Isaiah 11:1-10 “Waiting”

 

Sermon from First UMC East Greenbush 12/7/25 

          When I was 18 I got my own apartment. I was excited to live on my own, but it was lonelier than I expected. Preparing and eating dinner by myself was not as exciting as I had pictured. One of my dear friends who had moved away for college got me a plant. It was a tiny little thing in a tiny little pot. She assured me it was easy to take care of. I was grateful for another living thing in my apartment and enjoyed watching it grow. When I graduated college and moved to New Jersey for Seminary I took my plant with me, it had moved to a medium-sized pot and fit nicely in front of the window. After Seminary, when I got married and moved into the parsonage of my first church, it came along. It was much bigger and now in a much larger pot. It stood in front of the sliding glass door and kindly let out a slight droop to remind me when I had waited a bit too long to water it. It came along when I moved to my next church and eventually shared its pot with a bright plastic flower that my son stuck next to it. Eventually it became time for our next move, and this time we were moving from Ohio to Colorado. What would I do with my big plant in its big pot? It wouldn’t fit between the car seats and the movers said they didn’t take plants. I asked again and the movers said they would put it in the truck but since this was in January and the truck was not heated, they couldn’t guarantee it would make it.

 

When the truck arrived there was the plant and it was looking very sad. I tried my best to help it as it became more and more shriveled but eventually it cracked and fell and there was nothing I could do but put it in the compost. There the empty pot sat, for some reason I didn’t immediately clean the soil out of it. And after a few days or so, I saw something. Something small and green right in the spot where the roots were left. I excitedly said to my husband “a shoot from the stump!” (these are the kinds of references two clergy make with each other). And sure enough, new life emerged. There was still life in that pot, even after the death and decay, a fresh new sprout burst forth.

 

          A “shoot from the stump” is a phrase from the Isaiah reading that we read today. In order to fully understand it, we have to back up a bit and look at the verses before it. In Isaiah chapter 10 verse 34 it says, “He will hack down the thickets of the forest with an ax, and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall.” This is referring to the dynasty of David. King David came from the line of Jesse. He was the much anticipated, much longed for king chosen by God. And now, that line of David was but a stump. A stump is a dead plant from which nothing can grow and represents what Biblical Scholar Walter Brueggemann calls the “deep failure of the Davidic dynasty.”[i] As Pastor Mary Beth shared in her sermon last week, Isaiah is writing during a time of increasing power and destruction by the Assyrian army and the decline of Israel. It was a scary and uncertain time marked by lack of faith, injustice, corruption and oppression. The days of David’s rule seemed but a long dead stump.

          And then … we get this passage today. A beautiful poem about hope and possibility. It starts with a shoot from a stump. Life out of what was dead. A seemingly impossible situation, new life from death. A new reality in which righteousness and faithfulness are the basis of rule. Where the poor and oppressed are cared for. The vulnerable protected. And where “The wolf shall live with the lamb; the leopard shall lie down with the kid; the calf and the lion will feed together, and a little child shall lead them.”

          Impossible ... You might say. A lion and a lamb together in peace? It goes against everything we know about the animal kingdom and animal instincts. Impossible … there is no way a little child could bring about a peace which has eluded wise and aged rulers for all time. Impossible … new life coming from a stump, from hopelessness and despair.

 

          How could this be? We are told in this poem that it is “the spirit of the Lord.” It says, “the spirit of the Lord shall rest on him.” Brueggemann says “The  Spirit of the Lord has the capacity to do what the world believes is impossible.” The lion and the lamb together would mean a world not dominated by threat and hostility. A world where the vulnerable are cared for. Where there is courage to trust. Where rage and violence, revenge and hatred give way to love and care, bridge-building and hope. Where safety, health and security are not only for those who can earn enough, inherit enough, perform enough, but for everyone. True peace … for even the vulnerable lambs. Can you imagine?

          Isaiah asks us to. Imagine what the Spirit of the Lord can do. What seems impossible. A child leading the way.

 

          For us Christians, we believe that Jesus is the one who comes. He comes from the line of Jesse, a shoot from the stump. One who rules with the Spirit of the Lord. Who cares for the least, the lost and the lonely and makes possible this impossible vision of a world ruled by love and peace.

          It would be a long, long, long time between these words of Isaiah and the birth of Christ. A long time of waiting.

          I hate waiting. My husband teases me that I would rather risk breaking my back to carry something heavy than wait for him to come help me. I am always the one in my family of four sitting in the car waiting for everyone else to get ready to go. And when I have to wait like in the long lines at Disney World, or for the thermometer on the turkey to pop or repair man to finally come or for even harder things like medical test results or word that a friend or family member struggling is ok or for pain to end … it’s agonizing. Waiting is hard. Sitting with uncertainty is hard. Trusting that everything will work out is hard.

 

          Eckhart Tolle writes, “Waiting is a state of mind. Basically it means that you want the future; you don’t want the present.” And if you think about it, it is true- the awareness that you are waiting is really a state of mind. We may be in agony waiting for the plane to arrive and board at the airport but then realize that even if we were at home we would be doing the same thing- sitting there staring at our phone. Waiting takes us out of the present moment and leaves us focused only on what will, could or might be. It leaves us building an imagined future in our minds rather than receiving what comes with openness.

 

          And … if you think about it … we are actually living in the long awaited present of those who have gone before us. We are their hopes, their anticipated futures, their dreams. We are living after Jesus has come, we know that God has made possible what was impossible. God has come, to be with us, to bring love, peace and hope.

 

          But the world is not perfect. We live in that space between the birth of Christ and the day when all shall be made well and Christ will come again. And we may find ourselves looking around at dashed hopes, cut down trees, dead stumps and despair.

 

          But Isaiah reminds us that the Spirit of the Lord has more in store. This Advent, let us wait with trust, knowing that God makes all things new. And that we can be the shoot, bringing all that we hope for into the world. Living lives with righteousness and faithfulness, bringing care to the lonely, bringing peace to those in fear and justice to the oppressed. We can be a people who believe in stumps, even when it looks like there is no life left in them.

