Scary Sadness

    One of my go to methods for getting out of a spiral in my head is to go for a run.  This is especially true during these pandemic days when I start to feel trapped or frustrated or hopeless.  I count on the endorphins to do their thing and they usually do.  Recently I found myself in one of the valleys I sometimes encounter on this "safer at home" journey of peaks and valleys.  I set off for a run and put on one of my favorite podcasts "WTF with Marc Maron."  He was interviewing Zach Braff.  Zach was talking about the many losses he has been through during the past year and the impact that has had on his mental health.  He talked about his experiences with depression over the years. He talked about the times he felt sad due to circumstances and then the other times when his life was great but he just couldn't get out of his funk.  He talked about how those are the scariest ones, when there isn't a real reason but you just keep feeling depressed.  It resonated with me so much.  I am healthy, I have a great family, things are going well and yet sometimes I find myself stuck in a room of angst, sadness I can't put my finger on and a sense of impending doom. 

    When I am grieving a loved one the sadness makes sense and the tears flow freely with a kind of beauty that reflects my love for the person I lost. It is a sadness I expect and understand.  However, this other kind of sadness makes no sense to me, is unexpected, and I can never seem to "figure it out" or "solve it."  I have my go to methods like running, conversations with friends, meditation/prayer, long hot showers, therapy and other things that help, but because I never understand the why or how of it, there is always a fear that it won't go away.

    That fear came when I experienced post partum depression.  It was intense and terrifying.  It did not make any sense.  I was bonded with my baby, we were healthy, we were loved and I very much wanted him.  Yet there it was.  I couldn't shake it.  I kept thinking it should go away soon.  I should feel better.  I should feel grateful.  Yet there it was.  

    It did go away.  It took about ten months and there were a number of factors that helped.  I never lost my faith in God during it, but my faith in myself was pretty shaky.  I felt betrayed by my own mind.  I felt let down by my own inner resources.  I felt terrified that it wouldn't end and the person I was would be gone forever.  

    So when the scary type of sadness comes I have that voice in my head that says "what if it doesn't go away."  My life experiences have shown me that it will, but for many people it is hard to see that.  Believing that we shouldn't feel a certain way, comparing ourselves to others we feel are worse off and getting angry at our lack of gratitude ... all of this just adds shame to our sadness.  

    These days of isolation and uncertainty give us more time to think and more time in our heads.  My Facebook feed is full of people sick with COVID, my text messages are full of people grieving loved ones lost to COVID and the news is happy to report all of the dire statistics.  So the sadness can seem scary.  I try to remind myself that being human means having the full spectrum of emotions.  I remind myself of the gifts of faith and connection that I nurture when I am sad.  Mostly I remind myself that nothing lasts forever ... not even the scary sadness.  

Choosing Online School

              Decisions are hard and sometimes the decision-making process is the worst.  I am really good at seeing both the good and bad of any decision, which means I am really good at debating with myself.  When I have an important decision to make everyone can see I am distracted as I go back and forth in my head over and over again.  I also ask everyone I have ever met for their opinion, pray about it, meditate on it, and agonize for a while.  It’s not that fun.  But once the decision is made, as long as I know I came about it through good honest struggle, I feel much better.

              Lately life is full of hard decisions. One of those is the decision about sending the kids to school.  I definitely stressed about this.  I can easily see both perspectives.  If you would have asked me one year ago if I ever would send my 1^st and 3^rd grader to online school I would have assumed you knew nothing about me.  I am a huge believer in public education.  Honestly, I think all of the difficult situations our country is in point to the importance of a larger investment in public education!  But, life happens and we make decisions as best as we can and just try to keep up.

              My family decided that keeping the kids in remote schooling is the right decision for us.  I realize this is largely because I work a flexible part-time job which can mostly be done from home and so I am able to do this.  My oldest really misses school but he is such a sweet kid and serious thinker and he supports our decision.  My kids are doing great academically and we find ways for them to be social that we feel are safe, like an outdoor class at the Catamount Institute or social time with church friends after our outdoor worship service.

              There are several reasons we made this decision and several reasons that could have pushed us the other way.  One of the hardest things about the decision is the judgment.  Some people think that anyone being cautious these days is “living in fear” which conjures this image of us hunkering down with bags of rice and cans of beans with all the doors locked and curtains drawn.  I actually am not actively afraid of COVID (although like so many others I have my moments) because I know I am living in a way that minimizes my risks and the risks to my loved ones, like my mom who is very high risk for multiple reasons.  I realize I am doing my best so worrying won’t help.  But I know people have their strong opinions and think we are ridiculous because we see things differently than they do.  That will always be the case.

