Sermon from Grace and St Stephen’s 12/22/19 Matthew 1:18-25

     “The most joyful event of the season!”  That’s what the glittery gold words on my screen read.  “The most joyful event of the season.”  By season they mean Christmas season so maybe the most joyful event of the Christmas season might be the mass or worship service celebrating the birth of Christ.  Or maybe it is referring to the actual birth of Christ- the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, the taking on of flesh by God the creator of the universe, the proclamation of Emmanuel, the coming of the Prince of Peace, salvation for us all, peace for the world and hope for ages to come … But actually, the glittery gold words weren’t referring to any of those things.  Turns out, “the most joyful event of the season” involves Taylor Swift, James Corden and Jennifer Hudson dressed as cats in the movie based on the famous Broadway musical.  “The most joyful event of the season” is apparently sitting in a theater for two hours watching people dressed as cats dance and sing.  And maybe it is a good movie, but I feel like we can do better as far as joy goes …

          My skepticism continued as I sat in a crowded gymnasium and watched first graders dressed as Christmas trees sing and dance.  It was a lovely little play showcasing the talents and joy of the children.  At the end all the little Christmas trees learn from Santa Claus what Christmas is really about.  Turns out it’s friendship and kindness.  I clapped and smiled along with the rest of the audience but inside my head I was saying “really?  Is it?” 

          As far as pop culture holiday lessons go, few hit the nail on the head as well as the classic Charlie Brown Christmas because it’s difficult to truly capture the joy of Christmas without mention of Jesus.  I get the importance of being sensitive to all backgrounds and beliefs, but I think the secular messages of “what Christmas is all about” or “the most joyful event of the season” are really kind of sad and depressing, even though they may cause a passing nostalgic smile.  If all of the songs, decorations, anticipation, hopes, desperate cries and preparations are really just for a moment of feeling good- we walk away with our hearts longing for more.  Longing for something that cuts through the surface, digs deep within us and speaks to our souls. 

          Isaiah and Matthew have a different idea of “the most joyful event of the season” … or even “the most joyful event of human existence.”  Isaiah describes the sign God will send to “weary mortals” and the words echo across the pages of our Bible and over hundreds of years and then catch the ear of a troubled and confused man in a dream.  “Emmanuel”  “God with us” - convinces Joseph to take a chance on faith.  Hundreds of years later it echoes here in this space.  The hope of all creation, salvation for all of us, an answer to our longing - “Emmanuel … God with us.” 

          Theologian Elizabeth Johnson writes, “Christian faith is grounded on the experience that God who is Spirit, at work in the tragic and beautiful world to vivify and renew all creatures through the gracious power of her indwelling, liberating love, is present yet again through the very particular history of one human being, Jesus of Nazareth.  The one who is divine love, gift, and friend becomes manifest in time a concrete gestalt … According to the witness of Scripture, Jesus is a genuine Spirit-phenomenon, conceived, inspired, sent, hovered over, guided and risen from the dead … Through his human history the Spirit who pervades the universe becomes concretely present in a small bit of it … In a word, Jesus is Emmanuel, God with us … In the circle of life where Christ’s way is followed, a new possibility of shalom, of redemptive wholeness, is made experientially available and can be tasted in anticipation, even now, as the struggle of history goes on.” [1]

          Sounds pretty great … I  mean it’s no dancing cats, but … Salvation, joy, peace, redemption, Holy Spirit dwelling on earth, God in flesh, Emmanuel  … that’s where I am placing my hope. 

          I wonder what all of this meant to Joseph.  He had a very important decision to make.  The woman he was engaged to was pregnant and not by him.  That in itself is cause for heart break, loss of trust and anger, but at the time it also could mean severe punishment for this young woman he hoped to wed.   Shame, disgrace, even punishment by death were possibilities.  It sounds as though he weighed heavily his options and looked for what he deemed to be the most reasonable and compassionate option … until an angel showed up in a dream and reason went out the window.  Confusion, indecision, perhaps agony and grief gave way to faith and enlightenment.  That’s not always an easy step to make.

          As we have been studying the book of Job in Wednesday night Bible Study and reflecting on faith in difficult times I have been thinking about difficult times in my life.  There have been times when confusion, doubts, fear and anxiety filled my mind and my soul.  Times when I have sat with the door closed and wondered who I am, who God is, how do we cope with the pain of the world, how do we find assurance when doubt is so strong?  I have to say that in those moments of darkness, wrestling, grief and turmoil I have always known God is near … even when I don’t know what that means.  I don’t think it’s because I have some super faith or extra wisdom.  I just think it’s just practice.

          I have been praying over and over again on Sunday mornings, at bedtime, on walks and everywhere else throughout my life.  I have been listening to scriptures read, sermons preached and the faith stories of others.  I have been singing the words of hymns I don’t always comprehend in the moment.  I have looked at art dedicated to God, stared at scenes depicted in stained glass, lit candles, hung Christmas lights, witnessed incredible acts of love and read theology books.  Somehow, in all of that, something got inside.  In all of that practicing, a belief crept deep into my soul and set up camp.  And when all seems lost and my stomach churns and my soul seems unsteady I see the lantern lit and I somehow know “Emmanuel” God with us, even though I can’t explain it. 

            I remember a conversation some years ago with a church member trying to persuade me to put Christmas carols in the Advent bulletins.  She said “we all know what happens anyway, why wait.”  It’s true.  We know the songs we will sing on Tuesday night, the baby that will be placed in the manger, the familiar scripture that will be read and the order the candles will be lit.  But we keep telling the story anyway … over and over again.  We wait, we anticipate, we prepare and we hope.  And somewhere in that process our hearts are cracked open to the good news of Emmanuel, God with us.  As convincing now as it was when Isaiah said it and Joseph dreamed it. 

