Seasons

      I slipped between the two sheets of my bed and they were cold. It was the first chill of Fall and for a moment I was transported back to a different place and a different time. For a minute I forgot about the long hallway outside my bedroom door and pictured the square shaped creaky hallway of our 1930s house. I forgot that mountains sat in darkness outside my window and pictured the big old trees and friendly homes on our old block. It was just a flash, but it was so clear; the smell, the sounds, the chilly Fall air outside our cozy brick home. Even after I was transported back to my current time and place I stayed in that moment in my mind. I thought of the great big piles of multi-colored leaves the kids jumped in; happy trick-or-treating between puddles; corn mazes and apple trees; putting the kids in over-sized t-shirts to paint pumpkins at the neighbor's house; the sound of a football game at the University down the street; first day of school nervousness as a mom; first night at home with a baby; crunchy leaves under stroller wheels; watching the big tree blow with the wind of a rainy day; sweatshirts and lazy Sunday afternoons watching the Browns in the living room.

     I can only sit with nostalgia for so long so I started thinking about more recent memories, closer, newer memories. I thought about the way the hot summer sun permeates your clothes here. Mornings at the playground checking that the slides were not too hot followed by cool evening walks after a fast-moving storm. I thought about red dirt in the kitchen from hikes left on our shoes. Vacation Bible School with new names and new ways of doing things. The stunning views that took our breath away on that first drive through the mountains. Endless giggles and rides at the local kids' amusement park. Breakfast and shopping while being a tourist in my own town with my mom. New friends, new story times, new play dates, new parks … so many new things. Grasshoppers and bunnies, deer and cacti. Endless blue skies over pointed peaks. I thought of that late night on the back porch, finding meaning in one another's stories with friends over wine and twinkle lights. Vacation evenings spent playing card games as a family as we realized we no longer have a baby in the family. Outdoor concerts under towering holy stones with welcoming faces. So much time pushing swings “higher!, higher!” I thought of kiddie pool fun and potty-training messes.

     Somewhere in the midst of warm thoughts the sheets became warmer and I drifted off to sleep. The next morning would bring a new season of memories that will one day keep me warm even as the air brings a chill.

The Fruited Plain

Last Sunday I preached at two small churches out on the plains. When I got the email asking if I was available I jumped at the opportunity. In Toledo I had plenty of Lutheran and United Methodist offers for supply work (when you fill in for a pastor on a Sunday). Since we moved here, I've only preached at my husband's church (which was wonderful). I told my husband, “I've never been so excited to drive an hour to preach to 20 people.”

It surprised me how excited I was, I guess you don't always realize how much you miss something until it is back. I went from preaching every Sunday to once per month to twice in six months. Honestly, I'm on the fence about whether or not supply work is for me. I get anxious about arrangements for the kids since their dad is also working. If it is not a United Methodist service I get nervous about keeping the liturgy straight. I hate the feeling of skipping something or saying the wrong thing. It also feels a little weird to leave the church with my robe folded over my arm, a check in my hand and no relationship with any of the people. But I love preaching, I love meeting new people, I love leading worship and I see this as a unique opportunity to experience and learn from the ways in which other churches operate. Every time I preach I feel renewed, a bit more like myself again and grateful to the pastor that invited me and the people who opened their ears and hearts to me.

So off I went. The kids were dressed, fed and given backpacks filled with more than they could possibly need for the morning. A wonderful babysitter would pick them up after the early service at their church and they would come home to full lunchboxes neatly arranged on the kitchen counter.

I was really looking forward to the drive and thankful that it was east and not west. East is flat, west is mountains and I'm still a little nervous driving the curvy mountain roads out here. I try not to look out the side window when we go on these roads with very little margin between pavement and huge rocky drop off. I am baffled as to why these mountainous roads lack guardrails, but comforted by the fact that since we moved here I have never heard of a car randomly plummeting off a mountain highway.

The flat terrain felt familiar. It reminded me a bit of my old daily commute to Woodville, except this place does open spaces like nowhere I have ever lived. As far as the eye can see is very far. The sun was bright and green surrounded me on all sides. The empty road was bordered by yellow and purple wild flowers. As I left the city there were hot air balloons and parachutes on the horizon to the south. It was refreshing and an opportunity to be reflective. Just the fact that I was alone felt exciting and energizing. As a stay at home mom with no extended family even remotely nearby I am always with my kids. It's my choice, I love being with my family and I see it as a gift and a limited opportunity to spend so much time with them, but sometimes a break feels really good.

I drove toward the great big windmills and then soon was behind them. The speed limit dropped and there it was- a little white church with a nicely mowed lawn. I got out and sat on the front steps. I somehow always seem to be early. A lovely couple arrived and we spent the time before worship talking about their church, their children, their grandchildren and the journey that brought them to this town, population 400. The people began to come in. Fifteen including me, six of them children. And of course, because that's how life seems to be, there was a fellow Penguin there (graduate of my Alma Mater, Youngstown State University). Before I began, a kind man said, “don't be nervous, just have a good time.” I started to say, “oh I'm not nervous” but instead just said, “thank you, I'm looking forward to it.”

One of my favorite parts of the service was the part when the congregation got to select the hymn. All of the children immediately threw their hands in the air, “number 261!” they happily shouted. We sang 261, “Lord of the Dance” and the children got up from their seats next to their grandparents, went into the aisles and danced as they sang the memorized verses.

As I do for 600 or 6, I wore my vestments and preached my heart out. I left feeling as though I had worshiped. I felt cared for and grateful for a lovely morning. I got in my car and headed to the second church. It was a lovely building with an addition built in 1967. I wondered about their story. It's age showed, weeds and winds seemed to move more quickly than the small congregation could manage. I took a seat on the steps, under the bird's nest in the light fixture and breathed in the fresh country air. Across the street was a massive car junk yard and there wasn't much else by way of neighbors. The people were kind and rejoiced over each person who arrived. They usually get five for worship and that Sunday, counting me and the three month old, there were nine. There was a sound system and an organist. The candles were lit, announcements made and we prayed our way through the liturgy. During “Joys and Concerns” we found ourselves in a conversation about how annoying built up earwax can be and what a relief it is to have it removed, and we thanked God for that. I preached my heart out as I looked for eyes to make contact with. When the service ended we all found ourselves in the back of the church as everyone had some role to play in making the church function. This was not a place where one would come and slip out. Everyone was known and everyone worked to keep their church going. I drove away feeling uncertain about their future but in admiration of their stamina.

I made a right turn out of the parking lot and there was my purple mountain's majesty above the fruited plain. Pike's Peak lead the way home. I put down the windows, turned up Band of Horses and took in my last moments of alone time and flat ground. I felt renewed and grateful. Grateful for the opportunity, grateful for the people, grateful for the Holy Spirit showing up. I also felt grateful for the way my heart felt toward my denomination. I felt remorseful for the bad thoughts I had as I watched my denomination argue at the General Conference. I felt connected again, in a way that only happens when you worship together. This year was the first year since I can remember that I did not attend East Ohio Annual Conference (I'm counting the years I went to Youth Annual Conference as a teen and as a youth leader). There were four years when I served in West Ohio that I actually went to two annual conferences. So I felt strangely disconnected and these two little churches brought me home again. I suppose you can say they helped me realize that my heart is indeed still strangely warmed.

Sermon  from Ellicot and Simla UMCs 8/14/16 Luke 12: 49-56

     Remember when it was Christmas? Remember the warmth of the fire and the sparkle of the Christmas lights? The cozy sweaters looking upon fresh white snow? The church decorated with poinsettias as we read about the birth of the one called Prince of Peace? That memorable story of a baby born in a manger, with a promise of hope and love? In Luke's telling of the birth of Christ you may remember the angel and “a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors.” And so at Christmas we have ornaments and wreaths that say “Peace” in gold sparkly letters, we pray for peace in the world and we hope that the telling of the birth of Christ will spark peace in the hearts of all who hear it, in the ears of those who are hurting and in the world so sharply divided.