              The decision is also hard because of my FOMO.  A few weeks ago I deleted Facebook from my phone.  It was bumming me out for multiple reasons but I realized all the pictures of people partying without masks, going to large gatherings, and generally living as though this isn’t a thing were leaving me feeling like an outsider.  It’s a strange thing to see two very different worlds happening simultaneously. It also made me sad to read everyone’s posts about how awful online schooling is for them and how it isn’t working and they are all sad.  I totally get it.  Even with our very workable situation it gets hard and frustrating.  I miss my independence; I miss seeing the kids make new friends and hearing about their independent experiences. And I am constantly yelled for all day long to help find school supplies or address a technology issue or some other reason, but there wasn’t much encouraging on social media for those of us planning to stick with it.

              These days can be lonely for so many of us and we all seem to be pretty good at making this a more lonely time for each other by adding judgment, pressure, and projecting our own insecurities onto anyone who will bear them.  I have no judgment for people returning their kids to in-person or people homeschooling; I have seriously considered those and could have gone either way.  This is new for all of us, and it will one day be over. 

              A few weeks ago, as I was right in the middle of my indecisiveness, I was talking to a wise friend from church.  She has lived longer than I and is better at seeing the long view of things.  I said I was worried about the kids missing out and feeling alone.  She said, “They aren’t alone. You have all of us.  This church is your community and we love you and we love your boys and we are all here with you in this.”  She wasn’t telling me what to do, she wasn’t shaming me, she wasn’t mocking my amazing ability to make mountains out of molehills, she was just being with me.  And I felt less alone. 

In the Midst

               Ordinations are a big deal.  They involve: bishops, rehearsals, vestments, bulletins, choirs, rows of clergy, hotel reservations for family, plane tickets for seminary friends, chartered buses for church members, liturgical preparations and more.  Not to mention the mountains of essays, hours of interviews, years of seminary and copious amounts of prayer.  It is a life-changing experience one never forgets. 

                So I was excited on Friday to get to attend an ordination at our own church.  The assistant priest or curate who came to our church right in the middle of a pandemic had completed her time as a transitional deacon and was getting ordained as a priest in the Episcopal Church.  Much would be different.  Instead of a filled cathedral we would be on lawn chairs in carefully spaced circles outside.  Instead of bulletins we would find the responses on our phones.  Instead of singing together there would be a cantor inside the building with a microphone for us to hear him.  Seminary friends, former parishioners and family would follow a link to a live stream online.  But we still put on our vestments, wore our red stoles and processed with the Bishop. 

                We sat under a clear October Colorado sky and said the responses under our masks.  The Bishop preached a great sermon and everything was beautiful.  And even though there were many aspects of a typical ordination service missing, there were also many added sights and sounds unique to this experience.  The bishop’s inspiring words about calling and a persevering hope that love will win occasionally had the background music of a car driving by with the bass turned way up.  Claire’s ordination vows were spoken over chatter from patio diners at the restaurant across the street.  As the cantor sang, joggers and dog walkers looked at us from over the chain link fence.  The bright red vestments made those driving by turn their heads.  It was an ordination just as it should be … right in the midst of life. 

                Our sturdy churches hold stunning art in their stained glass and perfect acoustics for singing which makes for powerful worship, but our ministry is predominantly done out in the ordinary, in the midst of the chaos, beside the preoccupied and next to the distracted.  During these days of social distancing I have been meeting pets, seeing art work and getting college dorm room tours over youth group zoom meet ups.  Instead of youth group lunch after worship I am meeting up with teens in their neighborhoods for masked walks for catching up and thinking about God together.  Our relationships are no longer dependent on our building and we know more about each other’s daily lives. 

                School is also a very changed experience in our house these days.  I hear the teachers teaching, I listen to my kid’s responses and their classroom is sometimes the living room, sometimes the back porch and sometimes the desks we set up in their bedrooms.  Worlds have converged.  Some days it feels stifling, some days I feel like I can’t spend one more second in the walls of my house, but some days I see the ways in which these circumstances have deepened my relationships- relationships with my kids, my husband, my church, the kid’s school, the teens I work with and my friends.  Sometimes turning inward actually broadens our horizon.  Sometimes being forced out of normal circumstances challenges us to clarify our calling and focus on what matters.  And sometimes when we are pushed out of our familiar spaces we find that we are right where we need to be and right where the Holy Spirit is busy at work. 

photo by Steve Starr

Life's Heart

 Sermon for Grace and St Stephen’s 9/6/20 Matthew 18:15-20, Romans 13:8-14

          It’s September in Colorado which means the days will either bring snow to the mountains or 90 degrees to our back yards.  The aspens will start turning yellow, the sunsets are starting earlier and the kids are back to school … sort of.  Some kids are being home schooled, some kids are doing online school and some kids are going to school carefully spaced 6 feet from the other children and with little cloth masks over their runny noses and chatty mouths.  Many of us are now 2 weeks into this new creature called pandemic schooling and while I could share stories of technology glitches, websites not working and kids not understanding how to do school while sitting next to all their toys …. What has really struck me about this whole process is the mutual dependency and accountability created between parents, students and teachers.