          Julian of Norwich writes, “For it is God’s will that we have true delight with him in our salvation, and in it God wants us to be greatly comforted and strengthened, and so joyfully God wishes our souls to be occupied with God’s grace.  For we are God’s bliss, because God endlessly delights in us; and so with God’s grace shall we delight in God.  All that God does for us and has done and will do was never expense or labour to God … beginning at the sweet Incarnation and lasting until his blessed Resurrection on Easter morning.  So long did the labour and expense of our redemption last, in which deed God always and endlessly rejoices.”[2] 

          I love that image of God sharing in our true delight, “joyfully occupying our souls.”  The most joyful event of the season, not just for us but for our God longing to be with us.  God with us, joyfully redeeming us, dwelling in time, setting up camp in our hearts. It’s coming.  So let’s practice, let’s prepare, let’s sing our Advent hymns and flood our hearts with anticipation.  Let us raise our hands in hope because Jesus is coming … and that is a joy that will last longer than a nostalgic memory, longer than a movie, longer than a twinkling light, it is an eternal joy-   Emmanuel- God with us.  Amen.

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[1] Johnson, Elizabeth.  She Who Is: The Mystery of God in Feminist Theological Discourse. The Crossroad Publishing Company, 2002.  Pp. 150-151.

[2] Colledge, Edmund and Walsh, James, eds.  Julian of Norwich: Showings. Paulist Pres, 1978.  Pp 219.  (edited pronouns)

I don't hate being a youth pastor

     It's true. I don't hate being the youth pastor. Perhaps I should explain. I got my first job as a youth director at a United Methodist Church when I had just turned 20 years old. I was working three jobs, paying rent and going to college full time. I was so excited to cut back to only two jobs because I was getting a salary. I would be paid $10,000 a year for 20 hours per week and to celebrate I went to the mall and bought myself two new outfits. I learned a lot at that job and had a lot of fun. I cringe now at some of the mistakes I made never due to bad intentions but rather lack of experience and education. Wonderful parents, staff and pastors guided me along and we had a good time.

     My second year of seminary I anxiously awaited my field education placement. This was my chance to test my skills as a pastor and learn about leading a congregation. When I got the call telling me I would be a youth leader I was a little disappointed. I wanted to be seen as more than a young adult assumed to have lots of energy and relatability, I wanted to be seen as a pastor. I remember talking about this with fellow seminarians who were feeling the same frustration. We felt like we were a cheap option for churches that needed youth ministers. I ended up having a lot of relevant experience in that position and getting to know some wonderful young people.

     I would find myself in youth ministry again when I served as an associate pastor before I got appointed as the sole pastor of a mid- sized congregation. I learned a lot from my youth leader experiences and got to work with some amazing teens and parents. I cried at baccalaureate services and laughed until I cried at silly lock-in games. Even when I was the only pastor of a church I still found myself taking teens on a week long mission trip, meeting them for coffee after school and going to high school sporting events to cheer them on.

     I will say though that when I left my associate pastor position where I was responsible for the youth program I was relieved to be done with some things. I was sad to say goodbye to the wonderful congregation, but I was happy to say goodbye to scrambling for chaperones and drivers, tracking down permission slips, having teens flake on scheduled meetings and events, trying to order the right amount of pizza and sleeping on gym floors.

     Now that I am back in youth ministry I find myself doing some of those things again (we had two leftover pizzas at the last event so I'm still working on that). But I also know myself much better now. I am not the hyper youth pastor chasing kids with a nerf gun and high fiving my way down the halls. That is so not me. I am however the person to go to with theological questions, emotions and doubts. And they have them. I am the person who geuinely wants to know what their lives are like and how they experience the world. I am the person who cares about them very much and believes their faith development and connection to their faith community is one of the most important things for their life journey.

     So, I am not afraid to hang back when they all run around to play some high energy game and have a deep discussion with the ones not participating. I don't need to pretend to be cool or hyper or into Youtube. They want someone to listen, they want to ask the big questions, they want to feel connected to each other and God. I get that.

     It is weird being introduced as a “youth pastor” since it feels a little like I haven't moved on since that first job 18 years ago. I love preaching, providing pastoral care to all ages, leading services and leading adult small groups and I also get to do all of those things. I also love working with the teens. Sure, part of that is because in every church I have worked in it just so happens the teens have been particularly insightful, open and awesome. But also I think it's just like with all ministry, it's ok to play to our strengths, be who we genuinely are and admit when we are sick of sleeping on gym floors.

     So, seminarians take heart when you get your field ed placement and find that a church sees you as a cheap way to get a youth pastor. It may feel like you aren't being taken seriously as a pastor and only your young age is being considered, but it is an opportunity to do important, influential and fulfilling work for the Kingdom of God … plus there's pizza.

What if ... we relax?

     Mornings are a bit of a struggle for my youngest. He wakes up and declares that he hates school and is not going. I tell him that he is and then he tells me he is sick. Unfortunately he has been picking up every kindergarten virus going around so he has been sick quite a bit. When he isn't coughing, sneezing and tugging at an infected ear he has belly aches and head aches. I stopped packing him fruit juice, picked snacks that are gentle on his tummy and advised him to drink lots of water, but none of that seemed to help. He started saying things like “what if I have to go to the bathroom and I am somewhere without a bathroom?” or “what if I miss you so much that I freak out and get in trouble for crying?”

     The “what ifs” are not uncommon in our house, but it wasn't until I was reading the National PTA magazine's article about back to school anxiety and how it manifests that I figured out the problem. The poor guy was anxious. I wondered why and then looked in the mirror. I get stomach aches and head aches frequently and I know they are often the result of tension and anxiety. I too consider “what ifs” especially before I am in a new situation. I also like to have my family near and feel best when at least one person I know is present. Maybe my kid's anxiety is genetic but if it isn't caused by then it certainly is exacerbated by me and the behaviors I model.