      So, what's up with the passage read today? Perhaps you, like me, find it troubling. I can get on board with the lovely warm messages of peace. I even have my own sparkly, decorative sign that says “Peace” that I put up every Christmas. Every night I pray for peace on earth. So I have a hard time with the part when Jesus says, “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!” Wait a minute while I go hide my sparkly “Peace” decoration …

     I don't think Jesus really cares about sparkly decorations in this passage, in fact I think he is mad. In his commentary on this passage, Luke Timothy Johnson points out that the Greek words used in this passage are meant to convey strong emotions … if you couldn't already tell by Jesus saying he wants to bring fire to earth. And so Jesus delivers this strong, emotional, angry message. He talks about division, about families being split against each other. And it is hard to hear, it is troubling, it is hard to reconcile with the strong messages of peace and love we hear in other passages, like the birth story.

     Of course there are some who will feel perfectly comfortable with talk of division. Some who might see this as a justification for their anger and hatred toward others. Perhaps there are angry teens out there thinking “see, it's ok for me to hate my mom because she won't let me stay out late.” Or disgruntled church members thinking “see, Jesus says it's ok for us to scream at each other over whether or not we should change the wallpaper in the parlor.” But more seriously, relationships can be a struggle, they take compromise, work and effort so any passage that seems to encourage throwing in the towel, saying a few choice words and storming off may be appealing.

      I actually hate division. I hate it when I'm not getting along with someone or don't feel connected to someone. When I was pastoring churches conflict and upset feelings made my stomach hurt. When people threatened to leave the community it was terribly upsetting. I feel anxious when people are arguing or things become heated. My heart pounds louder when someone is saying things that I strongly disagree with or when I am saying things I know someone else strongly disagrees with … it is uncomfortable.

     I don't need to tell you that right now we are in a season of sharp divisions. We are in the middle of an election season and politicians are counting on division. They are hoping for your strong feelings for them and against the other. On any given day it does not take long to find someone saying or typing reasons why we are in for sure and certain doom and destruction if the other candidate wins. We are divided over candidates, divided over issues, color coated based on our side and easily angered at anyone on the other side of the line. Surely this wasn't what Jesus had in mind … was it?

     Our own church is also divided. Last week I attended a talk at First United Methodist from the pastor there who was the head of the delegation to Jurisdictional Conference. As you may know the new bishop of the Rocky Mountain Annual Conference is the first openly partnered lesbian to be elected as bishop in The United Methodist Church. I watched as Pastor Kent addressed the crowd, some of whom were very much against the election. He explained how the election came about, his perspective, what might happen next and then talked about how he was having trouble sleeping. Because he knew that people would feel hurt and angry and he knew that some would leave his church. He knew that there is a fracture in The United Methodist Church and talks of a split. And that hurts. It is scary. It is hard. It wasn't exactly the kind of church meetings I remember as a kid, where the biggest question was which pie to eat first and what color the new choir robes would be. But here we are … divided. Surely this isn't what Jesus had in mind … is it?

      It's hard to understand. Just when we think we have Jesus figured out or some sort of hold on what the Bible is all about, we get a curve ball that makes us look critically at ourselves. A curve ball like Jesus getting angry and preaching about division.

     Maybe there is a way to somehow hold together this impassioned message about division and the Biblical message of love and reconciliation. Maybe there is a way to wrap our minds around the Prince of Peace saying he did not come to bring peace on earth.

      Jesus calls us to give of our hearts. To give of our whole selves to God and love the Lord our God with all our heart and all our mind and all our soul. Jesus calls on us to feel, to feel passion for God, to love our neighbors and care deeply for the marginalized, the widowed and orphaned, to seek justice. When you do that, when you put your heart into something, all of your heart, you are going to have passion, you are going to care, to feel and maybe even get angry.

     And sometimes that might cause division. But not the kind of divisions that we so often see in our world, violent divisions or self-righteous divisions or division caused by a lack of desire to work to be in genuine relationship. But rather the kind of division that comes from a heart bent on love, bent on Christ and bent on peace.

      In the passage before this one Jesus is talking about people who are ready and people who are not. People who are living their lives for God and people who are living their lives for comfort. There is a difference, a division of you will …

      Right now in my life I spend most of my time with two little people. I have two boys, a 2 year old and a four year old. I am taking time off from serving churches to stay at home with them and so my view of the world these days is often through that filter. I look to my experiences day to day to make sense of the world. And so as I was reflecting on this passionate speech from Jesus I found myself reflecting on the last time I gave a passionate speech. It was not a brave speech delivered on the front lines of justice, a rousing sermon preached to a captive audience that opened hearts and changed lives, but rather it was a lecture to my kids. And yes, I was angry and definitely yelled. It was the day after we returned home from vacation, last Monday actually and I was sorting through stacks of laundry and suitcases that needed unpacked while doing the normal things like making their meals and getting them dressed and making sure no one peed their pants. Every time I said anything to them like “brush your teeth” or “tv time is done” or “let's go to the store” it was met with whining. Even when I joined in a fun game with them it always ended in a temper tantrum from the one that did not win. Finally, when I asked my four year old to put his shoes on for the 5^th time and the two year old was on the floor protesting a trip to the store I got angry. I raised my voice, pointed my finger and did my best to infuse toddler logic into an explanation of why mommy was upset, why their behaviors were unacceptable and what the consequences would be if they continued. I got upset because I was annoyed and my patience had run out and because I needed to go to the store. But there was another reason too. I want my boys to live their lives in a certain way. I want them to be respectful and kind. I want them to be humble and compassionate. I want them to turn their hearts to God in a world with so many other options. So I guess you can say I want them to be different, divided from others in the world. I want them to have a passion for justice and love that gives them the courage to speak up when something is wrong, to go against bad behaviors and be willing to risk for the sake of Jesus Christ. I want them to live their lives for more than comfort and desire. And sometimes that might set them apart.

      So I guess division isn't always a bad thing. It seems that when our hearts are involved, there are times when we need to be set apart.

      Could this be what Jesus had in mind? People willing to give of their hearts to God? People bravely living against the grain, seeking what is right in a world full of other options? I don't know, but I would say that is something worth getting passionate about.

Anniversary

Well … it's June 28 which means tomorrow is the day. One year since my dear friend died. One year since that evening I sat next to her in the Hospice room and held her hand as the breath left her body. One year since I sat on the floor next to my bed, head spinning, heart hurting wondering if I would ever sleep again. I know that anniversaries like this can mean different things for different people. For me it means a lot because that day means so much to me. In her final weeks Laura and I got closer than ever before in our relationship. Sitting next to her on her final day as her lifelong friends and loved ones said goodbye I felt incredibly privileged to be a part of her story.

Everything has reminded me that this day is coming. As the last snow thawed and the trees bloomed I knew it was coming. Vacation Bible School, Annual Conference, feeling summer sun, these are the things I was doing last year around this time and all of these things remind me of my talks with her, my heart ache, my prayers, my goodbye. But I wasn't dreading this day. In fact I was kind of looking forward to it. Sometimes I just want to get lost in remembering. Sometimes as I unload the dishwasher I put on a song I listened to on my way back from a visit with her and get lost in the memory, the feeling. As much as it hurts I enjoy the connection I still feel to her. But then I am called back to the moment by one of my children or a phone call or daily life. I have looked forward to a set aside time to get lost in the feelings, cling to the memories and reflect on what it all means. The church I currently attend has a Wednesday Eucharist service. I have arranged childcare so that I can go tomorrow because that is the best way I know to feel connected to the saints.

I also decided to write this blog. I don't blog as much as I thought I would when I started it. Honestly she was the person who suggested I blog and encouraged me. I just don't feel like opening my heart and sharing knowing that she won't be the first person to “like” it or share it or comment on it. Her model of open sharing, brutal … or maybe “brutiful” honesty, witnessing and comforting inspired me to write. So because it's still one way in which I feel connected to her, I decided to blog today. And share some brutiful honesty. Inspired by her I will be vulnerable and real and overshare.