 

          Three days in to online first grade I got an email from my son’s teacher.  She said “be brutally honest, how is this on your end, please tell me what you think.”  I was surprised and touched by this for a few reasons.  First, she wants to do a good job, she wants to do the best she can and really teach the children.  Second, she genuinely cares about the experiences of the parents.  And third, that is a super brave email.  Who does that?  In a world of “don’t @ me” and unfollowing and screaming and shouting … it is surprising and refreshing to find people opening dialogue and wanting to learn from one another.

 

          I responded with honesty but also taking seriously my accountability in the situation.  We are in this together.  I need to do my part to have patience, a positive attitude and to constantly say to my child over and over again “this is school, she is talking, go listen until she is done.”  And my kids are accountable in the situation too.  This is a unique opportunity for them to learn at a young age how to take responsibility for your own education.  They need to pay attention to instructions, know when to log in and navigate the various websites for learning.  And we all need to be mindful of when to mute and unmute ourselves.

 

          I thought about this schooling situation and the mutual accountability it calls for as I read the Gospel reading from Matthew today because it really is about accountability.  It is not saying “if someone makes you mad, take it to the parking lot and have it out.”  It is not saying “if someone offends you, never speak to them again.”  It is also not suggesting that as part of every Sunday worship service we hold an open mic “airing of grievances” and lay into one another. 

 

          Rather, it is a system of being accountable in love- a way to bind together this body of Christ in the world.  An admission that we will hurt each other sometimes and a call for all of us to be accountable to one another so that we can grow together in love- so that we can be for the world a beautiful family in Christ. 

 

          Notice in these instructions from Matthew that after you go to the person who has “sinned against you” directly and after you involve some other members of the church and after you involve the church … if the “offender” still “refuses to listen” then you are to treat them as a “Gentile and a tax collector.”  At first glance this might seem like an invitation to write that person off as someone different from you, someone outside of your circle, someone on whom it is generally acceptable to despise and look down.  But … this is the Gospel, the stuff about Jesus and how does Jesus treat the Gentile and tax collector?  Anyone who knows the Zacchaeus song knows Jesus didn’t write them off or toss them aside as unworthy and hated.  He broke bread with them.  In fact, the very next passage is about the importance of forgiveness and Jesus’ instruction to forgive not seven times but seventy times seven times.  

 

          This holding together the community stuff isn’t easy.  I remember reading in a book in seminary that it is hardest to be a pastor during a presidential election year.[1]  And that was before COVID, before Twitter and before shared Facebook memes.  This holding together the community stuff is about love, grace and forgiveness but also accountability.  Recognizing we all have a part to play in this difficult thing we are doing called “thy will be done on earth as in heaven” -  this beautiful thing we are doing called building the Kingdom of God.  

 

          Accountability means holding each other in love, not letting each other give up, loving through the darkness and despair, holding a vision of hope up for the hopeless to see, learning together, growing together, being open to one another, remembering that we are not alone. 

 

          The passage from Romans simplifies our Christian calling to “love your neighbor as yourself.”  It says “Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.”  It almost sounds as simple as “all you need is love?”  … except that anyone who has loved anyone knows love isn’t always so simple.

 

          In his popular work “The Prophet” Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran writes these words about love and its depths:

          When love beckons to you, follow him,

            Though his ways are hard and steep.

            And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

            Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

            And when he speaks to you believe in him,

            Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.  Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.  Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. 

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.  He threshes you to make you naked.  He sifts you to free you from your husks.  He grinds you to whiteness.  He kneads you until you are pliant; And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

            All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.”[2]

 

Love is not always so simple or easy.  It opens your heart to immeasurable joy and elation but also pain and disappointment.  Bravely risking love means opening oneself to growth, change and accountability.  It means being held in something greater than oneself and holding oneself to that. 

 

          Friends, we are being shaped, pruned, molded.  It is love that makes my heart hurt when I hear stories of friends mourning the loss of those dear to them to this pandemic.  It is love that makes my heart hurt when the reality of racism and injustice is laid bare for all to see.  It is love that made the tears trickle from my eyes as a beloved child was baptized into the Christian faith last Sunday, our witness of hope and faith in the future.  It is love that makes me ache for visits, hugs and in person community as we used to know it.  It is love that draws forth an apology from my lips when I have let frustration turn into impatience and harsh words for those who are enclosed in the same square footage as me during these days of work from home, school from home … safer at home.  It is love that mixes together immense gratitude and grief in the same heartbeat.  It is love that we will see when we look back at all the strange things we did like online school and worship in chalk drawn lawn circles, all the new and difficult things we did to get through this together.  It is love that will carry us through as this beautiful body of Christ doing this important work of kingdom building. 