 

          Before Thanksgiving, I was able to join the youth group as they went to Hawthorne Ridge and spent time with residents there. These young people spent their day off of school sitting and talking with people they didn’t know. They talked about what they are grateful for and listened as the residents told their stories of gratitude. They prayed together and made crafts and spent time in genuine connection. Young people leading the way with care and love. Bringing shoots of a future hoped for to others.

 

          But before I finish, I don’t want to leave you wondering … how is my plant today. The one I got when I was 18 that has traveled all over the country with me. Well, when it was time to make the trip to New York from Colorado, the movers wouldn’t take it. After packing two kids a dog and everything we needed for a 29-hour cross country drive into our Subaru, it didn’t fit in the car. So I gave it to my friend Tanya. When I moved to Colorado I knew I was going to be far from family and I prayed that I would make friends in that new place. Tanya is one of those friends. One of those friends who loves whole-heartedly and isn’t afraid to be the first to cry at beautiful moments. She attended my kids’ preschool graduations and sporting events and loved them as they grew. The kids often asked if they could sit with “Miss Tanya” in church.  She supported my volunteer projects and always showed up for us with flowers (she is a florist). She was one of the first people we told that we would be moving. And through her tears and broken heart she hugged us and meant it when she said she was happy for us. She was a shoot from the stump. When I moved to a new place where I knew no one and felt alone, she brought love, warmth and a new possibility of feeling at home. And so I am happy to know that my plant is there with her, in that place of love. It reminds me to always trust, that the Spirit of the Lord is bringing new life, and it’s worth waiting for.

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[i] Brueggemann, Walter. Isaiah 1-39. Westminster John Knox Press, 1998, pp 103.

Sermon from 11/23/25 Christ the King Sunday

 

Luke 23:33-43. Colossians 1:11-20

“Expectations”

          Today is Christ the King Sunday. This means it is the last Sunday of the church year. Next Sunday Advent begins and with it a new church year. So today is the culmination of the past year. It began with waiting in anticipation of a birth, then Christmas, and then the events of the life of Jesus, a journey to the cross, an empty tomb, resurrection and then the building up of the community of Christians beginning with Pentecost and tongues of fire. Then we journeyed through the teachings of Christ and now today … Christ the King Sunday.

          An entire year of build-up- story after story, parables, miracles, teachings, prayers, healings, doubts, conversions, baptisms, promises, revelations all leading up to this. This moment of recognizing Christ the King. It’s as if we have been turning the pages of this cosmic story, sitting on the edge of our seat, surprised, delighted, frightened, wondering what will come next. The pages remaining becoming thinner than the pages read and our excitement building … how will it end? As we turn the pages with anticipation we come down to the very last one and with hands shaking with excitement, eyes opened wide prepared for wonder and awe, we come to this … this lesson read today from Luke’s Gospel. The words painting the picture on this final page of our church year and the picture is of Jesus, hanging from a cross, being mocked.

          Is this what we were expecting? Is this the glorious image we hoped for when we pictured Christ the King? Perhaps you find yourself slumping into the seat you once sat on the edge of, loosening the wide-eyed gaze of excitement and shaking your head with a puzzled brow … asking “is this it?”

          It is a very unflattering picture. Jesus has had his clothes taken, he has been beaten and he has been hung on a cross for all to look at. He is next to criminals. This passage that was read is not one of celebration and praise that one might expect for a king, but rather one of mockery. The heart of the passage is teasing, humiliation … let down. Instead of a royal banner pronouncing him king, the only titles we hear are said with cruelty. We hear it from the people who say “let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” Then the soldiers saying “If you are King of the Jews, save yourself!” And then one of the criminals next to him saying “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” This embarrassment, this cruelty, this heartlessness … is this what you were expecting on this Christ the King Sunday?

          Expectations can be a beautiful thing, an opportunity to live in the excitement of anticipation, something to hang our hope on … or they can be a painful and disappointing thing. Expectations may come from our convictions and hopes. Or they can come from our fears and insecurities.

           My husband is in a position of leadership; he is the Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Albany. This means that he oversees 105 churches and represents the Diocese to the wider church. A few weeks ago he got a very well-written letter full of sincerity and passion. The writer of it laid out all that he saw happening in the country that was upsetting- people living in fear, violent arrests, injustices and dangerous language deepening divisions. He then asked “Bishop, what will you do?” and implored my husband to “do something” to use his position and voice to speak against the President, the leaders and make a change. That very same week my husband received another letter that was again full of sincerity and passion. This writer laid out what he saw as the upsetting things happening in this country- people attacking the president, violence against Christians and dangerous language deepening divisions. He too implored my husband to “do something” to use his position and voice to change things, only this writer believed that means speaking for the President and fighting for the actions that the other person is so horrified by. As I looked at these letters from my position as spouse to my husband, I felt the weight of expectations on him. So much expectation on what he can do, what he should do. And I understand because I too wish there was a hero to come and save the day, but I also recognize that placing that expectation on one single human is likely not the best bet.

          It brought up a memory for me from some time ago, I was a newly ordained pastor, about 25 years old and serving in my first appointment. I was an associate pastor and the senior pastor was out of town. We received a request for a funeral and I responded. I met with the family and felt that something was “off” as they looked at me and barely said a word, but I was grateful for an “in-law” who was open and shared all kinds of stories and memories of the loved one who had died. On the day of the service, I walked into the funeral home and it was like one of those moments in a movie where someone walks into the bar and the music stops and everyone turns and glares with suspicion at the person who walked in. It was me, I was the one they were glaring at. I didn’t have to wonder long because some folks were thoughtful enough to whisper loud enough for me to hear as they expressed their disappointment that the pastor was a woman … and even worse … a young woman. I continued on, telling myself that the expectations were so low that surely I could disappoint no further. But the weight of expectations … crushed expectations was felt.

          We all live with the weight of expectations. And, let’s be honest, the heaviest of them all are the ones we likely put on ourselves. We walk around under the weight of our own expectations of the kind of employee, parent, spouse, friend, Christian, human we should be. And then also the weight of our own disappointment when we, of course, cannot meet those … because we are human and we are not perfect.

