Does it sound goofy when I write, "How are you? I am fine. The weather has been temperate." How did Paul of Tarsus do it?

Now, we've got lots of virtually free methods of keeping in touch--calling my friend in California is no different than calling my friend here in Cincinnati. And yet...

...and yet every time I do actually contact someone, it's all "I've missed you," and "I was just thinking about you," and "Tell me everything!" The palpable absence, the person-shaped hole is really a presence--it reminds me of the person, that our relationship continues despite distance and silence. That absence marks an intimacy that can't be destroyed--like matter and energy--it just changes over time. We are different people when we reconnect--see also Mary Magdalene mistaking the risen Jesus for the gardener--yet the kernel of our relationship continues to grow in each of us. It's not the end.

validation

2009-03-28T19:55:00.001-05:00

It's over 16 minutes long but fantastic. I particularly enjoy the first 4-ish minutes.

poppets

2009-03-13T11:00:00.003-05:00

I have a little red poppet on the mantel in my living room. I love her. And fear her. She's an odd duck--tiny and inconspicuous but also frighteningly serene.

She reminds me of the Holy Spirit, actually. Obviously, she's wearing the liturgical red suggesting both the fire of Pentecost and the blood of the martyrs. But she seems to be bigger than she is, always waiting and watching. I suspect that, when I'm not paying attention, she floats around the room, making everything more...fizzy. The air crackles when the Spirit passes by. Colors are brighter, breaths are deeper.

That's a lot of power for someone three inches tall.

book thoughts

2009-02-10T15:55:00.004-05:00
Time's Arrow by Martin Amis

Amis' protagonist is a disembodied voice living another man's life backward--he begins at death, slowly grows younger, meets lovers at the moment of break-up and leaves them with the quiet grace of a first meeting. He is concerned that the world doesn't make any sense. His host is a doctor and a horror: people come to the hospital perfectly healthy and happy, then are mangled beyond recognition and leave in tears. How can this make any sense? And so, as preparations are made for war (as countries repair the damage of war), the protagonist becomes more and more excited about the world being fixed by this sudden violence. Perhaps you see where this is going. Imagine, says Amis, the bodies of the Jews being taken from the ovens, revived with gas, and then clothed and reunited with their families, tearfully returned to their homes and welcomed into German society.

What tells me that this is right? What tells me that ll the rest was wrong? Certainly not my aesthetic sense. I would never claim that Auschwitz-Birkenau-Monowitz was good to look at. Or to listen to, or to smell, or to taste, or to touch. There was among my colleagues there, a general though desultory quest for greater elegance. I can understand that word, and ll its yearning: elegant. Not for its elegance did I come to love the evening sky above the Vitula, hellish red with the gathering souls. Creation is easy. Also ugly. Hier ist kein warum. Here there is no why. Here there is no when, no how, no where. Our preternatural purpose? To dream a race. To make a people from the weather. From thunder and from lightening. With gas, with electricity, with shit, with fire. [120]

Brilliant. The only way events like the Holocaust can possibly make sense is if they're experienced backwards.

It startles me how much I am suddenly obsessed with the Holocaust. Sunday's Psalm included a line about God counting all the stars and knowing all their names. I remember God saying to Abram--who was also told to sacrifice his only son Isaac to the glory of God--that his descendants would number as the stars--the Jews are numerous and so beloved of God that God knows every single one of their names. Every person who died in World War II is known and beloved. And, if we look at the story backwards, it all makes sense. Only when told in reverse, the Holocaust--the holy fire, the sacrifice--is indeed holy.

core convictions

2009-01-30T13:18:00.002-05:00
I was recently asked what my core convictions are. This is what I wrote:

"We demand rigidly defined areas of doubt and uncertainty." Douglas Adams

Truth is just as often found in comedy as in drama. Douglas Adams was a humor/science-fiction writer whose words were surprisingly perceptive. Doubt and uncertainty are theological experiences which the modern church and our American society do not value. Yet doubt is what pushes theologians to write, scientists to explore, artists to create. Doubt is a part of everything we do and are. Edward Norton's character Father Brian Finn in the movie Keeping the Faith is a Catholic priest who begins to doubt his call to celibacy. He talks with an older priest mentor Father Havel about his feeling that the call to priesthood should be clearer and more exciting. Father Havel tells Brian that the overblown language of call in seminary is there to help seminarians get through, but real call is about choosing to live a different kind of life each day. It's hard and it's every day.