On All Saint's Sunday I had her name put in the bulletin in the list of loved ones lost. I grabbed a white carnation and prayed her name onto it. When I went up for Communion I placed it in the basket along with the others as you were supposed to do. Then, the whole rest of the service I kept looking back at it. I wanted it back. I did not want to leave it there. I found myself thinking “I can just go get it after the service, no one will notice.” I knew how strange that was and that it probably pointed to something in my grieving process but whatever, I wanted it back. I did not want to let go of that white carnation. That tangible thing that represented my intangible feelings and thoughts and memories. Reason and appearance won me over though and I left it … reluctantly.

Another confession: I was devastated when her Facebook page was gone. All of her comments, likes, messages gone. All of her pictures gone. Our friendship wasn't one where we went out a lot and took pictures. It was more of a Bible study and deep conversation relationship. I loved scrolling through her Facebook photos and feeling like she was still here. But that's the thing … she isn't still here. After some days I realized that not having her Facebook presence was actually an important part of my letting go. Every day I quickly clicked on my “on this day” Facebook feed to find her comments and likes, and in a way it allowed me to hold on to her. But I needed to let go. It was time.

That happened right before I packed up and moved across the country. And here is the truth, I feel just as close to her memory here as I did in Ohio. I was afraid that physical distance might fade the memories but it did not. In the vast blue skies, the endless views and mountainous scenery I feel her presence just as I did at sea level. Thank God.

More honesty: I was nervous to go to my annual check up because I knew the doctor would do a breast exam. I remember standing in my dining room when Laura called to tell me she felt a lump. “You are young, you are healthy, it could be nothing” I said. It wasn't. In my dark moments I selfishly make the experience about my own fears and insecurities. But that is not how I want to feel connected to her. That does not honor her memory. She always reminded me not to worry. So many of her blog posts were about the importance of faith and letting go of worry. I can't stay in that dark place. I think the fear and doubt is natural, but you can't stay there. She very much wanted good to come from her pain, her experiences and her death. That is part of why she shared it so openly. So I will push away the dark moments and let the light of her faith and courage shine on them.

A couple months ago I pulled out my Book of Worship to work on a wedding and a piece of paper fell out of it. It was the funeral planning form I filled out with Laura. I remember that evening. Sitting on the couch across from her and alternating between laughter and tears as we talked. I turned over the paper and saw on the back some notes. I asked her “what do you want people to know?” The first thing she said was “tell my kids about me.” So now you know.

In an effort to conclude this disjointed post- a word of hope. One year ago I sat there in the dark on the floor next to my bed. I just couldn't go in. Too many thoughts swirling, too much to take in … sleep seemed impossible. But it did come. I slept and the sun came up and June 30 arrived. A new day. Maybe that's the blessing of an anniversary like this. June 29 will not last forever. Grief is like a boat on a stormy sea. It will settle and at some point land comes into view. So just hold on. Hold on to the memories, the love, the wisdom and the connection. Laura's family and closest friends have been an amazing model of what it looks like to grieve deeply but with hope and gratitude for the time shared. So on this first anniversary I will do my best to honor her and cherish the memories. I will say an extra prayer for the three monsters, the bearded man and beautiful. I will make sure I eat some junk food, cuddle my monsters, be honest with myself and others and love abundantly. Because that's the best way I can think to honor my dear friend.

Sermon from Chris and Kathleen's Wedding

Isaiah 43:1-7

Colossians 3:12-17

Sometimes we live our lives as though we are on a freeway, racing to the next destination. Either because we are frantic or stressed or afraid, we look forward and go as fast as we can to the next place. If anything gets in our way or obstructs our view we look at it with frustration and anger or we quickly become disheartened. But, sometimes we are able to take on a different view of life, not as a highway meant to be conquered but perhaps more like a river. A river with twists and turns, curves and valleys that leave us unable to see what is ahead, but maybe not so concerned about that as we enjoy the beauty of the world around us, the gentle movement of the water beneath us, a feeling of peace and tranquility, realizing we are not in control. When rough waters or rocks come we gently move past them, sometimes painfully, but with a kind of peace about us, knowing that we will keep moving and that it will be ok, floating through the waters with faith, moving through our life's journey with hope.

The reading from Isaiah is about a journey. It is God's word for a people who have been through tough times. It is about God's promise to restore God's people, to bring back the dispersed nation of Israel from the ends of the earth, to shelter and care for God's people who had seen much suffering, many twists and rough waters along the way. God is offering them words of hope, words of comfort. The prophet Isaiah writes, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.” It is an invitation to walk the journey with hope, assurance and peace, knowing that God is with them.

This is the scripture that Kathleen and Chris chose when I asked them to select a Bible passage that reflects both their relationship with God and each other. I can see why it is fitting. As Chris and Kathleen shared with me their own stories and the story of how they came together I immediately thought of a journey. They have each been to many places both geographically and emotionally. They have learned what it means to say goodbye and keep going through the rough waters. They understand that the world is a big place with exciting new adventures but home, family, love and faith are their top priority. The way forward has not always been clear for them, living in different parts of the country and not knowing when they would get to share a zip code, but even though they couldn't see the final destination, they trusted the journey, enjoyed the twists and turns and looked forward to traveling it together. A journey that started at a sports bar in Florida and will now take them to an apartment in Portland with Packer by their side.

And today their journey has brought them here. Somehow from Chile, Thailand, Argentina, Peru, Florida and Portland the two of them are here in Jackson, with their friends and family, standing before God, declaring their love for one another. And so we celebrate, we celebrate all of the journey that has led them to this place and all that lies ahead. We celebrate the joy and love that they share together. Kathleen said that she loves Chris's generosity and willingness to always help others, she loves how much he values and prioritizes his family, that he always makes her feel better about herself and more secure in her decisions. She loves his sense of humor and how much he makes her laugh, and of course she loves that he is tall and handsome.

Chris loves Kathleen's smile and that she laughs at his jokes, even if they are really lame (his words). He loves spending time with her and says that even if they do nothing they still have an amazing time just talking and hanging out. He loves that she calls him Chris Turner. He loves holding her in his arms and says that “no matter how others see me, Kathleen makes me feel special.”

Today they have invited all of us to be part of their journey, to witness their love, pray for them and encourage them as they go through the mountains and valleys. And they have asked God to be part of their journey, to bless them, guide them, lead them and surround them in peace.

The other reading that Chris and Kathleen have chosen for today is from Colossians. In that reading we are called to clothe ourselves “with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.” To forgive one another and to let the peace of Christ live in our hearts. And to be thankful, to give thanks to God.

In their words, in their devotion to one another I can see that Chris and Kathleen are thankful for each other, they are thankful that their journeys merged and that their future will be hand in hand. Chris and Kathleen, this passage from Colossians reminds you to stay in gratitude. Live life with thankful hearts whatever bumps may come. As the river of life twists and turns take time to enjoy the view, to celebrate the journey behind you and embrace what is to come. To remember that God is the source of love and give thanks and praise to God as you live in that love.

Right now your journey has brought you here, and in just a moment you will stand here, hand in hand and make your vows. Know that you are not alone on this journey. You are surrounded by your friends and family who love and support you -who will be here for you in your life as a husband and wife. And you are surrounded by the presence of those who have left this earth but are very much here in your love and joy, especially Kathleen's dad, who has made her who she is today.

And you are surrounded by the Holy Spirit, in you, with you, around you, behind you and before you, carrying you forward, around every twist and turn until you reach your final destination in the overflowing and everlasting love and peace of God.