          We look in the mirror and ask ourselves “is this what I was expecting?” And we probably also look at our world and ask the same thing. And there is pain in that. I look around and see a world I was not expecting or hoping for. A world of inequality, fear, pain, discrimination, hatred, violence, environmental destruction and war. This is not the world I hoped to raise my children in. This is not the world I thought we were working toward. This is not the world of realized hopes of peace, love, kindness and justice. And sometimes that is scary, sometimes it breaks my heart and sometimes I want to cry out for a hero. So I too sit with hope and longing as we turn the page to find our Messiah, the one promised by God, longed for, the chosen one, the Savior.

          But what I find doesn’t look anything like the story book expectations I have for a hero. Actually, it’s so much better than that. Jesus dying on the cross is not a pretty picture. It is painful and it is heart-breaking but it is real and it is exactly how he told us it would be. It is a divine act of love to bring each of us into a restored relationship with God. A divine act of love for our broken and violent world. A violence and brokenness that Jesus knew deeply and yet, he still came for us. As Jesus was hanging from the cross being mocked as the air left his lungs, one of the criminals beside him said “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” This criminal knew he had done wrong, he knew he was a criminal, he saw Jesus on the cross next to him, saw the mocking, saw the pain and yet he asks for Jesus to remember him. And Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

         The one being mocked says these words to the one who is being punished for crimes, showing us that there are no barriers separating us from God’s love. Jesus gives assurance to this criminal, this man who surely did not meet the expectations of others. Christ the King is not a hero just for the lucky few, the privileged ones, or those who are perfect, he is a savior for the world. He knows that we are human, that we sin, that we make mistakes, that we fall short, that we get lost in the pain of the world and yet, he assures us of salvation. He calls us to lift our gaze from the hopelessness and despair to a place called Paradise, to a restored relationship with God, to a peace that cannot be earned.

          And living in that love we are called to hold on to that hope, to persevere in the darkness, to bring light into the world. We are called to make this earth look like the kingdom of God and have courage to live not for the expectations of the world, but for the love of Christ.

         As the reading from Colossians says, “May you be made strong with all the strength that comes from his glorious power, and may you be prepared to endure everything with patience, while joyfully giving thanks to the Father, who has enabled you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the light. He has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.”

          Perhaps not what we expected …but so much more.

"Simple Answers" Sermon from 11/9/25

 

Sermon from First UMC East Greenbush, Luke 20:27-38

          It’s an absurd situation … intentionally. Even for back then when life expectancy was shorter and there were no resources for family planning, even then, it’s an absurd situation. Seven brothers, each one dying one at a time, without children and then marrying the same woman until finally all seven have died and the widow remains. It is intentionally absurd because there is no genuine curiosity behind it. We are told in the first line of this passage from Luke that those asking it, the Sadducees, “say there is no resurrection.” So we already know they do not believe what Jesus is teaching. So they come up to Jesus with this scenario to see what he will say. They aren’t looking for enlightenment, they are looking to prove him wrong, to make him look foolish, they are looking for a “gotcha” moment.

         A gotcha moment is when someone seems to be asking a question but is really just hoping to trick you, puzzle you, or make you look stupid. People love these moments. They love to see people stammer, stutter or admit that they don’t know something. I can imagine that if this scene was taking place today, there would be a big group of people standing around with their cell phones up, hitting record and hoping to get a big moment to post on Instagram. It’s like all those cameras positioned around the plane, watching as a president descends down the staircase, hoping to catch a trip, a stumble, anything that people will click on or laugh at or use to prove a point about weakness. That’s where Jesus is standing in this scene from Luke, he is at the top of the stairs, about to walk down and the Sadducees are sure hoping he will miss a step.

           But he doesn’t. Like so many other times in the Gospels, Jesus avoids the trap and not because he sidesteps it, but rather because he faces it with the truth, a deeper truth. Jesus answers this question by taking it to another level. He will not engage with their premise because he knows they lack understanding. It’s like the Sadducees are looking at a map of their neighborhood and thinking it’s a map of the earth. They aren’t seeing beyond what is in front of them. They are caught in the details, the legalities, the day to day existence they see and trying to apply that to eternity, to the ways of God, to the great Divine mystery.

           I believe that questions of faith are important. I know that in my own faith journey, questions of faith have deepened my relationship with God and strengthened my faith. There are many examples in the Bible of people wrestling with God, crying out their doubts, digging deeper, and coming out changed … renewed, lit from within by a burning desire to stay close to God. But there is a difference between asking questions to dive deeper into a relationship with God and asking questions to put up walls and barriers on that relationship.

           Before I moved to New York about a year and a half ago, I was a youth pastor at a large church. I got to walk alongside young people as they challenged, questioned, wondered at and celebrated their faith. I loved sitting with teens and young adults as they started asking questions about what they believe. The questions showed that they were taking their faith seriously, they were figuring out how to apply it their lives, their goals and their decisions. They were making sense of the world and inviting the Holy Spirit into that. And, at a certain point, they had to decide whether to dive in to the mystery and accept that we can’t understand everything, we can’t always make sense of God’s ways- and embrace faith or decide to pull away. And honestly, that’s a decision we probably make over and over in our lives as we grow, mature and encounter new struggles and new questions.  When we have asked all our questions, will we embrace faith and accept Divine mystery, or will we keep trying to figure it all out for ourselves?

           When Jesus answers the Sadducees, he tries to explain to them how God’s ways are different than what we see in the here and now. He talks about things that defy laws and defy maps and defy what we can experience in the here and now. He talks about being “like angels” and the dead being raised and being “children of the resurrection.” For those of us living here and now, it’s difficult to understand these things. Difficult to wrap our minds around God’s love that never ends, even when we die. Difficult to imagine a time when all of this will be no more and we will be made new in a resurrection with Christ. Death is such a harsh reality and we spend a lot of time trying to wrap our minds around it, run from it, avoid it, worry about it and plan around it. It’s hard to imagine a time when death will be no more.