     As I was considering this, I attended a really thought provoking and informative workshop at the local hospital about suicide and also participated in a discussion with the youth group I lead and a therapist about mental illness and various issues teens face. With alarmingly high rates of suicide in our county everyone is scrambling to figure out the cause. Of course technology and phones are always part of the conversation when adults are having it and there probably is something to that. Things like: bullying, social isolation, academic standards, extra-curriculars and a variety of other concerns are also usually raised. All of these are important but I also find myself thinking maybe we all need to calm down.

     I hate being told to calm down and it's an even harder phrase to say right now when I could be accused of quoting Taylor Swift, but maybe we need to say it to ourselves. Mental illnesses like anxiety and depression are not solved by someone just “cheering up” and professional therapy and medications are important treatments. I do not mean to make light of them. I have had panic attacks and they are terrible and certainly not helped by anyone condescendingly saying just to “calm down.” But I do think that regarding our general manner of being in and relating to the world, it wouldn't hurt to relax more.

     I recently listened to Marc Maron's interview with Tony Hale on Marc's WTF podcast and in the interview Marc does a great job digging into who Tony is and getting at his struggles and deepest identity. I love this podcast because I love digging into people and Marc is so good at that. What I have found from listening is that so many of these very famous people who would be traditionally labeled as “successful” have so many self-doubts, insecurities and fears. Tony Hale was no different. He talked about an appearance he did on Conan O'Brien. He said that after the show he was backstage talking to Andy Richter and he told Andy that he was disappointed in himself and how the appearance went. He felt that he wasn't funny and everyone would say he wasn't any good. Andy looked at him, smiled and said “it doesn't actually matter … we are all like paper sailboats out on the ocean … eventually we just go away."  His words made a big impact on Tony.

     I try to remember that when I am frantically cleaning the house before company comes. I pause and ask myself “does it really matter if they think I am not good at keeping my house clean?” No, it doesn't. Sometimes it seems like everybody is freaking out and there are certainly important and serious issues in the world to concern ourselves with but also sometimes we just need to unclench our facial muscles, breathe deeply and see ourselves as the paper sailboats that we are.

Sermon from Grace and St. Stephen's Luke 18:1-8

         A typical morning for me starts with me saying “brush your teeth, get dressed, eat your breakfast, get your shoes on …” and repeating this many, many times.  The truth is, parenting requires a lot of trying to get people to do stuff: chores, manners, cleaning up, homework, going to bed.  Occasionally I get to intersperse some permission giving which feels good: “yes, you can have candy” “no, you don’t have to go”  “sure have a water balloon fight in the backyard in 60 degrees with your new shoes on.” 

          These persuasive efforts do not end with parenting.  “Would you like to join the PTA?”  “Are you able to volunteer Friday morning at 7:30 am to put together tiny buildings and streets for kindergartners to ride tricycles through and learn about safety?” or “I think you would really like confirmation class” “you should try youth group it’s really fun” “I hope you had a good visit and will come back to our church.”  Some days I feel exhausted from trying to get people to do stuff.  I try my best to be likable, sincere and kind to help the causes I believe in, yet I still hear, receive, and feel rejection.  What makes it difficult is that these are things I really believe in.  I’m not trying to persuade people to try the cookies I made, I’m trying to raise good humans, help the public school my children attend, help young people connect with each other and God and grow this wonderful church where I have experienced the grace and love of God. And some days it all feels like I have a tiny little fork and am chipping away at a huge mountain. 

          As I hear this Gospel story about the widow, I wonder if that is how she ever felt.  Over and over again she asked the judge to vindicate her.  Did she too get tired of trying to get people to do stuff?  Did she get sick of the judge who has no regard for anyone?  Did she go to bed and say “enough is enough.  I’m out?”  Did her friends tease her for wasting her time?  We don’t know. We don’t even know if she tried to be likable, charming and sincere.  It actually sounds like she was not that likable.  The judge eventually says yes because he is afraid she will “wear him out.” One translation I read says he is afraid she will give him a black eye.  I think it’s meant to be a little comical.  The important and powerful judge who doesn’t care about anyone, and the widow, who at that time is seen as lowly, weak and powerless.  And she annoys him to the point of concession. 

  

        While we may not know if she ever thought of quitting or why she persisted or even if her cause was just (incidentally the text never says whether she or her opponent is right or wrong in their disagreement), one thing that is clear and we know for sure is that she is a widow.  Which means she has been through some stuff.  She knows struggle, she knows pain, life has not been easy and probably not at all like she planned or hoped. 

  

        I think this is important.  When I read this scripture sometimes I get a little uncomfortable.  It could be seen as a magical formula, a roadmap to get God to give you what you want.  “If you want your prayers answered just keep at it and God will give in.” Then, if you don’t get what you want it’s your fault for not being persistent.  Sometimes people do that with faith, they try to sell it as a formula for having all of your wishes granted, and they may even point to scriptures like this and say “see, you just keep asking and it will happen.”  I think that is overly simplistic and not at all a feeder of hope but rather of hopelessness. 

  

        Well-known author and researcher Brene Brown says “Men and women who self-report as hopeful put considerable value on persistence and hard work.  The new cultural belief that everything should be fun, fast, and easy is inconsistent with hopeful thinking.  It also sets us up for hopelessness.  When we experience something that is difficult and requires significant time and effort, we are quick to think, “This is supposed to be easy; it’s not worth the effort, or, this should be easier: it’s only hard and slow because I’m not good at it.  Hopeful self-talk sounds more like, this is tough, but I can do it.[1]” So, yes, this woman is a widow and she has been through some stuff.  She isn’t expecting quick and easy answers, she is prepared to persist.  This judge is tough, but she knows she can do it. Rather than a magical formula for easy faith, this is about hanging on to hope when faith isn’t so easy.

