We did it.

     When I was little my mom told me that I could be anything I want to be. I breathed a sigh of relief and said “good! Because I want to be Mickey Mouse.” I appreciate that I was taught to think big and that the world is full of opportunities. I hope my children will also know that they can be anything they want to be and that I will support them in that. However, I also wonder about the pressure of potentials.

     I have often seen people in their twenties struggle to settle into an occupation and part of this is due to the vastness of possibilities. Every decision eliminates other possibilities. Every pathway we choose means that there are these other potentials that will go unused. This can create a lot of pressure in deciding on a career but also I think it can make it difficult to feel satisfied in the ordinariness of everyday.

     Last week we were talking about this in the women's book group I am in. The book we are reading invites us to seek out the holiness and beauty in the ordinary, and one of the things that came up in our discussion was the sense of disappointment that can come with the ordinary. Many of us were told we could be anything and that we could be great. We wanted to change the world and then here we are brushing our teeth, doing laundry and listening to people complain. It can make us feel like our lives are a disappointment, a waste of potential. Like we should be doing bold brave things all the time.

     I feel this way about school shootings. I desperately want my children to be safe at school and I feel like I am failing them. I have joined advocacy groups, gone to rallies, shared what I believe can make a difference but it feels like not enough. It feels like I should be able to come up with something better, I should be able to use all of my potential, my intelligence, my skills to fix this problem for these little people who depend on me.

     At the Wednesday night Bible study I attend we watched a documentary on the week we were between two books of the Bible and it was about how physicians handle talking to others about death. One of the things I thought was very revealing and heart-breaking was when these extremely accomplished and hard-working doctors shared that every time they had to tell someone that there was nothing else that could be done and that the disease would kill them, they felt like it was a personal failure. These doctors shared that every time, no matter how often, they had to look at a patient and say that the treatment is not working and they were out of options they looked at it as them failing the patient. It's no wonder there is a high rate of suicide among those in the medical profession.

     I was thinking about this as I sat on a bench talking with my friend about what is next in life. We both have been stay at home moms for years and are starting to feel like it's time for a change. As I have personally reflected on this I have felt a mix of emotions. I feel excited but also I have felt sad that the days of having my kids with me all day are ending. I have felt nostalgic about all the great things we have done and their baby days. I have looked at myself and wondered why I struggle sometimes with being home lately. I have focused on my faults and the things I thought I would do or accomplish but have not. But when I was talking to my friend I had this thought … we did it. I knew there would be challenges when I made this decision. There were some really difficult times (babies that did not sleep, PPD, winter days stuck in the house on end, temper tantrums, etc.) but we did it.

     So often I focus on what I am not doing, what I should be doing, what I could be doing and so rarely do I say to myself “I did it.” I believe that expecting more from ourselves is good and we should always push ourselves to be better and do great things, but weighty expectations and feelings of disappointment are stifling and rarely inspire great actions. Also we are just people, it's good for us to realize our limits and dependency on relationships with others and on God.

     I look at the people around me and I am amazed at the wonderful things they have done or are doing even as I hear them saying they feel like they haven't done enough. I rarely extend that same amazement to myself and my own accomplishments (except the other day when, after my children and husband begged me to play and after many many losses I actually took first place in one level of Sonic All Star Racing and I celebrated my accomplishment excessively and exhaustively).

     Today I got the kids fed and ready for school, I brushed my teeth, made the beds, led morning prayer at the church, participated in book group and have now managed to find a quiet place for a bit of reflection before preschool pick up. Yet I am disappointed in myself for missing my gym time. My hair is a mess, my car smells from old snacks shoved in seats, my shirt is super wrinkled and there are huge problems in the world I have done nothing to help, but for just a minute I'm going to pat myself on the back because even though I am not (yet) Mickey Mouse … I've done and been part of some great things and I'm doing ok.

"Spoiler Alert" Sermon from 4/8/18

Preached at Grace and St. Stephen's Episcopal Church

John 20:19-31

     It was a Friday night and my husband was out of town so I told the kids we could have a slumber party in the downstairs. After much excited hopping and giggles we began our preparations. They grabbed their sleeping bags, pillows and about 20 of their favorite stuffed animals. Together we pushed the coffee table out of the way and created a cozy space for us. I brought down snacks, drinks and the carefully selected movie of choice: Trolls. Teeth were brushed, jammies selected and snuggly positions taken.

     Trolls is everything a kid's movie should be: bright, colorful, sparkly, loud and full of dancing, singing and silliness. It's also a movie - and like almost every movie it builds tension and conflict. We learn that the Trolls are in a far away hidden place because the bad, mean, sad, scary people called the Bergens would like to eat them if they find them. My kids were happily enjoying the pop tunes, rainbows and cute figures until things started to get a little scary. At this point my six year old asks me to please turn it off. “It's too scary mommy. I don't like this movie.” I tell him it will be fine, it's fun, let's keep watching. His pleas become more urgent and heart felt “Please mommy. I don't want to watch this. I can't. Please turn it off!” His little brother joins in “It's too scary. Turn it off.” I hug them and tell them it's a kids' movie, it will be fine. I even promise them that I know it will all end happily. They look at me with angst, doubt and disbelief. I tell them “let's eat some pizza and enjoy the movie. I'm right here with you. It's going to be ok.” They continue to ask me to turn it off until eventually they are so captivated by the movie that they stop and go back to shaking in excitement at the tense scenes and cracking up at the silly jokes.

     That was about a month ago. They now have listened to the soundtrack so many times they know most of the words. They get excited when they see merchandise with the characters, they told their dad how great the movie was and list it among their favorites. And last week at a play date they watched it again with their friends and have no recollection of the horror, dread and faint-heartedness it created just a month ago.