Keeping It Real

Sermon from Grace and St. Stephen's 5/8/16 Acts 16:16-34

Many of you know me as Father Jeremiah's wife and others may be wondering what that woman who sits in the back and is always trying to keep her kids quiet in church is doing in the pulpit. It is not easy making a good first impression when you have two little ones. Under normal circumstances one would like to appear: collected, calm, rational, energetic, able to complete a thought without suddenly leaving to make sure a two year old has not escaped. But kids have a way of keeping you real, showing your true colors for all to see and making you honest. So instead of seeing me devoutly praying in the pews or hitting every note of the hymns, many of you have seen me giving out bags of goldfish crackers, bending over grabbing toys from under the pew and doing a lot of shushing. One Sunday I may have even said “if you two can not behave and be quiet right now then you won't have Ipad time today or EVER!” I know, I know, idle threats and perhaps even threats in general are usually frowned upon by parenting books. But thanks to the two mini people I always have with me you have also seen me giggling, making silly faces, tickling and enjoying hugs and kisses. Good impressions out the window, I am a mom of little ones and those little ones don't let me pretend to have my act together.

Kids have a way of keeping us real. They bring out our short fuses, our insecurities about what others think, our silly faces, ill-timed giggles and even, for my husband, messy high fives at the end of the service while wearing beautiful vestments. They keep us real … and they ask for the same in return. When they have these big emotions that they don't know how to control, when their urges are taking over their little bodies, when they don't understand or are afraid or too slow or too loud in church they ask us to keep them real. Remember who they are, remember their big heart, their innocence, their generously poured out love, their need. Remember when they were that tiny body holding tightly to your warmth in a brand new world. They ask us to still keep our arms open for them even when they push away, to keep looking at them with love even when they scream back. And of course it isn't just when they are little. We have all been teenagers and probably pushed away, embarrassed or insulted our parents. We have all been teenagers or young adults or maybe even full grown adults trying to find ourselves, be our own person, push away and all the while hoping our parents or someone can still see us for the child that we are- our innocence, fears, love, hurts and hearts.

As I read the passage from Acts, I heard this same sort of realness, this craving for love, acceptance and a desire to be seen. It starts with a slave girl. A girl with a gift that was not actually much of a gift to her, but rather a reason for her to be exploited. Like a figure in a circus she was put on display for the profit of her owners. In Paul and Silas she sees something real. She knows who they really are and she is letting it be known, repeatedly and inconveniently. And then she is set free by Paul. No longer profitable, finally seen not as a way of making money but rather as a real person.

Because of this, because they have cost the girl's owners money, Paul and Silas are stripped and beaten and thrown in jail. And that's when they have their next person- to- person encounter. As they are praying and singing hymns in their jail cell, the earth shakes and their chains are loosened. Back then, if a prisoner escapes or is freed, the jailer is held responsible and may be killed. So the jailer prepares to kill himself until Paul stops him. It's crazy, after being stripped and beaten, they are sitting in their cell, chains and shackles around them, their open wounds uncleaned and suddenly they have a chance to get out. They could see it as a message from God saying, “go, run, teach more people about Jesus.” After all, they could do a lot more work for the Kingdom of God with their heads attached. But they stay. They consider the jailer, not as the man who locked them up to rot in a cell but as a person, a soul, a child of God. They share with him the Good News of Jesus Christ. He washes their wounds, he feeds them, he and his family are baptized. A missed opportunity for escape turned into a celebration, a dinner among friends.

And then after that, in the part of the story not read today, the next morning word is sent to the jailer that Paul and Silas can go free. But they won't go. They want to see the police face to face, they want to be seen as people, they declare that they are Roman citizens and the police come and apologize. What a wacky turn of events: exploitation and beating end with baptism and apologies. A story of anger and violence turned into a story of real people.

It is so hard to imagine not taking that break for freedom. Not running out of that jail and instead staying, seeing the jailer as a real person and reaching his heart. But Paul and Silas were followers of a real, in the flesh God who invites us to take his body and blood. God, not high above or far away, but intimately with us, seeing us, loving us, knowing us.

It makes me think of that story on the news about the Pope and the Syrian refugees. For many of us the refugee crisis is hard to wrap our minds around. Five million refugees trying to find a safe place in the world. We see glimpses of their faces but know them only as “they” “them” “those people” or a problem with no solution. A people with no place to go and countries trying to figure out how to be hospitable and sustainable at the same time. It is a massive, world-wide crisis with no end in sight. But when Pope Francis visited a refugee camp in Turkey, he took the time to see this massive crisis as actual faces, with real stories and real hopes. At the refugee camp he got to know twelve refugees and brought them back home with him to Rome. And then suddenly we get to learn more about these people. We hear their stories, learn of their journey and see their tired two year old asleep on his dad's shoulders. Of course 12 people among 5 million are just a drop in the bucket, but those drops in the bucket are real people with real stories and as they asked the Pope to pray for them it was a witness to the world of what it means to follow an incarnate God who sees and loves people. A story of war, fear and survival turned into a time of prayer, acceptance and love. A story of violence turned into a story of real people.

Perhaps in a world full of hurting people, in a political season or even with our own family, this is the best way to keep the greatest commandment to love God with all our heart and soul and love our neighbors as ourselves- Seeing others as real people, remembering that everyone has a story, everyone has hurts, fears and love. Perhaps when we are at our lowest, feeling hopeless, afraid, lost or alone, what we need to do is see another for who they really are, look them in the eye and experience the presence of our incarnate God in that human connection.

Mother's Day is a wonderful day for some, an opportunity to give thanks and love to someone who has been able to see us through our darkest times, love us when we are unlovable, and keep their arms open for us when we push away. But for others it is a difficult day. Not every mother is able to give that kind of love to her child. Sometimes illness or survival or learned behaviors can stand in the way of a loving relationship. And that is a hard thing to deal with. We want to know, at any age, that at the end of our temper tantrum there will be a calm and loving voice to welcome us back to reality. We want to know that when we are awful or overcome with emotions or lost or afraid there is always a place to call home.

But even if our mothers aren't able to be there in this way for us, we know that our God is real with us, body and blood. Our God sees us for who we are, knows our story, sees our wounds, our hurts, our hearts and still sees us as children.

When we first moved here I felt a bit like a National Geographic reporter on assignment. I had never been to Colorado before the interview. When we told people we were moving here they would ask “do you have family there?” I replied “we don't even know one single person in the entire state.” I have lived in Ohio and New Jersey so mountains, bears and altitude all sounded very strange and foreign. My friends and family from Ohio anxiously asked questions about what it was like out here. I remember saying things like “they are incredibly friendly and wear vests a lot.”

Now it has been three months and these strange creatures called “Coloradoans” have become real and beloved people to us. I have already been fortunate enough to make wonderful friends, Jeremiah got to spend weeks in rector's forum sharing our stories and hearing yours, and you have watched my face redden as my children greedily grab cookies at coffee hour, you may have even seen our whole family walking backwards down the hallway because the giggles it brings are irresistible. Things have gotten real.

And as we grow together over the years I am sure there will be many more giggles and red faces. It is wonderful to know that all of us, every single person here, can be who we are because we are children of God. Even when others may see us as a means to an end, a profitable venture, a criminal to let rot, an occupation to hold

accountable or just a number in a crisis, God sees us, really sees us, calls us child and embraces us with the love of an elated mother holding her newborn baby.

Worried Minds Think Alike

I've always known that my four year old has some of my traits, but our recent move across the country really put it in plain view.  Before the move we would talk about it as I tucked him in.  Tears would roll down his cheek as he said "I'm not going to make any friends there."  I would tell him that he is wonderful and of course he will make friends.  I would tell him that we could make friends together, but he insisted "I will never make friends!"  I would be thinking how I wished he would be more rational about it and see how silly it is to worry.  Then I would hear those same words coming from my own mouth.  My friend was planning a trip  to come see us and asked me if a certain weekend would work.  I said, "Of course it will work.  I have literally nothing on my calendar after the move.  I will just be sitting around lonely and friendless."  Then she played the part of the rational reassuring one telling me that of course I would make friends and look at all the friends I made in Toledo.  I heard her but I still had my doubts.  And now here we are; loving our new home and already making wonderful lifelong friends.

When it was time to drive away from our home of seven years I said "woo-hoo road trip!"  and turned around to see my four year old's chin quivering as he wiped a tear from his eye and said, "Mommy, I'm sad."  I told him I was sad too and we held hands and let tears fall as we drove out of our beloved city.  It was hard, but by Indiana we had joined the other two in singing along to the music.