---

[1] Galloway, John.  Ministry Loves Company: A Survival Guide for Pastors. WJK Books, 2003

[2] Gibran, Kahlil.  The Prophet. Knopf, 2001.  Pp 11-12

Scars

 

We were gathered on the church lawn looking at chalk-drawn, spaced-apart circles and hashing out last minute details for our first in-person worship service since March. I was in a deep discussion with a newly retired police officer about the police reform bill recently passed in our state of Colorado. I heard the sound of rocks hitting chain-link fence and immediately walked across the parking lot to tell my six and eight year old sons to stop throwing rocks at each other. My eight year old said “but mom, I want to get a scar!” I said “why would you want a scar?” He simply replied “they look cool.”

 

While I can assume that he was thinking more “Harry Potter lightning bolt” type scars, I thought about my own (less exciting) scars. My kids love when I tell the stories of my scars, especially the permanent bump on my lower lip. I tell them about the trip to K-Mart to get new shoelaces for my sister. I was only two years old and sitting in the front part of the shopping cart. I saw a beautiful pair of Smurf shoelaces. Surely, these were the ones she would want. I tried to tell my family but after repeated attempts I took matters into my own hands. I reached and reached and reached until … the next thing I knew I was going home with my two front teeth in a plastic baggie and a stitched lip.

 

I have changed a lot in the 37 years since I got that scar, but it is still here on my body. A constant connection to that little girl. A connection to that memory of my mother as a young mom, my big sister whom I adored and that feeling of being very cared for even in scary times. My scars are also reminders that I have been through hard things … that I can get through hard things.

 

I recently overheard a conversation between my two sons. The youngest said “my fish died and that was really hard and sad” my oldest then said “but I had surgery when I was a baby and that is harder.” I do not know why, but they were each trying to prove that they had endured something more difficult than the other. I can understand then the appeal of a scar, a way of proving that you went through something really hard. A sign for others and ourselves that we can get through difficult things.

 

I thought about all of this as I sat in the sweltering sun with my mask on, listening to the cantor and organist through the speakers on the church lawn. We did it; we were together. It was very different than how we worshipped before the pandemic, but as I looked up to the blue sky and watched a yellow butterfly glide down over the carefully spaced apart heads I felt so incredibly grateful. We were all together again. We were all getting through something difficult. We are resilient and some day we will look at the cloth face masks tucked away in the back of our closets and it will be our scar. Our sign to ourselves and to others that we can get through difficult times. 

5 Years

When someone is officially recognized as a saint by the Church, their feast day, or day that they are remembered on the Church calendar, is almost always the day of their death: the day when their earthly deeds came to an end and they were eternally reunited with the Creator. Today is the feast day of my friend Laura. Today, June 29 is five years since the day I looked her in the eyes until her gaze slowly rolled away. The day I whispered assurance and encouragement in her ear as her mother, brother, husband, friends and other family members said good bye to her. It was a day of immense sadness. The kind of sadness that leaves you gasping for air and wondering how the world could ever again look normal. And yet, it was a day I was honored to be a part of and will never forget for the rest of my days. Her feast day.

Official sainthood requires more than a declaration in a blog by a friend and admirer, but she is a saint in my memory, my life and the lives of those who knew her … official or not. And so this day is a special day, a day of remembering, giving thanks, grieving and feasting. That would be important to Laura, especially if she knew I've lost weight. She would want me to feast, probably on something like potato chips and ice cream.

The term “saint” carries a lot of weight with it. As if it is a declaration of perfection, absolute godliness and constant serenity. Since the start of the pandemic, my husband and I have been leading a virtual Morning Prayer service on Facebook and when it is a saint day we read about the life of the saint. In the past three months or so we have encountered quite a few of them and I can tell you they are all very human. They made mistakes, some said weird things and many struggled. The reason why most of them stood out and are remembered is because of the impact they had on the lives of others. That is what keeps their name mentioned for generations into the future.

Laura made mistakes. She never pretended she didn't. She talked about them, wrote about them, laughed about them and apologized for them. She was not perfect. In fact, it was her willingness to be open about her flaws that drew people to her. She was willing to deal with her imperfections (physically, emotionally, spiritually) and she was willing to accept the imperfections of others (physically, emotionally, spiritually). If someone was struggling with a medical condition, she was the first to reach out, share from her heart and find a way to demonstrate her care. She was the one people went to with their problems. And in church groups or spiritual settings she was the first to break the ice with the questions and doubts on everyone's minds.