          After describing the widow and the judge, Jesus goes on to tell us about God.  God is long-suffering, tolerant, justice-favoring, merciful and listening.  God is with us in the frustration, the darkness, the unknown, the crying out in the night.  The judge who doesn’t have any regard for others is the contrast to God who cares.  This isn’t a magical wish-granting God but rather a persisting and eternal God who sticks with us, our God who does have regard for others and in fact loves us no matter our circumstance.

          In her book, Kate Bowler intimately shares her experience of being a seminary professor, lifelong Christian, mother of a toddler, wife and finding out she had stage 4 cancer throughout her body.  She says “At a time when I should have felt abandoned by God, I was not reduced to ashes.  I felt like I was floating, floating on the love and prayers of all those who hummed around me like worker bees … They came in like priests and mirrored back to me the face of Jesus.  When they sat beside me, my hand in their hands, my own suffering began to feel like it had revealed to me the suffering of others, a world of those who, like me, are stumbling in the debris of dreams they thought they were entitled to and plans they didn’t realize they had made.  That floating feeling stayed with me for months. . . I began to ask friends, theologians, historians, and pastors I knew, What am I going to do when it’s gone? … all said yes, it will go.  The feelings will go.  The sense of God’s presence will go … but they will leave an imprint.  I would somehow be marked by the presence of an unbidden God … I suppose I am like the man who wrote to me to say he had seen a friend [die] and felt the presence of God in the same long, dark night. Yes.  That is the God I believe in.”[2]

          This is the God we hear about today in the scriptures.  The God who in the darkest of times is with us.  The God of the widows, the God of those up against struggles, those who have been through pain, those without power, those who have seen some stuff.  Our persistent hope that plows through the frustrations comes from knowing who our God is- justice-favoring, merciful, long-suffering … persistent in loving us. 

          So we keep at it.  We try hope and fight for what we believe in.  We try hope and teach the next generation.  We try hope and pray through our darkest of nights.  We try hope and confront systems of oppression, injustices as big and as insurmountable as mountains.  We try hope and keep kneeling Sunday after Sunday with hearts open and gratitude on our lips.  We try hope and let others rest their weight on us when they feel defeated.  Not because we believe it will be easy or because we believe it’s a magical formula, but because we believe in a God who is long-suffering, merciful, justice-favoring and persistent in loving us. 

          At the end of this parable Jesus poses a question to the disciples which cuts through the pages, passes through the years and comes to us today “When the Son of man comes, will he find faith on earth?” …What do you think?  After the wars, the pain, the health complications, the broken relationships, the oppression, the frustrations, exhaustion, despair, peer pressure … will Jesus find faith on earth?”

          So … I guess I’ll keep trying to get people to do stuff.  I’ll keep trying to get the kids to be good humans, to help schools meet the needs of all children, to encourage sometimes reluctant teens to keep their hearts open, to get a skeptical world to give a church with ancient rituals and old hymns a fair shot and I’ll keep chipping away at the mountains before me with my tiny fork.  But not because I believe I can do any of this based on my own likability or persuasive skills, but because I believe in a God who persistently loves us.  So I’ll keep coming here and kneeling, persisting in prayer next to you, sustained by the body and blood of Christ.

          “Will Jesus find faith on earth?”  I hope so …

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[1] “Learning to Hope” Behavioral Health Evolution 

[2] Bowler, Kate.  Everything Happens for a Reason: And Other Lies I’ve Loved.  Random House: 2018.  Pgs. 121-122

Saying the Wrong Thing

     I've recently made friends with a Rabbi. She is great and when we get together the conversation easily flows and I feel completely comfortable, but as I am talking I also am repeatedly aware of the many errors in my word choices. I say “church” when I mean “synagogue.” I say “pastor” when I mean to say “religious leader.” I say “Old Testament” when I mean to say “Hebrew Bible.” Sometimes I fumble a bit and make a face to say “oops” to which she responds with complete grace and understanding, but I still want to get it right. I want to create a space with my words of equality and mutual respect rather than expecting the other person to adjust and accommodate my assumptions and bias.

     I was thinking about this as I led women's book group this week. We are talking about race. And slowly but surely we are all sharing our hearts, confronting our biases and being challenged … but not without fear of saying the wrong thing. We are reading the book I'm Still Here by Austin Channing Brown. In one of the chapters we read this week Brown says “sadly, most white people are more worried about being called racist than about whether or not their actions are in fact racist or harmful.” I asked the group if they have found this to be true. One woman in the group shared a time when she was called out for something she said that offended someone and what that felt like. This woman is an incredibly thoughtful, intelligent and kind person and while this experience was difficult for her, she learned and grew from it.

     I hate that feeling … when you realize you said the wrong thing and hurt, offended or pushed someone away. I replay those conversations when my mind is trying to quiet down. It goes something like this: turn off lamp, head hits the pillow, deep exhale, eyes close and then a voice in my head says “remember that time seven years ago when you asked that woman if she was her sister's mother and she looked horrified and everyone around heard it?” cringe, toss and turn …

     Of course that isn't the only time I have said the wrong thing or pushed too far with personal questions. I hope that I have learned and grown from each experience. Part of me wants to retreat and lock my lips for good after those experiences, but that isn't my personality and it isn't a possibility in my line of work.

     Clergy have to use words. We have to put ourselves out there and get to know new people all the time, try to remember names, write newsletter articles, teach classes and of course preach sermons to a mostly captive audience. All this at a time when people love calling out others for saying the wrong thing. No one wants to be the next viral video of a jerk saying something stupid for all the trolls to rip to shreds. But we can't stop speaking. If we do, how do we learn and grow? How do we honestly confront our biases and ignorances? How do we make connections and work together to better one another?