           Since we moved here, my favorite place to walk my dog is a cemetery. I live near Albany Rural Cemetery and my dog and I have had the opportunity to explore its many paths, look at its many colorful trees and listen to the many sounds of the creeks and waterfalls. It’s a place where I go when I want to clear my head and just be present in the moment. I don’t listen to music or talk on the phone, I just hear the sounds of the birds, the rustling leaves and my footsteps. I look at the distant hills, the flowers and blue sky. And I also look at the graves. I think about the stories behind them. I look at the grave with the life-sized statue of a curious three-year old boy looking at a book and think about the mother who had that made, the mother who still wanted to see her son standing there, innocent and present. I look at the big fancy towers and marble buildings and think about the family patriarchs and matriarchs who decided on materials that would last, stones big enough to be around for a long time, structures sturdy enough for whatever weather may come. I look at the freshly placed flags by the graves of veterans and think of the people who placed them there, people who are devoted to doing the research, finding the graves and carefully placing the flags so that the legacy of courage, sacrifice and dedication isn’t forgotten. I look at the graves with matching benches next to them, benches made by loved ones who couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them there and wanted to make a spot where they could still be together.

          All of it out of love. In the hospital I sit with families as they try to soak up every last second, every last breath before the machine stops beeping. Death is a harsh reality. And it is hard to let go.

          So I get it. If a man marries a woman and she doesn’t have children and he dies and then she marries the brother and he dies and the next brother and the next and the next … who will she be married to in “the resurrection?” It’s almost a way of asking, how do we keep this life going? How do we hold on to the attachments we have here? How to we make sense of things and feel safe? How can we make what is unknown feel predictable?

          Like the beautiful stones placed with love, we want a way to still experience the ones we love here on earth.

          But Jesus says, it’s not like that. And maybe that sounds scary, maybe that sounds like something we don’t understand or can’t predict or control or buy or purchase insurance for, but Jesus says …. It’s so much better than that. Jesus says that the dead are “children of God” and that even though they are dead . . . to God “all of them are alive.”

          We are God’s children. God’s love continues across all space and time, it is more than the here and now. God isn’t letting us go. God has got us, even if that isn’t the “gotcha” moment the Sadducees are expecting.

          So breathe easy, it’s ok if we don’t understand it all. We are God’s children and that will never end. God’s love is so much more than our attempts to make sense of things.

           When I am working as a hospital chaplain, I often do rounds in the post-partum unit. I give new parents some time and space to process whatever thoughts, feelings and emotions they are having and then I ask if they would like me to pray. And each family has different things they would like me to pray for, like health or happiness- and I do, but every single time I look down at those tiny little brand new lives, those little toes and soft shoulders, my heart feels overwhelmed by how beloved they are. So innocent and so new, so clearly God’s children. And I pray that every day of their lives they will know how much they are loved. As their skin wrinkles, their bones stretch, their minds deepen and their joints crack, even then, that they will know every moment of every day that they are God’s beloved children. And that is my prayer for you. The Sadducees brought Jesus a complicated question, and he gave them a much deeper, much bigger answer, but also a much simpler answer … it’s love … God’s love in this life and the next.

Sermon from First UMC East Greenbush 10/26/25

 

Rekindling the Flame: Through Humility” Stewardship Sunday Luke 18: 9-14

            I pray a lot. Now, before you start telling me I sound like the Pharisee in this passage, bragging about how pious I am, let me explain. I am a hospital chaplain and a big part of what I do is pray. I go room to room and offer spiritual care and at the end of every visit, regardless of whether the person is young, old, tired, happy, sad, English speaking, Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Agnostic, Atheist, male female, in the Emergency Room or Labor and Delivery- I ask if they would like me to pray and the majority of the time the patient says “yes.” And so I pray in room after room. I pray over the babies just born hours ago, the patients whose breath is slowing as it nears the end, the ones with broken bones and the ones who can’t remember where they are. One may think that after so many prayers, they could become rote or feel forced or taken for granted. But actually, all this praying with all these people has given me an even deeper appreciation for the act and an even deeper belief in the importance of it.

 

          And so, I read closely these words from Luke about prayer. You see in this passage we get two very different examples of prayer. Both are men and both are praying in the same place, the temple, and yet, what happens when they begin to pray is very different.

 

          The Pharisee begins by thanking God that he is not like those other people and names them. He even points to the tax collector specifically and says “I’m so glad I’m not like this guy over here!” After this he lists for God the things he has done that God should appreciate - including fasting and tithing. He is telling God to judge, who to judge and what standards to use when judging. His prayer is directing God to value him more than others. If we could see this Pharisee praying, we might see that while he is praying, his gaze is not directed upward- looking toward the heavens and not downward in a posture of humility, but rather looking at everyone around him. While he prays he is comparing himself to what he sees. His prayer posture is a judgmental side eye to those gathered around him.

 

          The second person praying is the tax collector. As the original audience well knew- tax collectors were not well-liked. No one liked the guy who had to chase them down for their money. But in this passage we see a different view of the tax-collector. It says that he was “standing far off” with his eyes down, beating his breast as a sign of repentance and crying out “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” Unlike the Pharisee, he seems unaware of those around him and focused only on himself and God. Rather than list his accomplishments, he identifies himself as a sinner and rather than tell God who to judge, he begs for mercy. Two very different acts of prayer.

 

          And then at the end of this passage the text says, “for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” I wonder … what does that mean … to be exalted? Given the rest of the story, I don’t think it means exalted in social rank or status, or exalted in any kind of standings or position. Perhaps then, it means exalted toward God, a deeper closeness, a coming closer together with God.