I am realizing that I have spent a lot of my life trying to figure out what is wrong with me. Of course, that means I am working off the assumption that there is something wrong with me, and if I can nail it down, I can fix it. Along with that comes the fear of disappointing others when they realize that despite my best efforts … I am not perfect. Laura believed in me. She supported me and loved me. I really, really, really did not want to disappoint her and the trust she placed in me to guide her through her final days, lead her funeral and continue to be a resource of support for her family. Sometimes when I worry too much, doubt myself too much or fail to live up to the potential others see in me, I wonder if it would be disappointing to her. But then I remember: that is so not what she was about. She was about love, honesty, vulnerability, laughing at yourself, connecting and enjoying the everyday treasures like time with friends and snuggles with kids. For her, imperfections were a way of connecting, not a way of disappointing.

She has been gone for as long as I knew her. That is a strange realization. It makes me both hesitant to make any kind of statements about who she was because of course there are so many who knew her longer, but also so very grateful to have loved and been loved by her. I am grateful to get to remember her. Grateful for what I learned from her. Grateful for the impact she had on my life. And that's why this is and always will be her feast day because she is a saint in my life.

On a saint's feast day we read a collect or prayer that carefully and beautifully weaves together something from the saint's legacy and the desires and yearnings of our hearts. Here is my imperfect offering as a collect for Laura's feast day:

Loving and tender God, who gave to your servant Laura boldness to speak truth even when it was uncomfortable and courage to love even when she was hurting: Give us that same courage to love others and love ourselves with open and wounded hearts. Let us find in our flaws points of connection with those whom you place in front of us. Let us appreciate the gifts of each ordinary day and persevere when life becomes difficult. Grant us eternal hope in your infinite wisdom and abiding presence. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Sensitive

Sermon from 6/7/20 Grace and St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church

Genesis 1:1-2:4a

2 Corinthians 13:11-13

Matthew 28:16-20

The summer between my freshman and sophomore year of college I woke up early every Saturday and met with Dr. George Lee, my pastor and my mentor in the ordination process. We had a great big notebook to work through and on my breaks at the Dairy Queen or while I laid in the sun with friends I filled out the questions and did the work of discernment, to hear where God was calling me and what that meant for my life. Several times in several different ways the work book would ask something to the effect of “what are your weaknesses that might get in the way of your ministry” or “what might be a reason that you feel you cannot do the work of ministry.” I would pause, think for a minute about how honest to be and then write this down: “too sensitive.” Or at least that is what I had been told and what I believed at that time. I was told that one needed thick skin and stiff boundaries to be a pastor. I felt sad when others felt sad, I felt hurt when others were upset with me and I felt upset at the upsetting things of the world so I guess that meant I was too sensitive. Too sensitive to be a beacon of strength and reserve while the world crumbled, hearts shattered and people projected all kinds of things at me. Perhaps that is when I got it into my head that I must never let parishioners see me cry.

So here I am today, still sensitive. My heart is broken at the things happening around me and in the world. The images of protesters face to face with police in full riot gear are distressing. The pain of racism laid bare is deeply disturbing. The streets are full of cries for justice while a voracious virus continues to spread. Protesters and police wearing face masks is an image that perfectly encapsulates the heaviness of these days. And it all tears at my heart … my sensitive heart.

What does that mean anyway … to be too sensitive? It certainly has negative connotations that I think come from not just our fear of feelings and grief but also the consequences of an ego that is too sensitive. An ego that is defensive, reactionary and easily wounded. An ego that is so afraid of breaking that any kind of challenge or feedback or attempts to dig deep are met with fierce defenses, lashing out or overly emotional reactions to push others away. Being “too sensitive” may look like someone who assumes everyone is against them, feels everything is an attack and is so protective that they can't allow any possibility of real change to penetrate their walls.

Richard Rohr says, “The ego diverts your attention from anything that would ask you to change, to righteous causes that invariably ask others to change.” (The Naked Now pg 94) We want to protect ourselves from things that hurt, from things that trouble us, from difficult realities, from things that might point to places in our heart and call for change. And so we are happily distracted.

This was clear this week when genuine conversations about systemic racism and privilege were sidetracked by violence and publicity stunts that sent everyone into their corners. Racism has deep roots in our history and in how we function, and confronting the ways in which we participate in that or are complicit in that is difficult and painful- so we grab on to the distractions and point fingers at everyone else. Sensitivity to the hurts and cries of others becomes lost in justifying how right we are.

We are a mess. We are sick in so many ways. We are broken, we are afraid, we are angry and overwhelmed. I keep thinking about that reading from Genesis when God looks upon all that is created and declares it to be good … it's sometimes hard to see that these days.

Or the disciples in that Gospel reading. They are looking at the resurrected Christ and he is commissioning them or giving them their instructions and divine calling. These are the eleven, the main group, the people Jesus is relying on for this very important message that somehow needs to make it to the ends of the earth and they were still doubting! One translation says “When they saw him, they worshiped, but they doubted.” They were a mess. They were broken, afraid and overwhelmed. They repeatedly didn't understand what Jesus was trying to teach them and now here they are at the end with the risen Christ and they are doubting. And yet … Jesus makes this amazing promise. He says “I am with you always, to the end of the age.” He is sticking with these doubters. He is sticking with us broken humans in all of our doubting and brokenness, he isn't leaving us.