Doubt and uncertainty are not the end of the story. We are a people of incarnation and resurrection. I once heard the following which strikes me as one of the messages Jesus was trying to get across to us: "everything will be okay in the end--if it's not okay, it's not the end."

tumblr

2009-01-30T12:40:00.003-05:00
Fab new site which works more like my brain normally functions. Check out my tumblr.

a poem

2009-01-21T09:05:00.000-05:00
Litany by Billy Collins [from Nine Horses]

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass,
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is no way you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley,
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's teacup.
But don't worry, I am not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

da vinci vs. the dark knight

2009-01-19T19:02:00.003-05:00
SPOILERS: If you haven't yet seen The Dark Knight, go watch it. I'll wait.

Have you ever participated in one of those theoretical Ethical Dilemmas like "Cruise Ship Explosion" or "Who Gets the Liver"? The ones where you're presented with an impossible decision--usually who lives and who dies and if you don't pick, everyone dies--and have to weigh all options in a matter of minutes and it all comes down to you? The new Batman movie The Dark Knight is, in many ways, one of those Ethical Dilemmas come to life. The Joker sets up ridiculously complex life-or-death situations for Batman, theoretically for him to solve but, realistically, to make him miserable. And it seems his entire reason for existence is to promote chaos and nihilism. He and the Batman are larger-than-life vessels for our daily struggles with good and evil; the Joker in his conviction must indeed hold our souls in his hands like a modern Satan. He single-handedly turns Gotham City upside-down and destroys what little good there is.

Or does he? Is it possible for one person to completely destroy the beliefs and emotions of a people? Is it possible for one event to undermine everything? To put it another way, will everyone really die if we don't choose someone to get the liver?

That is, of course, the premise of The Da Vinci Code. Before you stone me for bringing up a long beaten and dead horse, pause and reflect. The main thrust of The Da Vinci Code is that if certain secrets come to light--Jesus being married to Mary Magdalene, etc.--the entire Church will fall apart. Its main characters must work out an Ethical Dilemma of their own--do they let the world know about the secrets they've discovered? Do they share their experience of a vindictive and violent secret Catholic body, the knowledge of which could shake the Church Universal to its very core? Apparently, Dan Brown and the writers of his major resource Holy Blood, Holy Grail think very little of Christians. As though our faith or an institution as old and, to put it bluntly, powerful as the Church would fold because of a single challenge. Can that one fact destroy the Church? Considering the idea of Jesus as a married man has been around since the beginning, as well as an even more difficult idea that he wasn't resurrected at all but robbed from his grave by his disciples, I don't think this even counts as a Huge Secret or even an Ethical Dilemma. The fallacy of this genre of supposition is not in the facts or the supposition itself but in the assumption that the people as a whole can be destroyed.

The Joker and the villains of The Da Vinci Code try hard to be the single Anti-Hero who will annihilate good and beauty and truth and justice for all eternity. But it won't work.

Recall the climactic scene from The Dark Knight. Recall that neither of the two barges carrying, respectively, the average folks and the hardened criminals solve their Ethical Dilemma by blowing up the other boat. The Joker insists that all is chaos and without meaning beyond the struggle, yet behind him the people prove otherwise. They are the grace in the midst of trouble, they are the heroes.

A single person cannot destroy the world, but a single person can change the world.

newsletter article

2009-01-09T10:49:00.001-05:00
"Baby love, my baby love, I need you, ooh how I need you…"

I never knew I could love someone so much. Before I gave birth to Abigail, I thought, "Of course I'll love her. She's my daughter, my flesh and blood, and I will love her." It was a kind of theoretical love, one that made sense in my head and made me weep when I first felt her move. When she finally arrived, that theoretical love became real, and fiercer than fire. Abby is so beautiful—her tiny, perfect toes; the way she stares into my eyes without blinking; the way she arches her back when she yawns hugely—my heart swells just to think of it. All the potential in her is enthralling. She will be the only one in the world with her heart and mind and soul and she will love God and the world in an unique way. I can't wait to see who she'll become. And when I hold her close and feel her little furnace of a body, I am overwhelmed by sadness to think of all the babies in the world who are malnourished, neglected, or unloved. In the first couple of weeks, I cried every time I thought of it. How could a parent stand it? Abby is so vulnerable—she can't do anything for herself and relies completely on Leighton and me for everything. I could never betray her trust.