          In his commentary on this passage, Luke Timothy Johnson says, “The love of God can so easily turn into an idolatrous self-love; the gift can so quickly be seized as a possession” he says that the Pharisee can receive no gift because he cannot stop “counting his possessions.” In other words, the gift of God’s love and grace has become something he believes he has or owns or has the rights to, making it no longer a gift but a thing that he possesses. His heart is not open to receiving a gift because he is constantly counting what he has. If all prayer is, is coming before God and asserting how great we are and all that we have, then there is no room for receiving God’s righteousness.  The door is closed, the Pharisee is content with what he thinks he has and his hands are tightly clenched around the door, preventing any gift from God from entering. One man is listing his possessions, the other is asking for a gift, the gift of God’s mercy. How we pray says a lot about our relationship with God, and whether we desire to be exalted by God or if we already think we are high enough.

          When I think about this tax collector looking down and crying out before God I think of one of my favorite places in the hospital. I use the word favorite with some explanation. It’s not my favorite because it is the easiest or the funnest or the happiest or the prettiest. It is my favorite because it is where I consistently experience God’s presence. It is not a fun place, it is not a happy place, it is not pretty. But it is where I have experienced some of my most meaningful visits as a chaplain and when I talk to the staff there they know exactly what I mean when I say it’s my favorite because they too find it to be very meaningful work. It’s the Detox Unit. It is where people go when they are high or drunk and need medical assistance to come off of the substance they have used. It is not a place where anyone hopes to be and yet I feel profoundly honored and humbled every time I go there.

          It is a place filled to the brim with humility. There is a popular song on the radio that talks about alcoholism and going to an AA meeting and the singer says “nobody walks through these doors on a winning streak.” No one is entering Detox with a smug smile or bloated ego. It is a humbling place.

 

          When I first started doing rounds there I went with a bit of trepidation. All I knew was that some time ago there had been an incident and then chaplains stopped going there, but my manager wanted to rebuild the relationship between the unit and the Spiritual Care Department. I wondered what kind of state people might be in. Would I encounter people who were angry or frantic or violent? Immediately I saw that wasn’t the case and I had to check whatever biases or assumptions I had at the door. What I did encounter was open and tender hearts. People of all ages and all backgrounds ready to open their hearts and praying for God’s mercy. And I am humbled to join them in those prayers. It has often become a sacred space where I sit with people as they, like the tax collector, bare their soul before God and grasp at the gifts of mercy the Holy Spirit offers in that space. Like the tax collector, so often they are not looking around at others or telling God what to do, but reaching out from the depths of their soul for a connection with the source of eternal love and unmerited grace. And in that humility I do feel the Holy Spirit’s presence. I feel the presence of God in the light breaking through broken hearts. And I hear the whispers of hope in the relinquishing of control, the admission that we are lost, we are flawed humans and we are not God. There is something really beautiful and really freeing in falling before God in humility.

 

          Sometimes we may think that when all is well, when we have all our needs met, then our faith will be strongest, but the truth is that often God feels nearest when our hearts are broken. Sometimes peace comes when we admit we don’t have it.

 

          I have been thinking about this as I reflect on stewardship. Sometimes people cringe at the mention of stewardship- thinking it’s about taking your possessions, pressuring you to give up what you don’t want to give up. I get that. But I see stewardship as a recognition that all that we have is gift, not possession. Laying ourselves and all that we have before God and praying that what we offer will be transformed by God’s grace into bricks, building blocks for the Kingdom of God here on earth. Or doors, creating openings for the work of the Holy Spirit on earth. And that is why we celebrate it and we make it part of worship. It is offering what we have to God and doing so with hope, hope that God will move in and around and through us.

          Honestly, that’s what I do over and over again when I pray with people. I offer the inadequate words that I have with hope that God will move in and around and through that person that I am praying with. And the more I pray, the more I am aware that this act of prayer is not something I can master or perfect or win at. It will always be my best attempt at putting words to the wordless cries of the heart. But my prayers, our prayers that we pray together, they are an offering, sometimes a shout and sometimes a whimper of hope coming from a place that longs to connect to the source of unending love. And whether we are a Pharisee or a tax collector, happy or sad, in a Cathedral or a Detox Unit, God hears us and for that I am so grateful.

10 Years

               Because we have moved to different parts of the country, I have had to say goodbye to a lot of people. And because we have lived in each place for a decent chunk of years, I have had the chance to develop incredibly deep and meaningful friendships everywhere we have lived. So saying goodbye has been deeply painful. I have been able to meet people and connect with them in a deep way at each season of my life. My friendship with Laura came at a pivotal time in my life. I was in the midst of decisions about having children and still discovering who I was as a pastor. And then once I had children, I was discerning what that meant for my career and where God may be calling me. In the middle of this I met Laura.  Our friendship developed in what would become the last season of her earthly life. It’s not fair that I still had so much ahead while her journey was unexpectedly cut short. Unfair doesn’t seem like a big enough word for it.

               I recently had to write a “Grief Journey” for my second unit of Clinical Pastoral Education, which is a program required for being a chaplain. I wrote the paper about my journey with Laura. One Saturday, when the kids were out with Jeremiah, I sat down and wrote it all out, all the memories I have- from when I met her while visiting her dad at Hospice to when I said goodbye to her at that same Hospice. As I typed it out I cried … a lot. It was hard and sad but also it was cathartic and I felt comfort and gratitude as I realized how much of it I remember. I remember knowing glances, times of laughter, Bible studies, talking about being moms, deep talks about theology, moments when our friendship deepened. It was all there in my heart and now all written out. When I presented it to my class, my heart was beating so loudly I thought they might hear it. I appreciated the tears of my classmates, I saw it as acknowledgement of the beauty of what I experienced with Laura.

               I have a hard time letting go of relationships that mean a lot to me. I am so grateful for dear friends who make the effort to stay connected and I continue to rely often on the strength and support of dear friends across the country through texts, phone calls and sometimes visits. I couldn’t do that with Laura. I longed to … I still do … but I can’t. Her number is still stored in my phone.  But she is not there. Instead, I have carried her in my heart. 10 years later and she is there, sometimes more than ever.

               I have always known it was a gift she gave me by having me there with her when she died. It was a gift because it was beautiful and it was a gift because it was unbelievably difficult but she knew I would make something beautiful from it. She believed in me. And I have worked to honor that gift.