     This morning I listened to The Moth while I worked out and heard this great story by Pádraig Ó'Tuama. He did this really brave thing and created a space where he could have conversations with people who were different from him. For two days he and other LGBTQ persons met with religious leaders who believe homosexuality is wrong. As one might imagine it was tense, tough and exhausting for all involved. Just before it ended a man who was not of the same mind as Padraig asked a simple question of the group, “How many times have I bruised you with my words?” When one participant said “I lost count the first night.” The man said “I have some work to do.” Padraig shared how hopeful and loving that moment was.

     We have work to do. But still we use words. We use them to learn, grow, connect and express ourselves. So on Tuesday mornings I get together with ten other women of all different ages and we try our best with our words to understand the words of another, to learn, grow, challenge and turn bruises into openings for love.

The Agony and Joy of Eating

Food and I have a long history. I realize everyone has a long history with food, being needed for survival and everything, but I have a strange history with food. I can't remember when it started but I have always been very self-conscious about my eating. I think it started with the frustration my picky eating caused my parents and the resulting teasing at the dinner table. I dreaded church dinners and we were active Methodists so there were a lot of church dinners. I would take my place in the line in the Fellowship Hall of our church, pass by the rows of casseroles, jellos and salads quietly, hoping to avoid notice would place one roll on my plate before returning to my seat. I was never successful at avoiding notice. It didn't help that I was a super skinny kid so everyone felt they needed to say something about what was, or wasn't, on my plate. I hated it. I begged my mom not to make me go to Wednesday night Youth Club at our church, not because I didn't like it. I loved the crafts, choir and Bible stories but the dinner time was agony. I never knew if I would get a table parent that would make us all finish what was on our plates and I usually didn't like most of the food.

My poor Lebanese mother. It must have pained her. Hospitality/feeding people is basically the number one moral standard in her side of the family. She tried forcing me to eat things, which meant I spent hours at the dinner table trying to psych myself up to chew and swallow cut up bits of steak. She tried explaining that when she was a kid there was no option, they had to finish all their food, she tried the “starving children in Ethiopia” approach, threats of illness from lack of nutrition, and it never made it easier. In my defense I was a super well behaved kid and almost never got in trouble, but when it came to food I just couldn't be an easy, obedient kid. It was too gross!

My mom did pack me delicious school lunches that were the envy of my classmates. And, even though my lunch was always full of foods I actually liked I can remember many times in first grade not eating any of it. Sometimes I threw the food away, sometimes I brought it home and told my mom we didn't have time to eat and one time I remember telling my teacher my mom forgot to send me with a lunch which ended up eliciting sympathy and attention I did not want. By second grade I ate lunch and starting eating more than a roll at church dinners, but I dreaded the eating part of dating in high school. I wished we could just go to the dance without the dinner beforehand.

Then I became a pastor and a pastor's wife, which meant so many church dinners! I do not dread them like I used to. In fact, I have eaten some great food at church dinners. My husband and I have been hosting gatherings with food at our home once per month ever since we became solo pastors ten years ago and I enjoy it. I enjoy having people over and being social.

That's what has made this summer difficult. Part of my weird relationship with food is my digestive issues. Ever since I can remember I have had a sensitive stomach. At least once per month since some time in high school I wake up in the night with horrible stomach pains and spend an agonizing hour in the bathroom while my family sleeps. While it has helped maintain my weight, I would not recommend it. Every trip I have taken, every time we go to a movie after dinner, every long car drive after a meal has been a gastrointestinal struggle for me. This year I decided I can't keep doing this. I am getting older and need to be more careful with my organs. 

When I was in high school I was diagnosed with IBS, ten years later I had my first colonoscopy and was given the same diagnosis but I was never given any guidance on what to eat. So much has changed in the world of food sensitivities and eating that I decided to see what another doctor thinks.

After blood work, ultrasound and a GI doctor I now have a list of foods I can and can not eat. It is pretty ridiculous. Also, when I stopped eating gluten my stomach pain and headaches noticeably decreased so I'm off that too. There are so many things I can't eat if I want to be kind to my stomach and it is annoying but oh my gosh does my stomach feel better!

But, now I am back to being a socially awkward eater. We all know what it is like to have someone with food allergies or sensitivities over for dinner. It is more complicated and the polite/don't want to cause any trouble part of me hates that. I apologize to waiters for asking if anything has gluten and double checking that nothing I have ordered is fried or cooked in cream.

Being a pastor and a pastor's wife involves a lot of social eating. Which is great, after all the pinnacle of our worship is a sacramental meal of bread and wine (fortunately my church has a gluten-free option). In our world of food sensitivities, diets and allergies we have to somehow hold onto the communal meal as a place where we not only come together in our humanity and shared needs but we experience Christ incarnate and ingest the Holy Spirit. So I will brave the awkwardness, hope that the salad doesn't have ranch or croutons on it and keep trying this difficult thing we call community.

Gelato ... not on my list of "safe foods" but so good

Deep Breath

Last week was a stressful week. On Tuesday morning I woke up to a voicemail from my doctor saying the ultrasound they took to see if my gall bladder was ok showed something on my left kidney. She said it could be benign lipoma or it could be kidney cancer. I have a new phone and a free trial of voicemail-to-text so I stared at that message as my stomach churned and my hands got shaky. I told my husband and we both had so many questions, but I was determined to not Google it since I thought that would stress me out more. I immediately tried calling my doctor, it would be a few hours before I could get a hold of her nurse who could only tell me what was in the message. I tried to get a sense of the likelihood of each possibility but she would only say we had to wait and have a CT scan to find out. I led morning prayer, I cried to my in-laws who were visiting and then I waited.