Yesterday was his first day at his new preschool on his own.  Before school was an epic meltdown.  He was nervous and did not want to go.  I reassured him, told him things he could do there, told him how much he liked it when we went together, and stayed firm that he was going.  But inside I felt awful because I totally got it.  I was nervous too.  We have been spending so much time together, I was sad to be away from him all morning.  Besides that, I had been there.  I freaked when I had to go to preschool ... and first grade ... and youth club at church.  I remembered how that felt.  But I also know the rewards of doing things that are difficult.  I don't know how I learned it but somewhere along the way I decided that I would force myself to do things that were hard.  I remember clearly that moment as a 14 year old when I walked to the front of the room at my first speech tournament.  All I could think was "why am I doing this?"  After four years of speech team, two years of coaching and ten years of preaching I sure am glad I did it anyway.  I hope my son learns that same thing.  In the meantime I guess I have to keep compassionately pushing him but also keep knowing when not to push.  

I struggle with that for myself.   I love my current situation.  I love being home with the boys, I love being involved at my husband's church and my son's school.  I love volunteering and exploring.  But I also wonder if I should be pushing myself more.  Every time I did supply work (when you fill in for a pastor on a Sunday morning) I was like that 14 year old speech competitor.  As I packed the kids up, took them to a sitter, programmed the church address in my phone and drove to a place where I did not know anyone and was completely unfamiliar with their usual worship routines, I thought "why am I doing this?"  But every single time I was glad I did it.  I felt renewed spiritually, emotionally, physically and mentally.  I connected with people and kept working on the things I love like preaching and leading worship.  

 So what now?  I don't know.  Moving here was right for my husband's career and a great place for all of us to live, but what do I do next?  I have no idea.  And this is coming from someone who decided her career at age 13.  I have always mapped out my life and followed it completely.  Now I have no plan.  Maybe that's ok?  Maybe after years of pushing past the worry I am ready to live in a way that is less planned and more spontaneous? ... sounds too uncertain.  A wise friend told me that God's calling is less of a direct road map and more like the next stone across a foggy lake.  Sounds great, but hard for a person who over prepares and thinks everything out to the point of worry and reluctance.  Maybe I just keep hopping and surround myself with people who will push me to the next rock ... and keep holding my son's hand as we jump together. 

 

A Beautiful New Reality (Article for St Andrew's Episcopal Newsletter December 2015)

 Every year many of us Christians struggle to find a way to be in a state of “not yet” while the world seems to be in a state of “now.” During a time of celebrations, feasts, gifts and extravagance, Advent calls us to be patient, still and reflective. Many of us cling to the image of Mary during this time of waiting. She had no choice but to wait. Her wait was physical, emotional and visible as her belly expanded with the days. Baby kicks and stretch marks were the words of prophecy and promise for her. Pregnancy is a waiting game. On the good days you embrace and enjoy the moment you are in- cherishing every feeling and the anticipation. On harder days you wince as you look at a calendar, wondering “how many more days of discomfort, worry, stretching and back pain?” The wait is physical, emotional and visible to everyone (and they like to comment on it). Waiting, preparing, making more and more room for new life. The interesting thing about counting down the days of pregnancy is that you are actually anxiously awaiting something incredibly difficult and painful. When I went to the hospital having contractions with my second son Isaiah, I was hoping that the nurse would tell me it was indeed time. Even though he was a bit early, I felt ready. I did not want to be pregnant anymore and I wanted to meet my little man. I insisted on no drugs of any kind and no epidural. I calmly watched the clock tick through the night and the snow fall outside the hospital window. I helped Jeremiah figure out who would lead worship since it was a Sunday morning. I took deep breaths and repeated things like “faith over fear, mind over matter.” And then it got real. The nurse came in and looked shocked, she remarked on my change in demeanor. My calm, cool and collected face was replaced with discomfort, fear and dread. I remembered what it was like as the contractions got closer and closer together. I forgot about my mantras as my body contorted. The peace and calm was pushed out by a writhing pain that took over my entire body. Doubt replaced confidence. And then just when I announced to the doctor that she would need to do a c-section because I could not do it any longer, just when I had completely given up … new life. And within minutes I was blissfully holding a tiny baby with a perfect round face and asking my husband to please get me another Rice Krispie treat.

I found myself thinking about that memory in an unlikely place. I was sitting there in a dimly lit hospice room holding the hand of my dear friend. I was whispering encouragement in her ear and watching her husband encourage her by her bedside. There were so many physical reminders of childbirth. She was laying on her back as the painful cancer took over her body. Up to this point, during the months since she found out the cancer was back and it was terminal, she had prepared. She prepared her young children, her friends and family. She wrote letters, bought gifts, said what needed to be said. And I watched as the time came. It was hard. And then just when we started to settle in for the night, just after the hospice nurse left talking about increasing dosages … her last breath. I went home in a daze. I collected my kids from our neighbor and put them to bed very late. Jeremiah was at General Convention in Utah. I was worn out, hanging on the edge, about to fall into the depths of despair and just when I thought I could not do it, that I could not handle it, that the darkness would overcome … I laid down next to my then three year old and he asked me where I had been. I told him my friend died, he smiled and said “that’s good mommy because now she is with Jesus.”

Yes, new life. We wait with hope, we prepare, we make room, we count down, we try to say “not yet” to everything around us that says “now.” We look for hope and peace in a chaotic world that is full of fear and pain. Just when we think we can’t wait anymore, when this world needs a savior, needs hope … new life. A new life that changes everything, a new life that challenges us, that challenges the world we live in, that challenges our wish lists and plans and agendas and desires and relationships. It can be painful … but it is new life. A beautiful new reality ushered in with a tiny body. And just like my baby boys, just like resurrection … it is worth waiting for.

Love Letter to Toledo

http://loveletterstotoledo.com/jennifer-williamson/

Sermon from St Andrew’s 1/10/16

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22
Seven years ago I was a name to many of you.  A name as part of a paragraph, a paragraph as part of an introduction that probably went something like this, “The Vestry and the Search Committee are happy  to announce that Jeremiah Williamson will be our new rector beginning in April.  He comes with his wife, Jennifer who is a United Methodist pastor.”  For many you I stayed a name for a while since I was busy being the pastor of Woodville United Methodist until 2013 when I became a stay at home mom and started coming here.  But now … well I’d like to think I’m more than a name, or maybe my name means something more, more fully a name.  Now that we have celebrated the birth of children together, we have mourned together, laughed together and prayed together week after week.  Now we are more.  But at first we were names to each other.

Names carry so much weight.  When we named our children we took it very seriously.  We read and researched and reflected.  In the end we cheated, we went with names that had already become great.  We took two amazing stories, Oscar Romero and the prophet Isaiah and attached them to our children in the hopes of bringing them roots and inspiration.  Names are a big deal, the first thing we learn to write, the first question we are asked, the word we sometimes dread and sometimes long to hear from others.
In the Gospel reading today Jesus is identified.  Sure, we already knew what  he would be called, but it’s here in this scene on the beach that Jesus is identified: God’s son, the Beloved.  This is who Jesus is, without this, before this he may have been a name as part of an introduction, Jesus of Nazareth, another name in the pages of history.  But now he is God’s Son, the Beloved.  This is who he is, identified by the voice of God after he emerges from the waters of baptism.  Now it can begin, now his work of saving and preaching and restoring can begin.

But more than just Jesus is identified in this passage.  This simple story of a group of people by the river is an amazing revelation of who God is.  It is a complete understanding of the Trinity in one moment, one sentence, one action.  It’s not very often that we get a mention of all three members of the Trinity in the same instance.  But here we do.  Jesus is praying, the Holy Spirit comes down like a dove and God speaks.  All three, right there.  What a sight.

This depiction might resonate perfectly with your understanding of the Trinity.  Jesus down here on the ground, God way up there with a booming voice bestowing things upon the earth and the Holy Spirit coming down.  Like a divine hierarchy.  But let’s open up the picture for a minute, see if maybe there is something more going on here.

