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.