Just a few days before that, I started reading The Road Back to You by Ian Morgan Cron and Suzanne Stabile. It is about the Enneagram. I had read an Enneagram book before and of course had done the click bait online quiz but the way this book described the type 6 really spoke to me … in a way that made me uncomfortable. It is true that I am a worst-case scenario type thinker. I wish I wasn't and I cringe when I see that “what if” thinking in my kids. But I realized that feeling shame about it or seeing it as a malfunction was not helping me in life. So I was trying to claim it in a positive way, along with my need for assurance and dislike of being alone. I started saying it out loud and finding the ways this type of thinking has helped me in life.

Then I got that message. It was 6 pm before I heard back from my doctor. She said it most likely was not cancer which brought me a lot of relief, but I still had more waiting to do for more reassurance. Wednesday I tried to stay positive but the what if thoughts came. What if it was colon cancer that had metastasized to my kidney (I don't know if that is a medical likelihood but again I refused to Google)? What if I had to tell my kids and they worried about me? The questions popped into my mind at just the right times to tangle my stomach in knots and take away my appetite.

I will say though that I relied on the things that I know calm me down and they worked. Deep breathing exercises for when I felt panic coming on. Conversations with people where I found myself actually talking and thinking about other things. Time outside which always takes a layer of anxiety off my shoulders. Exercise. Prayer and relying on my deep faith that God is always with me.

Thursday morning I was awake much earlier than I needed to be for my CT scan. My husband told me about a call he received in the night, a man from church with two young children whose wife I have befriended, died of colon cancer. We would also find out that day about a beloved church member receiving an unexpected cancer diagnosis.

I went to the CT scan and could barely find my voice to check in at the front desk. As I laid down and put my arm out for the die injection a few tears came down my cheek. I told the very kind radiology tech that I was worried it was cancer and that I have two small kids, she said “I understand, I am a mom.” I went about the day constantly looking at my phone and wondering when I would hear. I took the boys to my mom's swimming pool and set aside my phone so I could lay on a raft shaped like a giant slice of pizza. I just floated along and watched the edges of the clouds, how the pieces of white just evaporated into thin air, and I felt calm.

Friday I woke up and stared at my phone thinking my doctor might call at 7:30 am like she had before. I tried to be patient but called the office a few times until finally at 4 pm I got to talk to my doctor. They were benign lipoma. Follow up is an ultrasound once per year to see if they grow.

Relief. Thank yous to the loved ones keeping vigil with me, to God for staying with me and finally a return of my appetite.

It's hard to post this knowing that others do not get the same good news and that at some point all of our bodies break down and we have to deal with the reality of that. But I will say that as much as I am a type 6 (with all the “what ifs” I have asked and all the worry I do) I showed myself that I can hold it together when I need to. I also saw all of the wonderful people I have in my life who truly care and show me that I am not alone in whatever difficulties life brings.

So now I am back to normal life, except with a few extra medical bills. I recently watched “Right Now” the new Aziz Ansari Netflix stand-up comedy special and in it he talks about how much he appreciates everything more in his life after being confronted with the very real possibility of losing it all. I know that bodies are not perfect, aging takes its toll and there may well be more anxiously awaited test results at some point down the road for me, but right now I gotta say the way the leaves are reflecting the bright sunshine sure is beautiful.

Sustenance

Sermon for Grace and St. Stephen’s 6/30/19 2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14, Luke 9:51-62

 

          A couple of weeks ago I flew to Ohio for my annual conference.  Most of you know that I am a United Methodist pastor and my conference membership is with East Ohio where I grew up and was ordained.  Every other year there is one Episcopal priest who uses a week of his vacation time to go to Ohio and hang out with our kids while I attend conference sessions.  The East Ohio Conference is in the same small community on Lake Erie every year.  In the center of the little town is an auditorium and that is where we have our meetings, worship and ordinations. 

         Tuesday evening I dodged the bugs and entered the humid auditorium in my alb and red stole.  I walked in the procession and found my seat all the while gripping tightly to a beautiful red stole in my hands.  It was handed to me by a young woman who I met 13 years ago when I was fresh out of seminary and serving as an associate pastor.  She was about 14 years old and part of the youth group I oversaw in my role.  Over the years we spent a lot of time together: lock-ins, mission trips, conferences, church events, planning youth group calendars when she became youth group president, long talks about theology, the Bible, faith, struggles … calling.  She graduated, I began pastoring a different church and eventually I was writing seminary recommendations for her … three years later proof reading her paperwork for ordination and then I was sitting there with a red stole on my lap, as she had given me the honor of being the person to go on stage with her, lay hands on her with the Bishop and then place it over her shoulders. 

         At the rehearsal for the service I jokingly said to her “it’s like I’m Elijah and you’re Elisha!” to which she replied “but hopefully without you disappearing on a chariot into the clouds.”  And soon after I did get on a plane and disappeared into the clouds headed back home to Colorado.

         I came back and opened up to the lectionary scriptures for my Sunday to preach and what do I find … the story of Elijah and Elisha.  The passing of the mantle. 

           As I reflected further on this story, particularly in the context of one of our other lectionary scriptures for today- the Gospel reading where Jesus is walking around inviting people to follow him and they are shouting back their excuses- I could hear a clear message of calling and invitation but also in these texts I hear a bold statement about sufficiency. 

           Elijah is a tough act to follow.  Even with the moment of discouragement and despair we read about last week, he stays deeply connected to God, courageously faces powers and rulers equipped only with his assurance of God’s presence and power.  In deep famine he finds sustenance not only for himself but also a widow and her son completely given in to hopelessness.   