Back in those days of Saturday morning discernment with my pastor I remember talking about this verse. It was what I had written down as my favorite verse of scripture. I knew I had my flaws, I knew there would be difficulties but this promise of Christ's presence made me believe I could do it … even if I was “too sensitive.”

Maybe being “too sensitive” can mean appreciating the feelings of others deeply, having empathy, feeling something, letting the feelings of others in and a willingness to listen and be changed. This might mean we are so moved by the world that it penetrates our soul, this might mean that the hurts of others hurt us, this might mean that they see us cry.

The interesting thing about that is as I look back, what I remember most about my pastor back then are the times when he was sensitive. The powerful sermons where he told personal stories and ended by singing a song from the pulpit that was occasionally slowed by his throat choking up with emotion or the times he shared his own wounds, fears and stories of beauty that touched him.

It seems that when we are sensitive, when we can open ourselves to the beauty and pain of the world, that is when the presence of Christ can be felt most deeply. I was reminded of this last week. Jeremiah and I were settled into bed for the night, reading books by lamplight when he got a phone call. He knew it was coming. A dear member of our parish was taking his final breaths and his wife called for last rites over the phone as there was no time to be there in person. I put down my book, closed my eyes and lent my heart to the prayers as he said them. It was tearful and so very sad. And I have to say that every time I have been with someone as they died, even over the phone in this case, I have felt so very vividly and certainly the presence of the Holy Spirit. It is all so abundantly clear in those sensitive moments that God is there and it moves me to my core. And in those moments I am very glad to be sensitive.

Today is Trinity Sunday, a day when we celebrate God in three persons, the mysterious three in one and one in three. And so we have this reading from Genesis where God is looking at all of creation and calling it good.  And this reading from Matthew where Christ has overcome death, love has not been put out by violence and Christ calls us to go out and spread the message, baptize in the name of the one who feels our pain, calls us to the work of healing and loves us unconditionally. And then we have this promise that the Holy Spirit is going to stick with us, to the end of the age.

Some mornings as I read the news headlines I wonder if God would still call all of this good, it doesn't always feel so good. But here we are broken and overwhelmed and called to do the work of Christ. If we are willing to be a little too sensitive to the needs of others, to leave our hearts open, to see the image of God in our brothers and sisters, to hear the cries of injustice, to be troubled by trouble and to know that the Holy Spirit is with us, sustaining and calling us, then we can be bold in our work and even strong enough to let them see us cry, to show our brokenness. Because out of the brokenness resurrection comes.  

Craving

I can't remember where, maybe it was in one of the Buddhism classes I took in college, I came across the idea that craving produces suffering. I found myself thinking about this today. I had just gone for a run. I don't really like running but it was one of those great runs that just flew by in a daze of deep thoughts, butterflies, and friendly waves from neighbors. I sat on the back porch to enjoy the endorphins, sunshine, lilacs, and conversation with my husband. It was a real conversation, not just “did you call the sprinkler guy?” kind of conversation. I felt good, really good. From this pleasant perspective I thought about the times I haven't felt good during this quarantine.

There are days when I miss church deeply. In a world where so many haven't set foot in a church in years I know that might sound weird. I don't mean it at all as a judgment. Church is central to my life. When we go on vacation we figure out what church we will visit while away. It is how I find my way on my journey and along that journey I have come to really love and appreciate the people I go to church with. I miss the feel of holy wafer in my mouth and the loving smiles that greet me on my way back to my seat. I am not the only person that misses church and many are anxious to get back to our space and our physical gathering (we are doing it online). It is difficult to navigate these waters of longing, uncertainty, contagious breathing and doing all we can to be part of the solution and not part of the problem.

There are days when I worry about the impact this will have on my kids. When I was a kid I ran around with a group of kids from the neighborhood for most of my summer days. I hear from the friends I made in elementary school almost every day. I so badly want my kids to be social beings and have supportive friendships, but here we are trying to find new corners of our back yard to explore. I miss my friends too. Virtual meet ups have been great but there is nothing like a deep conversation where your breathing syncs up and your eyes meet.

So many other things I miss. The longing for these things, the wishing for normalcy paired with the daily death count and stories of suffering makes for some heavy days. Sometimes I find myself googling the latest vaccine trials, newest treatment breakthroughs, and scientific projections because I need to see a light at the end of the tunnel. I crave an end to the separation, sickness, and job losses. I have found the best way to combat these cravings is to plant myself solidly in the moment. I do this by watching leaves blow or diving in to my kids' world and whatever they are doing.