Now that I am a hospital chaplain I find myself with many people who have just received word that they have a serious illness, many people who are in treatment for cancer and many people who are approaching their final breath. I carry her memory with me into those spaces. I carry her belief in me, her love and care to others who faced cancer and came to her for support, her worries about people in her family possibly facing this battle and everything she taught me by how she faced her final journey with deep faith, bold honesty, profound depth and sarcastic comments.

               Just this past week I asked my manager if I could start doing rounds in the cancer unit. Chaplains had not previously gone there unless called (because it is outpatient), but I know from my experience with Laura that those days of infusions and treatments and various reports from doctors are exhausting … mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually.

               Some may know that I have long experienced health anxiety. My mom was diagnosed with cancer when I was young. She is still here and has responded well to treatments over the years but her tenuous health, scary hospital stays, mixed test results and regular preparations for death left me with a constant feeling of being on edge about health. And a distrust of my own body. I have times when it is really hard and times when it is easier. Therapy, regular prayer, friends and my husband help a lot. But for those who know I have had this struggle, it may be a surprise to find me asking if I can spend time in the oncology unit and in a vocation where I enter room after room of people facing uncertain health outcomes. But all of me- my hurts, wounds and even my anxiety, open my heart to compassion. And my broken heart has plenty of cracks for the Holy Spirit to shine through. And in some ways, it keeps me closer to my memories of Laura. I take her memory with me in each connection I make, each compassionate response I offer and each prayer I lift up with a patient.

               So ten years later and many miles away I still feel near to her memory and for that I am unbelievably grateful. So today I am wearing the same Toledo Mud Hens shirt I had on when I said goodbye to her, because even though it’s been ten years, I still want to feel close to those memories.

Sermon from St. Andrew’s Scotia, 3/23/25 Exodus 3:1-15

 

          Recently the kids and I got our dog a puzzle. We have a four-year-old miniature schnauzer named Jarvis and we think he is smart, so we thought he might like a challenge. The puzzle consists of 4 plastic boxes that open in various ways. The first step is to put a small treat in each box while they are fully open so the dog knows that treats are in there. And slowly and gradually you begin partially closing some of the boxes with treats in them and letting the dog figure out how to get to the treat. So after some time of the boxes fully opened, me and the kids sat down around the puzzle, we put the treats in and we partially closed two of the boxes. Jarvis’s immediate reaction was to stare at the boxes and bark. Occasionally he would kind of kick back his feet and look at us and then bark. I knew what this meant from our puppy training classes … he was frustrated. And it is so hard to not just open the box and give the poor little fluffy guy a treat when he is so clearly distressed. But I also know from puppy training classes, that if I don’t give in, he will figure it out soon after the barking. He will eventually believe he can do it and try.

But it’s hard to wait through the frustration. Partly because he is cute and we love him and partly because we have empathy and we all know what frustration feels like and it does not feel good. Life is full of so many frustrations. Sometimes it is obstacles that interfere with our plans like illness, flat tires or canceled plans. Sometimes it is an inability to understand like hard math problems at school, crises at work or why people think and act the way they do. And sometimes it’s general frustration with life and God- you hear frustration behind questions like why do bad things happen to good people, how could God let this happen and why did this horrible thing have to happen.

It is a feeling common to all of humanity and across time, it can be heard throughout the pages of the Bible. Think of how Jonah felt when he was sent by God to Ninevah, the place of his brutal and destructive enemies, God sent him to proclaim their demise. Jonah begrudgingly does it only to find out that God changed God’s mind. And Jonah is frustrated. Or Job, he did everything he thought was righteous and just and yet catastrophe and suffering pours down on him. Prophet after prophet follows God’s will and does what is right only to be ignored, rejected and sometimes killed. The Old Testament story today is the beginning of the story of Moses freeing the Israelites from Egyptian captivity and on the journey that follows there is a lot of frustration, to the point where many wish they had never followed Moses out of Egypt in the first place.

 And all the while the people do a lot of frustrating things. In today’s reading God calls Moses directly and tells him exactly what to do from a burning bush and still Moses doubts he can do. And on the journey that follows God continually acts on behalf of the Israelites, providing for their needs, rescuing them and giving them guidance and yet they doubt, disobey and outright reject God over and over again. It’s kind of a frustrating story.

 And yet, God sticks with it. God does not give up or abandon, but stays in the relationship. With Moses, God does not give in to the doubt or frustration, knowing that with God, Moses will do what he is called to do. God endures our frustrated barks, cries and doubts, staying by our side, staying with us as we get to the other side of it.

I wonder if Moses felt frustrated when he asked God for a name? Moses says, “if I come to the Israelites and say to them, The God of your ancestors has sent me to you, and they ask me What is his name? What shall I say to them?” and God answers “I AM WHO I AM.” A little vague I would say, and not at all like the tribal gods of that time who had very specific names.

In this passage, God gives three ways of saying God’s name. the first is “I AM WHO I AM” and then right after that God shortens it to simply “I Am.” And then right after that God says, “This you shall say to the Israelites, “The Lord, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you.” So, Lord is the third way. In the New Oxford Commentary notes on this it says, “The third name is LORD. In Hebrew the name has four letters, “yhwh” (perhaps pronounced Yahweh), and is thus known as the Tetragrammaton. Like the first two versions of God’s name, it is from a root meaning “to be.” God’s name thus has a verbal rather than a noun form …”[1] So, in other words, the three ways God says God’s name to Moses are all verbs rather than nouns. Nouns would have been typical names for gods at that time, just as we typically use nouns as our names these days.

 I remember a long time ago I read that in Eastern cultures they are more likely to teach children language by using verbs as opposed to in our Western culture where we teach children language by starting with nouns like “mom” “dad” “ball” “milk.” So it’s a different way of thinking for us, God identified not as a noun but rather as a verb.

          And then right after this, God tells Moses to gather all the elders of Israel and tell them what God has done and what will happen next. And after that God tells Moses to go to the King of Egypt and when the King of Egypt does not listen, God tells Moses the plan for what will happen after that. God has plans and is taking action.