Every now and then one is fortunate enough to read a book that speaks directly to one’s soul and revolutionizes one’s worldview.  For me, that happened my first year of seminary when I had to read a book called “She Who Is” by a Roman Catholic nun named Elizabeth Johnson.  The way she talked about the power of symbols for God, God’s relationship to humanity and the Trinity blew my mind, even in and maybe for it’s simplicity.  She suggests that the Trinity is more than a hierarchy or God looking down and giving gifts to Jesus and the Holy Spirit running around doing the work.  Instead she sees the Trinity as active, alive, moving, circular.  Less about the parts and more about the connections, the relationships.  God the Creator giving God’s self to Jesus the Son, loving and moving in him, all three bound together by love, equality and divinity.  Elizabeth Johnson explains what is sometimes referred to as a “social trinity” as she says:
“At its most basic the symbol of the Trinity evokes a livingness in God, a dynamic coming and going with the world that points to an inner divine circling around an unimaginable relation … Not an isolated, static ruling monarch, but a relational, dynamic, tripersonal mystery of love.”  “The threes keep circling round.  Whatever the categories used, there is reflected a livingness in God; a beyond, a within, and a within to the world and its history; a sense of God as from whom, by whom, and in whom all things exist, thrive, struggle toward freedom, and are gathered in.  To use one more model, this time from the eleventh-century theologian Hildegard of Bingen, there is a brightness, a flashing forth, and a fire, and these three are one, connecting all creation together in compassion.  All these metaphors express the Trinitarian structure of Christian belief in God.”

What I believe Elizabeth is saying is that the Trinity is about relationship, and we are invited to be part of that relationship.  God as Father, Son and Holy Ghost, all parts engaged in self-giving.  God says “this is my Son, the Beloved.” It is about the relationship.  The Holy Spirit comes down and then Jesus goes about his work in the love and embrace of the Creator and Sustainer.  They are more than motionless figures, names in a book, images to be worshiped.  They are not three isolated separate Gods, but rather a relationship.
And so here we are gathering together, experiencing God through relationship.  We come face to face, we join our voices in prayer because we are more than just names, we are relationship.  We are God’s beloved, saved by Christ, experiencing the presence of the Holy Spirit and holding one another’s hands.

We are invited to be part of this dynamic relationship between God and creation.  God gives God’s self to us in love, mercy and compassion and we are called to give ourselves to God and one another, keeping the relationship active.

When we baptize we enter into this act of self-giving.  The Holy Spirit is alive and moving in the water, God is calling the baptized, and then the newest Christian is sealed with the sign of the cross.  In baptism we do not use last names because we are part of this family, this relationship where those distinctions do not matter because we are called beloved.

But here’s the down side of relationships.  They can hurt.  I take that back.  They will hurt.  We don’t get to stay in this moment forever.  We have to say good-bye at some point.  Whether it’s relocation or death or rejection or any kind of change … and it hurts.   When we open our hearts and give of ourselves to another, through shared faith or shared pain or shared experience or compassion or love or friendship, we open ourselves to immeasurable joy and deep pain.  Sometimes isolation is tempting, it  might seem less risky, more reasonable.  But God calls us to love.  Love God and love neighbor.  Give of yourself.  This is our calling.  This is what we are baptized into, a relationship with a God who gives.  So we keep at it, cherishing the rewards and weathering the losses.   We keep our place in the divine dance, in our relationship with a living and moving God.

Seven years ago I packed up our stuff and headed west from Youngstown to Toledo.  I cried the whole way as I thought of all the wonderful people I loved and that loved me that I was leaving.  You were names to me and I was a name to you.  And then we knelt and took bread and wine together.   We said goodbye to beloved members and friends, we ate donuts and chili, we sang Bible School songs, taught Sunday School, did Bible study together.  We sang and worshiped, we cried and prayed.  We grew, we welcomed more people into this place.  And now our names mean so much more to each other.

In a few weeks I will once again pack up our stuff (a lot more stuff this time and twice as many people) and head west, very west from Toledo to Colorado Springs.  I will cry as I think of all of the wonderful people I love and have loved me.  I will cry when I think of your names and what they mean … the relationships.  And then I will go to a place where I am right now just a name, a name as part of an introduction that goes something like, “The Vestry and the Search Committee are happy  to announce that Jeremiah Williamson will be our new rector beginning in February.  He comes with his wife, Jennifer who is a United Methodist pastor and their two children.”  And you will become a name and accept names as you look for your next rector.
And then something will happen.  God alive and active, the names will become more.  Relationships will blossom, holy moments emerge, bonds form and the names will mean so much more.  This is life.  A circle, a dance, always moving.  This is how we be the people God is calling us to be, engaging in loving relationship, opening our hearts and experiencing Christ in one another.

I will never forget watching my children get baptized here in this place.  Their wet baby heads and wide eyes as they watched the candle.  I’ll never forget the loving faces that greeted them as they were brought down the aisle with the other newly baptized.  I’ll never forget because the Holy Spirit was in this place, making it more than a simple group of people in a building, making it holy.  Today Oliver will have this experience.  His wet head and wide eyes will be welcomed with love and joy by people who will be so much more than names to him.  The Holy Spirit is moving in this place today.  Father, Son and Holy Ghost, active, alive, giving, receiving, loving.  Right here.  And we are a part of it.  Each of us with our own identities, stories and names, each of us together, called Beloved.

Smashing Pumpkins (December 2015)

As I stood there in the preschool pick-up line I watched as the teachers carefully checked the names on the little paper plates under the Play-Doh pumpkins and then handed them to each child as they were dismissed.  I stepped up to get my four-year-old and the teacher said “We know which one is Oscar’s.”  She then selected a flat pumpkin sitting next to all of the nice round ones.  He smiled as he took it and proudly showed me what he made.  I asked him why his was flat and I have to confess my unspoken thoughts were “he didn’t follow directions or he smashed it because he was being aggressive or he lacked some sort of fine motor skill needed to make a round Play-Doh pumpkin.”  It’s not that I don’t think he is wonderful, I do, but I was just doing what so many of us parents do and putting my own criticisms and insecurities on my child.  In a very matter of fact way he answered, “I didn’t want it to look like all the other ones.  I wanted mine to be different.”  I was embarrassed of my first assumptions and proud of him.  A  few days later when he came home with a sparkly pumpkin with eyes spread as far apart as possible I immediately congratulated him for his originality.

The world in which  my son will grow will only become more and more populated with people more and more connected and also more and more aware of standards, norms and “shoulds.”  So, I’m happy that he can see the value in being different.  After all, you don’t name your child after a Salvadoran Archbishop made famous by a radio broadcast that boldly preached against violence and stood with the severely oppressed poor people, a man who stood against what his religious authorities, friends and government demanded, unless you are prepared for a child who can go against the grain.

I thought about this as my mom and I were having a conversation later.  I was explaining to her that I wanted to turn our basement into a play room because right now the play room is the first room people walk into.  I told her, “it looks crazy and cluttered walking into a room of toys.”  She looked at me with surprise and said, “you’ve never cared about that.”  It’s true.  We have a purple living room, a “Florida mango” nursery, a bright red living room with a chalk board wall and a bright blue fireplace.  Our house is decorated with bright colors and things that we have picked up on our travels or been gifted, things that have meaning for us.  Lately though as I found myself in other people’s homes for parties and play dates I have looked at their carefully coordinated walls, uncluttered and impossibly clean surfaces and found myself rethinking our decorating strategy.  But my mom is right … that’s not me.

I remember nine years ago when I began my first appointment in ministry trying to figure out who I was as a pastor.  I worked with a wonderful senior pastor who had his own way of doing things but never pushed that on me, he encouraged and supported his associates as they expressed their own pastoral voice.  That was great, but I needed to find that voice.  There are so many decisions to  make in ministry.  I would find myself wondering how other pastors I knew would respond to situations.  It was stressful and uncomfortable.  Eventually, I gained confidence and began to find my own way.  It became a balance of learning from others while also being the unique person God called.