Many say that we are grieving. I have certainly seen that process not just in myself but in those I work with and communicate with. But grieving is hard to explain, confusing, painful, and all over the place. I heard a beautiful testimony of grief the other day from a podcast I have come to really value. Some years ago I started listening to WTF with Marc Maron because I loved the show Maron and it had ended. I was hooked right away. He is very vulnerable, genuine and able to pull that out of the people he interviews. After a good interview I feel like I really know the person in a meaningful way.

Marc talks about his partner and how they are quarantining together; she is a famous and talented person as well. He talked about how she wasn't feeling well and on Saturday I saw the news that she died suddenly at the age of 54. My heart broke for this person that I have never met. When I saw he posted a new episode on Monday morning I immediately grabbed my headphones and listened. It was so brave and beautiful. He is devastated, sobbing and heart broken, but all he could talk about was how much he loved her and what a great person she was. He talked about memories and gratitude and learning self acceptance and how to accept love.

Grief is devastating, painful and unpredictable, but it can also open our hearts to lovely realizations, appreciation, and deep wells of strength. Any grief I feel over missing my usual routines is of course not the same as losing a loved one, but it still cracks our hearts open and can point us to ever present beauty and love. Tears can make us breathe a bit more deeply and realize that while we were afraid of falling, it was into the steady presence of our Creator and an inexhaustible supply of love.

On the Bridge (Sermon from 4/26/20)

Luke 24:13-35

          In the past, when I have approached this Gospel reading, I have looked at the ways it highlights the significance of the Eucharist.  Only when they break bread with Jesus can they see that it is truly him, the resurrected Christ.  Their eyes are opened in the breaking of the bread, like how we know Christ to be present in the breaking of the bread at the Eucharist.  But, given our current circumstances, that just feels sad.  Preaching about the beauty and importance of Communion to a bunch of Episcopalians stuck at home, missing Communion does not feel hopeful, grace-filled or where God is calling us today.  So I looked at this text again, this famous passage often referred to as the “Road to Emmaus.”  It occurred to me that what we most often remember about this text is the road part, the journey, when the disciples are unknowingly discussing scriptures with Jesus. 

          I feel like that speaks more honestly to where we find ourselves today.  Luke Timothy Johnson[1] points out that this passage acts as a bridge between “the shock of absence” or the crucifixion and empty tomb and “the shock of full presence” or the appearance to the gathered community.   Is this where we are today?  Are we somewhere between the shock of absence and the shock of full presence?  The shock and trauma of a world completely changed, routines upended, plans cancelled and emptiness- empty streets, empty churches, empty playgrounds, empty schools.   And the shock of full presence, the many emotions and adjustments of a life lived together again.  I sometimes imagine the tears and nervousness that will accompany our next full gathering as a church. 

         So here we are on a bridge between two worlds, like those confused, traumatized, heartbroken and disappointed guys walking to Emmaus so long ago.  Some days I find myself thinking about the place I came from.  Life before all of this, the faces I miss, the routines that brought me comfort and the plans I made.  I also find myself replaying those moments when the reality of this situation began to dawn on me.  I vividly remember picking up the kids from school on that last day in March.  All we knew at that point was we would have an extra week of Spring break, but the world was shutting down quickly.  Announcements about churches cancelling services, the NBA and NCAA cancelling games and borders closing were coming in quickly.  It was a cloudy, cold and gloomy day.  When I picked up my 2^nd grader I looked into his backpack and what I saw shocked me.  It was his pencil box.  I knew that they only bring that home on the last day of school.  I thought “do they think they might not come back for the rest of the school year?” but I dismissed that thought as unlikely. 

          I will also always remember youth group that Sunday.  We gathered in the upstairs youth room after an emotional worship service of nervous people carefully spaced apart and random tears of longing for those not with us and not knowing when we would meet again.  As the teens shared their “check-ins” with the group it quickly turned into the most emotionally intense youth group I have ever been part of.  Would they have graduation?  Would their play be cancelled?  Would they get to say good bye to friends?  Did they do all the things they hoped during this chapter of their lives?  The anxiety, sadness and deep care for one another was palpable as we did our closing prayer without our usual way of holding hands and instead a decent space between each of us. 

           The shock of absence.  That eerie awareness of a piece of you missing as you say goodbye.  Surely this is what the followers of Jesus were experiencing as they walked away from Jerusalem and all the violence and heartbreak they experienced there on Good Friday.  An empty tomb did nothing to stop that.  It just furthered their feelings of loss, anxiety, unknown and … absence.  The shock of absence, when the thing that was always there no longer is. 

          That’s where they were both psychologically and physically as they walked from the pain of Jerusalem to what they would find when they gathered together.  It was an in between moment, a journey between two places and yet … Jesus was right there with them, right where they were. 