          The message is clear, God is not a statue that will be put in one place and stared at admiringly. God is a presence; God is an active part of this relationship with humans. God is moving and doing and being.

     As a hospital chaplain, I have found that when I ask someone if they believe in God, it may bring a short answer or explanation, maybe an uncomfortable confession about no longer going to church or a defensive reaction against religion or even a shrug, but when I ask “how have you experienced God’s presence in your life?” It usually brings a beautiful conversation filled with powerful stories, moving experiences and personally sacred moments shared with emotion. Of course creeds, beliefs and artistic depictions are meaningful, beautiful and enduring, but God as presence is felt, experienced and witnessed. God as I am. God as being.

          You can hear this same form of experiential testimony in the Psalm we read today, especially the last two lines, “For you have been my helper,

and under the shadow of your wings I will rejoice. My soul clings to you;

your right hand holds me fast.” It is an experience of God as being, a very real and near presence.

          I think there is something really powerful that happens when we can accept God as “I am who I am”. When we can pause from trying to solve, explain, identify and label. When we can accept God is who God is and rest in God’s presence. When our soul can cling to God and we can rest under the shadow of God’s wings.

          It takes trust to follow a God who goes by “I am who I am.” The call to discipleship is an invitation into a journey, that we may not always understand and we may not always predict. It requires acceptance and trust.

          And sometimes the not knowing and the not understanding can be frustrating. I feel frustrated when I see things happening in the world that are unjust. I am frustrated when I see people being treated without dignity. I am frustrated when people are hurting or suffering and there is no solution. I am frustrated when I see bad things happening that I cannot control. And I am frustrated by normal life things. Like when our ceiling leaks every time we get a heavy rain even after we have the roof patched. Or when the kids keep leaving their shoes in the hallway. Or when a computer doesn’t work or traffic is slow or the things I can’t control just keep stacking up. I feel like my poor little dog barking with frustration and bewilderment as he smells a treat he can’t figure out how to get. He’s probably thinking, why are they making this hard, just give me the treat!? And I get it because sometimes it feels like, why is life so hard, why can’t we just know why things are the way they are, what will happen next and how to fix everything. Why can’t God do what we want God to do, why can’t we figure out the why’s and the how’s?

          And to this God says, “I am who I am.” And that can be incredibly freeing. We can give it up. We don’t have to understand it all or solve it all or carry the weight of the world on our shoulder. God is who God is and there is nothing we can do about that but trust. Not a helpless kind of giving up that leaves us sitting around with nothing to do- but rather, a kind of acceptance that opens our hearts to hearing and seeing and feeling God’s presence in the world. A kind of acceptance that releases us to see the beauty of God’s presence in our lives and the lives of others. The kind of acceptance that brings us to our knees in worship as we recognize that we are not God and we don’t have to pretend to be because our God is present and active and real.

 

          I hope that as we journey toward the cross this Lent, it can be a time of release. Release from the things that block our vision of who God is around us. Release from the frustrations that keep us pretending we can control things we can’t. Release from an inability to see the very real presence of God in others, especially in those we may not expect. And trust, knowing that God is who God is and that is something our souls can cling to.

         

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[1] The New Oxford Annotated Bible. 2010 Oxford University Press, 2010, pp 86-86.

Sermon from First UMC Delmar, 3/9/25 Luke 4:1-13 “Grounded”

 

    One summer when I was young, one of my neighborhood friends suggested we walk up the street and enter the high school and watch my sister’s dress rehearsal for her dance recital. I can’t remember if I questioned this idea, but I do remember that I went. We often ran around on the block through neighbor’s back yards and the school was just at the top of the street so it probably seemed ok. Until … we came out of the rehearsal and saw the whole neighborhood frantically looking for us. Remember, this is before cell phones so no one knew where we were. My mom was so worried and I was in so much trouble. I received my punishment … I was grounded. Right in the middle of summer, the best days for playing, particularly in Northeast Ohio where I lived. Instead of running around with the neighborhood friends, I would have lots of time to think, reflect and wallow. Lots of time to think about my decision-making, who it effects and how I would do it differently. And, honestly, I don’t know that I was ever grounded again … so I guess you could say it was effective.

 

         I don’t know if kids still get “grounded.” I know that my husband and I don’t really ground our kids, we typically use screen time as the currency for consequences- taking it away when needed and adding more when earned. But when I hear the word “grounded” it still conjures up memories of punishment, consequence and dread. I’m not sure where the term comes from, perhaps it’s like when there is bad weather and all planes are “grounded.” You have to stay put, no taking off, not until you are ready. But I wonder if there is another meaning, perhaps one that involves a spiritual component. Sometimes when people are looking for stability or calm or peace they will say “I need to feel grounded.” It’s like when emotions, worry, anxiety, and stress are pulling us up into a whirlwind of chaos until we are spinning and can’t remember which way is up and which way is down and so we look for a way to get our feet back on the ground. To be grounded and steady even while everything else is swirling around us. It’s like finding our spiritual center to keep us from falling apart. Or connecting with the presence of the Holy Spirit that is within us, rather than chasing other things for fulfillment, bringing ourselves back to peace and steadiness, while also, like something our parents might have said to us as children, “thinking about what you have done and how you will do it differently next time.”

 

           In the reading from Deuteronomy, there is grounding instructions for the nomadic people of Israel. They have been wandering, searching, following, looking for a steady place to rest their feet, trusting that the path they are following will lead them to the promised land and they get these instructions about what to do when they come into the promised land. They are to make an offering and with it, tell their story. The story of their people- the whole story about Jacob and Moses and oppression and wandering and God’s steadfast presence. Then, even in this new land, they will remember who they are, they will remember that it was God who brought them there, they will remember their story of being oppressed, afraid … lost. They will be grounded in that reality, and it will shape their actions and words, it will center their hearts around the heart of God.