I never knew I could be tired like this. There's the lack of sleep, of course, and I don't think I'll ever look at 2am in the same way again, but more than that is the emotional tiredness. Loving someone this much exhausting. The energy I expend worrying about how much she's eating or excreting, whether that cry is one of pain or boredom, if I'm entertaining or educating her enough for this stage of development—that energy is joyful and almost unsustainable. It is love tinged with worry for all the things that might go wrong. I'm my father's daughter: we excel at finding something to worry about.

I never knew how loved I was. It struck me the other night that we talk about God as a parent—Father or Mother—and that image has never truly resonated with me. It isn't that I don't love my parents—they're two of the most amazing people I know—but that I never really understood the love they have for me. I took it for granted, perhaps; their care and worry was not as immediate as my own desires. Now, I get it. Now, I wonder if the church fathers and mothers over the centuries have talked about God as parent, not because of what it's like to be a child, but because of what it's like to be a parent. I suspect God looks at us with the same overwhelming love and exhaustion. God sees all that is precious in us, the children. God sees all that is in us, all the potential, all the mistakes and successes. God's heart swells to see our dear faces looking back. God is pleased by our attempts to make things—buildings, laws, art, systems, relationships, laundry—just as we are when our child first clings to our finger or brings her first macaroni painting. God's heart breaks to see any of us in pain.

Perhaps you've never thought of yourself in this light, as the infinitely beloved and vulnerable baby of God. Perhaps you've already thought of God this way and you're miles ahead of me. Either way, "Our Father…" has never meant so much.

advent conspiracy

2008-12-20T13:32:00.002-05:00
Advent is the season leading up to Christmas. It's a season of waiting, of pregnant pause, of calm before the storm of Incarnation.

In my house growing up, one of our consistent holiday traditions was arguing over when to put up the tree. It never went up earlier than a couple weeks before Christmas, usually much later--my father insisting that it was not only incorrect to put it up earlier but also crass. These days, I get what he was saying--decorations in the stores in October, commercials telling us to "buy, Buy, BUY", everything pointing us to money spent=happiness--it's horrible. And the "Jesus is the reason for the season" folks aren't any better. What does that even mean? My experience of the phenomenon is that it's just as empty as the consumerism it rejects--often it involves t-shirts and buttons you can buy to make your point.

There's a small movement happening out there called the Advent Conspiracy. The idea is that the point of Christmas, to Christians at least, is relationship and worship. How many sweaters or cheap candles have you bought for friends and family members simply to give them a thing? How do you show your love for those people in real terms? How much time do you spend with them? In the days after Loving Husband's last grandparent died, we're asking ourselves, "What's more valuable than time spent?"

Check out this video from the Advent Conspiracy folk. It's really pretty (well-designed, that is, for the design dorks out there) and quite powerful. How can we make a difference?

happy note

2008-12-11T11:06:00.001-05:00
I should note that I love my daughter Abby more than I thought possible. Her big grey eyes, her perfect ears, the way she curls her toes around my finger when I massage her feet--I am filled with awe that Loving Husband and I made her. She is proof to me of the existence of God.

learning to let go

2008-12-11T10:53:00.004-05:00
For a new baby, one is supposed to:
feed her every three hours or so
give her several minutes of "tummy time" each day
read to her whenever possible
have as much "skin-to-skin" time as possible (I use a sling)
feed breast milk, which requires both actual feeding time and pumping
sleep when the baby sleeps
give her an hour or so of naked time (to help prevent diaper rash)
It seems there is not time in the day for everything you're supposed to do to help with baby's development. Each night, I look at her sleeping in the crib and think, "I didn't do enough tummy time today" or "There were several minutes today when you were awake and I wasn't reading to you". Each thought is followed inevitably by "I'm a terrible mother."

I am aware of the ridiculousness of this feeling, yet there it is. I'm sure I'm not the first to feel it either. I've got this driving need to do everything right. There's so much pressure--from baby books, from the pediatrician, from the lactation consultant, from my experience of my parents' childrearing--to succeed, not just manage. And, honestly, I am having a hard time managing at times. If I'm really honest, all that pressure is from my own big brain--I haven't figured out how to filter all the information and I'm trying to do everything. I've got to let go.

I love my new daughter, don't get me wrong, but there are moments when I wonder when and if it will be worth it. She herself is the grace of the moment, the free gift from God, and yet the trouble associated with taking care of an infant seems insurmountable.

I do what I can. We all do what we can. When we can do more, we do. When we can only do less, we do that.

It will all be ok in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end.