         This space we are in is in many ways a place of waiting, wondering, looking back, looking forward and standing between two realities and yet … Jesus isn’t waiting for us at the end.  He is right here with us.  I know this to be true today as I preach to you and every Sunday when we say to ourselves “what is this weirdness of recording services from our house and will it be enough?”  As I recorded our children following  my husband around the front yard with pine tree branches for the Palm Sunday service I wanted to both cry for the traditions, people and spaces I was missing and laugh at how absurd it must have looked to the neighbors.   And yet, when we light our candles, quiet our hearts, see your names pop up on the screen and pray through the recorded service together on Sunday morning Jesus is there, the Holy Spirit shows up and it is more than enough, it is grace that spills from our hearts. 

          Jesus is in our homes, in our anxious prayers, in our troubled hearts, even when we, like those two disciples on the road, can’t see him.  Henri Nouwen writes, “If we could just be, for a few minutes each day, fully where we are, we would indeed discover that we are not alone and that the One who is with us wants only one thing: to give us love.”[2]  Just a few minutes, not a year’s long journey into the desert, not a 24 hour fast, just a few minutes each day where all you have to do is nothing- just be.  That is how close God is. 

        I’ve heard many say how this experience these past 6 weeks has given them a new appreciation of simple gifts, like watching a squirrel dance around in a tree.  I too have found this to be true.  In the time that I might normally be taking a kid to practice or signing permission slips or planning an event, I am taking time to do ridiculous things like watch the clouds separate in the sky.  I even bought a hammock and rigged it up between two trees in our back yard.  When I lay down in it I can look up and see straight to the top of a big pine tree and all the secret busy-ness inside its stillness.  When I see the way the sunlight sparkles on its needles or hear a crow chatting above my head it is so stunningly clear to me that indeed God is near and God wants love for us.  Like the disciples finally opening their eyes to the presence of Christ with them, I can see the presence of Christ so near to me, and there all along. 

        The interesting thing about how this passage ends is that it isn’t an end at all but rather the beginning.  It is the beginning of a worldwide movement that would stretch across thousands of years and into eternity.  It starts with a story.  The women had told their story to the disciples, and now at the end of this passage the disciples are all sharing what they experienced.  The two on the road to Emmaus talk about their hearts burning and their assurance that Christ has been raised and then they share the news that Simon too has experienced this.  It is a story-telling session that will change the course of history.  It is a story-telling session we are all invited to join in. 

         This is how we keep the church going, how we feed our faith and the faith of our brothers and sisters.  This is how we keep our eyes open to the work of Jesus all around us and the love of God sustaining us.  We tell about those moments of awareness of God’s presence in the big moments and simple gifts.  We tell the children and the graduating seniors and college students about times in our lives when we grieved or when things were taken from us or when we felt overwhelmed or when we couldn’t say good bye and our hearts broke but God showed up.  We tell the story of how we are never really alone to the nurses, doctors and grieving family members with loved ones in the hospital.  We tell about times when our eyes were closed and we couldn’t see any hope or any possible way out or any light at the end of the tunnel but then they were opened and we saw that Jesus was there with us the whole time. 

        In an article in Christian Century[3] a youth pastor tells the story of how her life and work was completely transformed.  In the midst of trying to get teens to show up for big fun events and collecting permission slips and setting up parties, one of her teens got very sick, so sick that for several days it wasn’t clear if the teen would survive.  The youth pastor sat in the hospital waiting room with the mother and slowly other teens, parents and people from the church trickled in and took turns sitting there with them.  One day a part time custodian who wasn’t active in the church showed up, a teen asked him why he was there and he told the story of when his daughter died twenty years ago and he wasn’t there with her.  After his vulnerable sharing others began to share their stories of loss, grief and regret.  Sitting there in the waiting room they cried together and bonded in a way that was genuine and deep. 

        The sick teenager recovered and that experience completely transformed their youth ministry.  They started a weekly gathering called “the waiting room” where people of varying ages were invited to come and share their story as they reflected together on a passage of scripture.  It went from a struggling ministry of keeping everyone busy and trying to stay exciting to a ministry of faith stories and witness of the resurrected Christ in the world over and over again. 

          We don’t have to be in our building, or have the right kind of Biblical knowledge, or the right depth of intellect or the time devoted to deep thinking to open our eyes and see the living Christ beside us.  Jesus is here.  We didn’t leave him behind in the past with our filled calendars and covid free lives; he isn’t waiting for us in the future- to be perfect people without anxiety or fear.  Jesus is with you right here in this strange time.  Open your eyes and see. 

         

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[1] Johnson, Luke Timothy.  Sacra Pagina: The Gospel of Luke. Liturgical Press, 1991.  Pg. 398

[2] Nouwen, Henri.  Here and Now.  Crossroad, 1994. Pg.  20

[3] Root, Andrew.  “Youth ministry isn’t about fun” The Christian Century.  3/25/20.  Pg 26-31