All these years later and I’m still in that process.  Figuring out how to be who I am as a mom, spouse, friend, preacher, someone who can learn from others without losing my unique voice.  Lately I especially find myself wondering what is next for me in life.  How do I balance the strong sense of calling I feel for ministry with the rhythms we have established as a family.  As I look for models to follow or expectations from others, I have to remind myself to be who I am and find my own way.

So I have decided to embrace the chaos a bit.  Yesterday we decorated the outside of our house for Christmas and I decided to bring up all the decorations, even the weird light up snowman we bought years ago and never figured out what to do with.  I even brought up the wooden Mr. and Mrs. Claus figures that were left in our house by the previous owners.  I knew my one year old would love that they were the same size as him.  I hung up the snowman, stuck the wooden figures in the ground and put every working string of lights on our bushes.  I laughed when I looked at it and told my husband to feel free to edit.  He did.  He went into the house and came out with a big plastic candy cane stick and stuck it right between the yellowed wooden Santa Claus and the Mrs. Claus who for some reason  has aged much better.  It was finished.  The kids loved it.

I remember as a kid being completely baffled by plain white lights, it seemed like a wasted opportunity.  Now I think white lights are very pretty and look lovely, but it’s not me.  I’m the house with the lights with big bulbs because they remind me of the house I grew up in.  The one with the bright blue fireplace that matches the knickknacks from Mexico and India we got during our travels.  The one with the gel clings on the front window that don’t make any sense because I promised the kids I would let them be in charge of that part of the decorating.  I’m the house with the flattened Play-Doh pumpkin inside, where we are all trying to figure out what it means to live in community, build relationships, learn from others and still use our unique voices.

Sermon from 10/4/15

Preached at Bethlehem in Pemberville Exodus 1:8-2:15, 3:1-15 (Narrative Lectionary)
The days of Joseph were over … a distant memory.  The days of feasting upon the stored up grain in a time of famine were nothing but a passed down story.  The days of Joseph’s heroics, the people of Israel’s favor with Pharaoh were no more.  Maybe a story they told over campfires as they bandaged their wounds and rested their worn down bones.  Maybe a song sung softly to mothers as they watched their babies taken from them and thrown into the river.  Maybe a dream imagined before the breaking of dawn and the breaking of backs.  As they laid the bricks for structures that were not theirs, carried out orders for a people not their own, cried out in agony from a foreign land, maybe it was somewhere stored in their collective memory.  A story of identity, a glimmer of hope, a possibility of a different life.  Maybe they told each other the story so that their spirit would not be crushed along with their will.  Somehow, somewhere, some way they had hope enough to cry out.  Under the weight of Pharaoh’s oppression- the people of Israel, enslaved, unheard by all earthly powers, cried out to their God.  The God of their ancestors, the God of the stories they told to one another, the stories that lived on in their collective memory.  The God of Abraham and Sarah, Jacob … Joseph.  They cried out for the next chapter of their story.  The story of God and God’s people.  Come now, save us, help us, continue in your relationship with us.

And God hears them.  It may not have looked like it at first.  When Pharaoh ordered all of the male babies born of Hebrew women to be thrown into the river.  God’s will may not have been clear when the midwives protected new lives, or when a baby was rescued from a basket and given a chance at life.  Fear and confusion may have blurred out hope and direction when the bush was in flames.  But God hears them.
This story is so epic, so well-known, so true to human experience and played out over and over again in human history.  The Exodus was as real for the slaves fleeing to the north in our own country as it was for the slaves fleeing from Pharaoh in Egypt.  A fight for freedom, a fight for survival, a plea to God … the Exodus has happened many times in our history.

As I watch the images of Syrian refuges fleeing war I think of the Exodus.  As I saw that image of a small boy washed up on the beach, drowned when his family attempted to leave the fighting in Syria, I thought of the Exodus.  The baby boys thrown into the river.  The cruelty of oppression, the violence of the world, the human cost of power games.  I wonder what it looks like as those many, many Syrian refugees desperately look for safety.  As they leave their land and hope to find impassible barriers parted for their safe passage.  The story of the Exodus did not end when the people of Israel left Egypt.

It is a story that we cling to any time we find ourselves up against something that is just too big to change.  When we find ourselves without a way forward, desperate, beat down, afraid, unsure of where to go.  When the task ahead is impossible, too painful, too difficult, too unjust.  When we are up against a force much bigger than ourselves.  Like when someone in a position of authority makes decisions that hurt us and there is nothing we can do about it.  Or when we are the victims of an injustice.

Maybe we find ourselves clinging to the story of the Exodus when we feel crushed and all we can do is cry out to our God.  A close friend of mine recently went through a really difficult time, a painful, impossible, devastating experience.  She was a church member in Woodville when I was the pastor there and some of you know her.  She was diagnosed with breast cancer and then after treatment it quickly spread across her body.  She was very beloved, especially by her husband and three young children.  She was a wonderful writer and so many many people felt like they were part of her journey with her.  When she was waiting for test results or receiving news or having to tell her children bad news she would put out a request for big, loud, noisy prayers.  And people prayed them.  We prayed those big, loud, noisy prayers.  Prayers from a place of desperation and pain.  Prayers from broken hearts unable to see a way out.  Prayers that sounded like those desperate cries to God from the people of Israel.  The ones from their broken hearts.  The ones they were praying when Moses was picked up from that basket, when the bush was on fire.  The ones they prayed that God heard.

The story of the Exodus- the suffering, the crying out, the response by God.  It is epic.  It is pivotal to the Bible.  Over and over again throughout the Bible it is referred to.  It is taught, told, celebrated, sung, prayed and remembered over and over again.  Over and over again the Bible says “this is who we are.  Do not forget.  We were oppressed, we suffered, we were foreigners.  We cried out to God.  God heard us and delivered us.  Teach this to your children, write it down, never forget.”  This story is a story of survival, relationship, hope and triumph.

This story is about the people and God.  They both act.  And that is important.  First the people cry out.  They ask for help.  When we ask for help we admit that we are dependent.  We can not do it on our own, we are in desperate need of God’s grace and mercy.  We accept our humanness, our brokenness.  In acknowledging that we are not God we can reach out to God, open our hearts to God.  We can fall on our knees before God and take comfort in knowing that we are not alone.  It is ok if we can not carry the weight of the world on our shoulders.  We are weak, we suffer, we hurt, we fail, we are human.  We are on our knees crying out to God.

And God acts.  God hears and when the people call out, God calls back.  “Moses, Moses …”  In the middle of the ordinary, in the leaves of a bush, God becomes known.  The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  God reveals Gods self right here in human existence, and calls out.  This is an amazing thing about the God we pray to- God works with us.  God calls back, invites us to be part of God’s saving work, to journey with God.

Moses is the connection between God and the people.  The way in which God responds to their cries.  That baby floating down the river becomes a bridge between heaven and earth.  In his address to Congress last week, Pope Francis said this about Moses:
“On the one hand, the patriarch and lawgiver of the people of Israel symbolizes the need of peoples to keep alive their sense of unity by means of just legislation. On the other, the figure of Moses leads us directly to God and thus to the transcendent dignity of the human being. Moses provides us with a good synthesis of your work: you are asked to protect, by means of the law, the image and likeness fashioned by God on every human face.”

A powerful way of understanding the work of Moses- leading us directly to God.  Witnessing to the transcendent dignity of the human being, the human ability to transcend our earthly existence, our mortal bodies and communicate with God.  In the flames of a bush, Moses transcends the God/ human divide,  he communicates directly with God.  And over time is given the task of protecting the image stamped by God onto every human.  Moses becomes the connection between a desperate people and their God.  The path between their struggles and the God who journeyed with their ancestors, who made them who they are, who created the world.