         And now Elisha has to carry on, wear Elijah’s mantle, continue his work.  Apart from a similar name, how could he have possible felt prepared for such work?  A life of saying things that people don’t want to hear and having the odds stacked against you.  But, Elisha knows what he needs to do the work ahead.  So he asks for it.  He doesn’t ask for an army, a funding source or even that endless supply of flour and oil that sustained Elijah and the widow.  Instead he asks for that spirit.  Elisha asks Elijah for a double share of his spirit.  Armies get conquered, food fills only until the next meal and fortunes get spent but that spirit,  that deep connection with God, the courage and faith that made miracles, that is what he needs.  Elijah says “ok, but you gotta stick with me until the end.” 

          Elijah soon goes in a whirlwind … but God remains -with Elisha, with prophets after him, with the Holy Spirit and with each of us called in our baptism to do God’s work thousands of years later.  God remains and that spirit carries on.

          And that’s what I saw that night on stage at the ordination, under bright lights standing in front of hundreds of people.  I saw the Holy Spirit, God’s presence with God’s people, carrying on, calling new people in new ways, and providing what we need for building the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. 

          When I went to conference this year I did not have much hope for what would happen.  These are very divisive and uncertain times for The United Methodist Church.  It may be my last conference there and it will almost definitely be the last conference with the denomination looking the way it currently does.  When I entered I saw a lot of retirees, heard a lot of strategizing, agendas and opposing views.   Pillars of the conference have died, many of my mentors have retired and the young people were underrepresented.  And this is not unique to just that area or that denomination.

          While we here at Grace have a vibrant community and so many wonderful faith filled young people, many churches in America are struggling and trying to hold on to what is familiar while realizing that change is inevitable.  In many churches the number of funerals far outnumbers baptisms.

          But God’s spirit is still moving.  God is providing sustenance.  God’s spirit was alive and present at that conference- the young woman I stood on stage with is bold, deeply faithful and courageous in her calling.  And whether or not a denomination changes, she is a reminder to me that God is still at work and providing what we need.

          There is a tradition every year at the end of the ordination service.  The congregation in that big auditorium sits down and sings while some representatives stand at the front.  An invitation is put out for anyone who may feel called by God to ordained ministry to come forward.  And then we wait.  We sing and we wait to see if any brave souls will walk to the front to be prayed over.  I have been worshiping at Episcopal churches long enough to feel a little awkward at this altar-call type experience, but despite initial awkwardness after a few minutes I, like everyone around me had tears down my cheeks.  

          People came forward.  From all walks of life and all ages, they came.  They came not because the church can promise them wealth, security or armies of support, but because they believe that the Spirit calls and sustains us.  And I thought back to many years ago when I was a young teenager and took that awkward walk to the front of the auditorium, in front of all of those people, to say that I felt called to ordained ministry. 

          I thought about what that calling has looked like over the years since then. Some of it has been in church ministry, some of it has been through friendships, volunteer work, parenting and casual conversations.  Some of it has been through loneliness, doubt, depression and uncertainty.  Some of it has been through places I never expected, I didn’t expect that I would be standing here in an Episcopal pulpit in Colorado.  Some of it has been through deeply painful deaths and saying goodbye to the people who supported me.  But all of it has been sustained by that spirit, that spirit of God that moved over creation, passed from Elijah to Elisha and fills this room now. 

          It is that same spirit that we taught the children about one week ago when they filled our space with the songs they learned in Vacation Bible School.  The spirit that enables them to be strong and courageous even when the lions roar.  It is the same spirit that stirs within us when we see injustices that break our hearts in the world.  When we see the faces of children suffering.  The same spirit that moves within us when we are tempted to throw our hands in the air with helplessness, overwhelming guilt, or silencing despair. 

          And this is why Jesus says “follow me.” Because he knows that we can.  He knows the spirit sustains us.  He knows nothing in the world can quench the fire within us.  And so we are called to the difficult places, the pains of the world and the challenges of each day with courage, faith and hope.  Knowing that God is enough and the spirit of God will never leave us.   

Four Years

Four Years.  Today marks four years since I walked into that Hospice room and sat with her … since I whispered love and encouragement in her ear between goodbyes from people who loved her so much that they could barely breathe between tears … since we last communicated through a look, one last moment of eye contact before her eyes saw things I haven’t yet seen. 

It’s been four years and I am still unpacking what I learned from that experience … from her life and her death.  Soon after she died and every year since on this day I have written about it and I have said that watching her die pushes back on all my fears about death.  Those final moments were peaceful, full of love and beautiful.  But also watching her live taught me a lot about how I want to live.

Some days I find myself caught up in worry.  I worry about something happening to my kids and I worry about something happening to me or my husband.  Some days I let the fear take up more space than it should and my thoughts are colored by anxiety and “what ifs.”  The only way I can get back to a place of peace is through prayer.  Prayer where I admit I am not so good at prayer - honest, vulnerable, messy prayer.  And when I begin to hear the rational thoughts again, when my mind settles enough for breathing and wisdom I think about how Laura lived her life when her body was falling apart despite all her best efforts and the efforts of her doctors.  She lived a life worth fighting for.  With her head pounding from another round of chemo she cherished moments she could watch her children playing, hugs from loved ones and glimpses of the Holy Spirit at work within and around her.  She was still planning fun things, sharing moments of closeness with friends and loving everyone she could.  When there were so many very real reasons for her to shut down emotionally, let go of hope and drown in sorrow she didn’t.  Even until the day she died, she held on to her faith and in her vulnerability and brokenness was so incredibly strong. 

Four years later and I am far from the places and faces she knew, but I still feel her in my heart.  I remember her fierce support and belief in me on days when I doubt myself, I remember her unconditional love for her children as I kiss mine goodnight and I try to honor her by being open, vulnerable and faithful. 

My husband asked me when I wanted to preach next and gave me the choice of a few dates.  I picked June 30 right away.  I picked it because I knew my heart would be softer and more open today and also because when I preach I feel her close to me.  She is the Woman at the Well on my stole, the sassy, honest, questioning, strong woman who knew Jesus. 

