Newsletter article 2.27.11

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.