Their broken backs, tired hearts and desperate pleas are met with a baby thrown into a river and a bush on fire.  God hears their cries, God is at work, calling out.  Even when the task ahead is as insurmountable as mighty Pharaoh, God is at work.  There is a way forward.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe.  I know that on that journey with Moses sometimes the people had a hard time believing.  As mothers feared for their babies lives, wept for the ones not plucked from the river, the way forward must have been hard to see.  It can be hard to see anything when your eyes are swollen from tears.  For the Syrian refugees the way forward is unknown, invisible and far off.

This week as I heard the news of another school shooting, saw pictures of another group of students huddled together, shaking, crying in front of police vans-it felt like too much.  It felt like too much some years ago when the students huddled together were five years old.  Too many shootings, too much violence, too much pain, too many children killed, too much politics, too much disagreement, fighting, hatred, no way forward.  No exit from our current situation.  No balm for the broken hearts.  Insurmountable.

Don’t forget.  Our story.  What God did.  The God we believe in.  Write it down, sing it, say it, teach it to the children.  The people cried out and God heard their cries.  Moses lead the people out.  A way forward, a land of promise and hope.  God walked with them.

And what about my friend I mentioned who asked for the big, noisy prayers during her cancer treatment?  There were times and are times when the way forward is hard to see.  The night she died it was hard to see much with swollen eyes from crying.  We fell on our knees, we prayed, loud, hard, passionately.  Where is the way forward?  Don’t forget.  Our story.  What God did.  The God we believe in.  Write it down, sing it, say it, teach it to the children.  God does not abandon us, God hears our cry.  I tell myself that when I learn from her memory, when I see her children smile, when I see the difference she made on so many lives, when I think of her faith, when I believe in hope beyond the grave.  A way forward, somehow.  A path for the refugees, a hope for the hopeless, a possibility for the peace of the world, the peace of the children in our schools, healing for grieving hearts.  Remember our story, hold on to it and keep walking forward, but don’t forget to remove your sandals.  

Singing Her Song ... As Best I Can (September 2015)

It’s been over two months now since Laura died.  Her name is no longer on my “recently messaged” for text messages.  I no longer instinctively pick up my phone to text her after I put the boys to bed to tell her something funny or see about getting together or ask how she is or vent about something.  I’ve started referring to her house as Aaron’s house now.  And yet in many ways it still feels like it just happened.

I knew the funeral would be hard, but I also knew it was something we had together.  We worked on it together and I felt her presence so strongly.  I got to meet all these people I had heard about or had seen on facebook.  I got to see pictures of her and hear stories about her, stories from long before our five years of friendship.  I knew the hard part would be when it ended.  As I walked down that long aisle when the service ended I looked straight ahead and there was that picture of her, like she was looking right at me.  I went in the sacristy and cried the tears I almost kept back during the funeral.

I miss her.  I feel like I can barely breathe when Sarah comes on the radio.  I wish her supportive and attentive eyes were still in the congregations I preach to.  I wish she was still one of the first “likes” when I share pictures of my babies on facebook.  I miss the way she understood me.  Whether it was deep talks about belief and theology or figuring out parenting, I miss the nods.  The nods that said “yes, I get you.”
I sent her this text eight days before she died:
“You sang my song.  Do you remember when you sang the song I wrote in church?  I was nervous and felt really vulnerable sharing words I wrote like that, but you sang it with confidence and love.  And in so many other ways you sang my song, supported me, talked me up to people, got on board with projects, Bible studies, etc.  And you sang my song and still sing my song because you get me.  You get my sermons, you connect with the deepest sharing of my heart and that gives me courage to dig deeper.   When I was having a hard time figuring out how to preach at all these strange churches  with people I don’t know, I figured out that if I pretended you were in the congregation it was so much easier and I did much better.  Thank you for singing my song.  I will try my best to sing yours.”
She texted back “I have no doubt you will sing my song beautifully Jen.  I love you and trust you.”

I’ve been debating with myself what I should share about that night that Laura died.  Even though she shared so openly through her blog and facebook posts, there were many things she kept private.  Plus, her final moments were such a profound gift to me that I want to hold them close and keep them for myself and forever have that intimate moment in my heart.  Yet I also know that Laura shared this journey and she did not hold back whether it was about foobs or her anger at cancer or grieving her loved ones.  She even shared with us that moment that I know many of us will never forget reading- when she told her children she would soon die.

And I know that she wanted good to come from this.  As Tammy and I talked outside the Hospice room she told me that Laura told her to make sure that good came from this.  She wanted others to be strengthened in their faith through her sharing.  She wanted to bring others closer to God and help people find joy and peace in what she called a “brutiful” world.

So in an effort to keep singing her song, I want to share the way she courageously and with faith and love left this world.

When I got there the room was full of people.  I just started talking in her ear because … it was a hard situation.  Aaron was always by her side, encouraging her, telling her he loved her, holding her hand.  She just got there around 12:30pm, it was only around 7pm when I got there but the end was very close.  She was still talking and in many ways herself the day before.  It all just seemed to happen so quickly.  She didn’t want to linger in a way that would prolong the pain for her family.  Her closest friends and family bravely and sincerely said goodbye with open hearts and deep love.  The crowd grew much smaller and the Hospice nurse said they would clean her and make her more comfortable.   We went in the hallway.  Who knows what we talked about, it was a strange blur.  It was getting late and I knew that her brother and Aaron were staying by her side through the night.  I saw that the nurses were finished and I asked Aaron if I could go in and say goodbye.  I held her hand and talked to her.  I told the Hospice Nurse about her, how we actually met there at that same Hospice when I was visiting her father.  I told her all the many, many people who love Laura, all the lives she touched.  I noticed that Laura’s eyes were open, they had been closed since I arrived hours before.  I commented on this to the nurse and she told me that when the nurses were cleaning her they saw the picture of her children and told her how beautiful her children were and they saw tears come down Laura’s cheek.  I immediately started telling Laura about how well her kids did when they said goodbye.  I told her everything Aaron told me about their strength, resilience and understanding.  Laura’s eyes were looking around the room but not at anything I could see.  Her breathing slowed and that’s when the nurse ran to get Aaron.  In that time of just the two of us I sang in her ear “I believe in the sun, I believe in the sun, even when, even when it’s not shining …”  Her brother and her husband quickly came and each held a hand.  I sat at her feet and smiled through my tears.  She looked around, her breathing slow, calm and steady and she took two last breaths and then was gone.

This is what I mean when I say she went peacefully.  The scars on her body, the swollen liver, the pain in her bones was not peaceful.  The agony she felt in saying goodbye to her children was not peaceful.  The tear-stained faces on her best friends as they could barely breathe their goodbyes were not peaceful.  But somehow, by what I believe to be the power of the Holy Spirit the end was.  She  never wavered in her faith.  She knew she would be ok.  So she did it bravely, she faced it, she fought as hard as she could for every day she could watch her children grow but when it was time she faced it with honesty, courage and faith.  I know that for me, it has and will always have a big impact on my faith.  I will hold on to the memory of that forever and it will fight against all of my fears of death.  The peace in that room, the courage in her soul, the faith in her words throughout her final days.  I will never forget.

When I was ordained my husband invited my friends and family to contribute to a custom made journey stole.  A stole is the scarf that ordained clergy wear when they lead worship and a woman in New Jersey (Colleen Hintz, Fruit of the Vine Vestments) hand makes custom stoles that tell a story about the person.  So she incorporates symbols and images from your journey onto the stole.  My stole has an image of the woman at the well because it is my favorite scripture.  It was Laura’s favorite too and the one she chose for me to preach on at her funeral.  Six years ago when I was given the stole I would have never imagined how powerful that symbol would become.  Now she represents Laura.  A part of my journey, a part of my soul, a part of my voice as I preach.  And in all the congregations I preach to, in all of the new places, those times when I need to prove myself, or help people understand what I am saying or bare my soul to pews full of people … she will be there.

“If I know only one thing, it’s that everything that I see
Of the world outside is so inconceivable often I barely can speak
Yeah I’m tongue-tied and dizzy and I can’t keep it to myself
What good is it to sing helplessness blues, why should I wait for anyone else?”
-Fleet Foxes