 

          In the Gospel reading we also find Jesus “led by the Spirit in the wilderness.” He too is taken away from all that is familiar and comfortable and brought to a wilderness filled with temptation and risk. In a sense, it’s like he is grounded as a child would be- sent away from all pleasures, alone with his thoughts. But he is quickly met with temptation. It says that “for forty days he was tempted by the devil.” The first temptation is to turn the stone into bread. Remember that Jesus is fasting and has eaten nothing. This goes beyond mental temptation, this is physical temptation, going against the strong urge the body has to survive. The next temptation is authority over “all the kingdoms of the world.” This could certainly have been a more efficient way of Jesus influencing people- rather than all the relational/preaching/praying/healing- just outright authority, demands and power- with none of the messy stuff like touching hurting people, threats against you and unending arguments with religious officials. The last temptation is to throw himself from the pinnacle of the temple and test that he will be caught by angels. This is putting God to the test, demonstrating glory. It must have been a dizzying offer- standing at the pinnacle, looking down, lightheaded from lack of food and the potential for a moment of dazzling power.

 

          In his commentary on this passage, Luke Timothy Johnson says, “the tests would suggest to the Hellenistic reader the threefold categories of vice: love of pleasure, love of possessions, love of glory. Jesus’ refusal of these lures would identify him as a righteous person, a sage truly capable of teaching virtue.” (Sacra Pagina: Luke, pg 76). It seems that some things are timeless- like temptations. We are still in a world fraught with temptations pulling as hard as they can to bring us down the path of love of pleasure, love of possessions and love of glory.

 

          And here he is, out in the wilderness, away from everyone, where no one can see, hungry, faced with a path of suffering and pain … and all that anyone could desire is presented to him. And he walks away. He walks right out of that wilderness and right into preaching. He immediately begins his ministry. He reads from Isaiah, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free.” And just as he immediately begins his ministry, he immediately is rejected. He instantly goes from being offered power and glory at the pinnacle of the temple to being run out of town by an angry mob and being offered death and pain as they try to push him off a cliff. His ministry begins with rejection.

 

          I don’t know about you, but I can say that in my own life, the times when I most need grounding, when I most need my heart steadily set on God, when I most need to be sure of who I am, is when I am facing rejection. Whether that is rejection from others or rejection from the way I hoped things would be. And watching those we love get rejected can be especially painful. We do our best to give children a strong sense of their belovedness so that when the rejection comes- when we send them off to the tough world of socialization, they will stay grounded, remembering that they are loved, remembering there is more to life than the painful feelings rejection brings and assured that they are precious in God’s sight. Jesus was grounded, he has been through the wilderness, he was sure of his relationship with God, he knew who he was and so he passes through the angry crowd and keeps at it.

 

          Perhaps you are feeling like your feet have come off the ground, like you are caught spinning in a whirlwind, unable to find the ground, reaching out and longing for peace, for stability but not sure where it went. There is certainly much in this world to leave us spinning. I don’t need to tell you that we live in a divisive and heated climate, where emotions run high and grace seems in short supply. We live in a fast paced world that is constantly pushing us toward those vices of love of possessions, love of power and love of glory. Where the road of peace is messy and hard but we are surrounded by superficial promises of an easier, more efficient path. Where morals and values are often exchanged for money and power. A world where there are endless things on our phones to distract us from our own thoughts. And perhaps, you are looking for grounding- solid footing on the solid rock that is Christ.

 

          Today is the first Sunday of Lent. It is a time when we reflect on what tempts us, what distracts us and what pulls us away from walking the deeper path with Christ. It is a set apart time when we can look at the things in our life that leave us spinning and the things that ground us. When we are called to root out that which is fleeting, selfish and shallow and dig our feet into that which is steady, loving and deep. Practices like prayer, journaling, walks, scripture reading, regular worship and deep breathing are not hard to do but are so very valuable and needed. Things that give our hearts space to feel the heart of God, quiet to hear the Spirit’s guidance and clarity to think about decisions we have made and how we want to make decisions in the future. It’s like we are being grounded. Told to step away from the things that are not life-giving and make room for the things that are life-giving. A chance to be reminded that beyond all the felt urgency and chaos and stress, we are part of a much larger story. A story of God’s unending love, of Jesus’ journey of salvation and the continual relationship God calls us into.

 

          I work as a hospital chaplain and last Wednesday I was scheduled to be there at 7 am to help distribute ashes for Ash Wednesday. If you think about it, Ash Wednesday is kind of an odd thing we do. We pray prayers of repentance, we are told we will die and then we walk away with dirt smeared on our heads. I’ve always loved it for all of its oddness and the way it takes us out of our normal routines and calls us into this special Lenten journey. But at the hospital it took on a different context that I couldn’t help but reflect on as my thumb wiped across forehead after forehead. Foreheads of family members trying to appear steady as they walked their loved one to surgery, foreheads of those who were sick and in pain, foreheads of nurses leaving an overnight shift of medicines, messes and trying their best to bring comfort, foreheads that could only be reached by slightly lifting the surgical caps of surgeons who quickly headed back for the next procedure and foreheads of fellow chaplains who will go and look into the eyes of those who are afraid, alone and facing death.

 

As I repeatedly placed my thumb into the small cup of ashes I thought about how the words I was saying, “remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return” were not shocking or unusual for these people. The reminder of death’s reality is part of their life. They do remember that they are dust and to dust they shall return because death is all around them. And as I thought of this, I felt deeply moved at how this simple practice put their experience in a larger story. A reminder for them not of a cold hard reality of death, but rather a much larger salvation story that death is but a part of. A reminder of the peaceful and loving reality of death and that not even death can separate us from the love of God. A reminder that we are not alone. We are all in this life and death together, it is something that we all continually learn to accept. And as I watched the dark bits of ash circle down the drain when I washed my hands in the hospital bathroom, I felt grounded. I knew the Holy Spirit was in that place, in the people whose eyes met mine when I touched their foreheads and in me- and the swirling chaos of the world felt quieter even with all the beeping of machines and the beds being pushed down hallways. God’s love was there, God’s love is here, let us ground ourselves in that love and a peace that passes all understanding. Amen