     It's the in between time that got them. The beginning is all possibilities, excitement and newness, then comes the hard part- when you don't know which way it will go -the uncertainty, the questions, the doubts, the pain and sadness. The end will come, but it seems doubtful and far away.

     When we enter the story in today's Gospel that's where the disciples are, the in between time. The beginning was full of miracles, healings, teachings and the constant security of Jesus who was with them. When things pointed toward Jerusalem it changed. Darkness, dread, fear, doubt, pain, anguish and now loneliness. They are standing around in a locked room because they are scared. Jesus died a terrible death. They know that insult, pain and perhaps even death await them.

     Sure, Jesus told them all of this would happen. He explained again and again that he must die and be raised again. He even gave them a specific timeline, but now they aren't so sure. It seems impossible, distant, maybe even unlikely. Until he comes. In that room with the locked doors, after he was killed on the cross, after he was put into the tomb, among those he preached to who now hide in fear . . . He comes.

     This is it. The part he told us was coming. This is the ending that was promised. He tried again and again to reassure us, but our doubts, our fears, our inability to comprehend made the words slip right from our grasp. Through the darkness of Lent, the tears of Good Friday … this end, the resurrection, was coming but it was hard to see.

     Some days I want to lock myself in a room and hide in fear like those disciples. Almost two months ago I sat in these very pews and wished I could hide in fear. You see it was February 15, the day after the children were killed in their school in Florida. When I heard about it my stomach hurt but the next morning after I left my children at school it got worse. The stories, the lists of all the school shootings, the emotional social media posts … the fear- it chipped away at my soul. My mind went to that dark place that it sometimes tries to go at night, but I try not to let it … Sandy Hook and what happened to all those little children. I thought of the shelter in place drills my son does with his fellow kindergartners. I thought of how hard it is to leave them, to send them out into this world with strength, courage and assurance. I felt overwhelmed. I was volunteering in the church office and when I do that I come over into this space and put the children's bulletins and welcoming pamphlets out on the tables at the entrances. That day I paused. I sat down in this big space lit only by sunlight filtered through holy glass images. I poured out my heart, I confessed my fears, I prayed for answers, direction, hope, courage … for the sinking feeling in my gut to subside. I looked upon Mary. She gets it. She understands what it's like to send your child into a scary world, to watch them suffer and feel helpless.

     Pain, fear, death, darkness, doubt. It's all part of life in between. In between our innocent childhoods and our final resurrection with Christ. We know what the Bible says, Jesus promises that the death and darkness are not the end, but sometimes it just seems like it is. Sometimes we plead and beg: “make it stop!” “turn it off!” “it's too scary” “I can't do it.” Jesus assures us that he is here, that it will be ok. But it's scary.

     But today we are here. The lights are on, the flowers are blooming, the hymns are joyful and the Alleluias are flowing because our human limitations are no match for Jesus. The cross, the heavy rock at the tomb, the locked doors, the fearful hearts, the disbelief, our limited minds, our fears, our inability to comprehend, our forgetful hearts do not stop Jesus. He is risen. He has broken through. He is with us and he brings peace.

     Jesus got through every kind of barrier meant to keep him out. He got through and he breathed on them. He breathes on them and he says “Peace be with you.” Take a deep breath with me. It's that same recycled air that the disciples breathed in that room. That same air infused with the Holy Spirit, that same breath Jesus left us when he said “receive the Holy Spirit.”

     It's ok if you don't get it the first time. Look at Thomas. He needed proof and he was right there with Jesus. It's ok if your heart is afraid or future hope seems far away. It's ok because Jesus breathed on us the Holy Spirit and that same breath is here for you.

     When pain breaks your heart, when loss closes your throat, when tears soak your cheeks, when the fear chips away at your confidence and hopelessness shakes your core. Breathe. Jesus is here, he has promised us and shown us the ending and it will be ok. When the nights are long and the frustrations pile up. When the brokenness of others and the world goes beyond your pack of band-aids. Breathe. Jesus is here, he has promised us and shown us the ending and it will be ok. When we realize our inability to protect those we love, when we fail at life, when the shame steals our voice. Breathe. Jesus is here, he has promised us and shown us the ending and it will be ok. Receive the Holy Spirit. Know that Jesus has left us his peace and it is attainable for even the doubting mind.

     At the end of the Gospel reading it says, “But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” This story is for you. It was written down so that we can have the peace of Christ, even as we live in the in between. And we can have life, joyful, hopeful, peace-filled life in the name of the one who breaks through the tomb, the locked doors and the closed minds.

     I suppose I should title this sermon “Spoiler Alert.” Because I'm giving away the end of the story. Turns out the Trolls do not all get captured and eaten by the Bergens. The end of the animated movie is not a multi-colored blood bath of high-pitched despair and glittery tears. Love wins, courage prevails, hope is realized and the music is chipper.

     Another spoiler. The Jesus story does not end at the cross. It does not end with the tears of a hopeless mother, the pounding hearts of terrified disciples and unfulfilled promises. The tomb is empty. Death is not the final word. Peace prevails into eternity. So breathe deeply the peace of Christ.

     I want to leave you with this poem. It came from the last book by Rachel Held Evans that our Tuesday women's book group read and it was and is exactly what I need to hear. It is a quote from Saint Teresa of Avila:

Let nothing upset you,

Let nothing startle you.

All things pass;

God does not change.

Patience wins all it seeks.

Whoever has God lacks nothing:

God alone is enough.