When is the bake sale?

When I walked into my first PTA meeting I expected to find rows of cardigan clad moms discussing the next bake sale.  What I found instead was a few teachers and a few parents working tirelessly to make each child's elementary school experience fun and memorable.  I met women who had devoted countless hours to the PTA for ten years.  The lists of things they planned and carried out during the school year amazed me, being that there were so few people involved in the PTA.  

Soon after I was approached by my son's teacher about running for PTA President.  I felt completely out of my comfort zone, having spent all of my professional career and all of my adult years immersed almost solely in the Church world, but with the current officers moving on with their children to middle school and a small pool to draw from for new leaders, I felt I was needed. 

I said yes, ran uncontested, and the next thing I know I am having my photo taken in a hotel lobby for my name badge at the state PTA convention.  I fell in love with PTA at that convention.  Not just because of all of the free stuff from the vendor's tables, but also because of what I learned about PTA.  What the organization does is what I feel passionate about.  It is all about advocating for the needs of not just your child, but every child everywhere.  PTA has advocated for things like playgrounds, free lunches, and free all day kindergarten.  There were sessions on various social justice issues along with things like fund-raising and recruitment.  

I also got to know the three other brave women who signed on for officer positions with me.  We did not know each other at all but between whispered conversations in session and personal sharing over meals we soon connected and found many areas of common ground and shared struggles.  

Throughout the year we did a lot!  We accomplished some new things that I am really proud of and I had some failed attempts that frustrated me, but it was a rewarding experience.  I discovered that the kids at our school know the PTA, they get excited to see us, they treat us like part of the school and they say thank you A LOT.  The teachers and staff treat us as valued members of the school team, brainstorm with us, and say thank you A LOT.  Over this past year I have learned so much about educational systems.  I have felt enraged at the injustices I see in the ways our country does public education and I have felt overwhelmed with gratitude at the ways in which our schools are caring, nurturing, and educating our children.  I know that teachers have many frustrations too and yet I have been blown away at the genuine care, concern, and passion I have seen over and over again in the classrooms of our school.  

I am about to start year two of my two-year PTA presidential term and I feel both exhausted and excited at the thought of it.  I wish more people would join their local PTA.  It is not about volunteering but about being informed and having a say in the decisions that will effect your child.  

There have been a few times when I will say I am the PTA President and the person I am talking to will chuckle or snicker.  I get it.  It conjures up images of gossip, stressing over bake sales, and overbearing parents, but when I tell people about my PTA involvement my son doesn't chuckle, instead he beams with pride.  He loves it and I feel like he and I are working together to do what we can to help the school.   And after a year of fund-raisers, events, volunteering, important decisions, and learning we still haven't had a bake sale.

Cutting Ties

So … what are you going to do? Are you going to wait and see what this Adam Hamilton conference proposes? Go to another denomination? Hope for a breakaway denomination? Or stay and work toward change? It's a question I have asked others and spent a lot of time thinking about myself since the decisions of General Conference.

One of my Lenten disciplines was to be in discernment for where God may be calling me vocationally. This meant: prayer, meditation, reading, conversations with friends, conversations with Bishops and forcing myself to refrain from jumping to a plan. As Lent concluded and Easter came I still had no answer, which I suppose means my discipline was a success, although it didn't feel like it.

Even though I am living in a different conference, East Ohio conference has always remained my home conference. The Bishop that ordained me and that allowed me to serve in another conference advised me to keep my connection to East Ohio conference and so I have. I have lived in two different conferences since then but remain tied to my home conference, travelling back for that big family reunion at Lakeside we call Annual Conference. It has felt good. I look forward to jogs by Lake Erie, conversations on the cottage porches of former colleagues and mentors, meet-ups for ice cream and the beautiful sound of voices in unison singing “For All the Saints” as we gather not just with each other but the great cloud of witnesses.

When I pull into Lakeside and see the lanyards with name tags, smell the water and watch the kids eyes widen with joy I am flooded with memories. I remember sitting on the shore when I was a preteen on a confirmation retreat and making a promise to always be best friends with the woman who is still my best friend, I remember the flood of candles in the dark when I was a youth leader and brought teens to Youth Annual Conference, I remember big welcoming hugs from saints who have gone before me, new friendships made, late night walks home from ordination parties and of course seeing parishioners and family members stand in support as the Bishop laid hands on me and called me pastor.

I made vows to my beloved church, vows I hold dear and have worked to honor. So now here I am at a crossroads, with so many others I have sat beside in the sticky wooden chairs of Annual Conference. What will I do?

I know that remaining in a denomination where the callings and gifts of my LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters are not welcomed is not an option. I can not stay standing as fellow children of God are pushed out. I will not raise my children in a church where, if they are gay, they will be told one day that who they are is not beloved, precious and Imago Dei. I have seen the lasting pain on the faces of those who were made to feel safe and loved in their home church only to be told it was all conditional.

Does that mean I stay and work toward change, discern if God is calling me somewhere else ... cut ties?

The other day I was asked a question. A question that filled me with both pride and humility, made me smile and cry. A woman that I first met when she was 14 years old and a member of the church where I was the associate pastor asked me the question. She asked me if I would be the person on stage with her when she is ordained at East Ohio Conference this June.

It is a reminder to me of the hope and promise still alive in my home church. It is a beautiful expression of the love I have given and received in my years of ministry. It may also be a beautiful way of saying good bye, knowing that as long as people with her passion, intelligence and courage are working in The UMC then it is in good hands. I don't know. I am still discerning.

One thing I do know is that no matter where I place my ordination, no matter what church I serve, what role I have … the sanctifying grace I have seen, the people I have loved, the church I have vowed to serve … it will always be tied to my heart.