Unbrace Yourself

 

Sermon from Beth El Mennonite November 27, 2022 Advent 1, Narrative Lectionary: Habakkuk 1:1-7; 2:1-4; 3[3b-6], 17-19

         

          It was the Friday before Thanksgiving and at about 6 am my kids excitedly woke up to a snow-covered yard. They rushed into my room and asked “is it a snow day?” I broke the news to them that it would be a full school day as usual and then endured the whining and lamenting that followed. Normally we walk to school, but it was about 10 degrees out and they were already whining so I decided to drive them. We slid our way onto Circle and slowly drove by cars struggling to get their tires to move in the snow. I had lots of places to go that day and my husband took the car that is better in snow to an overnight work retreat in the mountains which left me slipping around in a car I am not used to driving all day. I regretted everything on my calendar that day and found myself gripping my steering wheel and carefully making turns with my jaw clenched and shoulders high and tight. Each time I returned home I had no time to relax as I played a fun game of “find where the dog threw up.” Finally, I got to bed but only after sliding in an unexpected pile of remaining regurgitated gifts from the dog as I brushed my teeth. Every inch of my body was tired but I slept poorly and woke with a headache, my body too strained from bracing itself all day.

 

          While we may think of “brace yourself” as something one says before a crash landing, the truth is we do it all the time. I often will find my cheeks clenched or forehead crinkled or shoulders pulled forward during the day for no discernable reason. Often we find ourselves going about our day as if we are about to have a crash landing- stressing about what is to come, imagining worst case scenarios, agonizing over unwanted tasks and dreading bad news.

 

          I can imagine this is a bit how Habakkuk lived his life. He was living in stressful times to say the least. The Babylonians ruled and they are described in this book as “fierce, restless people … [who] spread fear and terror … Their armies advance in violent conquest, and everyone is terrified as they approach. Their captives are as numerous as grains of sand … these men whose power is their god.”  And so Habakkuk cries out to God saying, “O Lord, how long must I call for help before you listen, before you save us from violence? Why do you make me see such trouble? …Destruction and violence are all around me, and there is fighting and quarreling everywhere … justice is never done.”

 

          But this was such a long time ago and so far away … how could we relate to these desperate words coming from one seeking peace and solace in the midst of violence and unjust tragedy? Of course we can.

 

          With only a few slight revisions, our prayer might me:

Oh God we are surrounded by fierce and restless people who spread fear and terror. They advance into safe spaces of love and peace with instantaneous death, terror and violence and everyone is terrified as they approach. The bodies of those killed by violence in our own country are as numerous as grains of sand … and it seems that more and more look to power to be their god. O Lord, how long must we call for help before change comes, before we can raise our children in a world safe from random violence and threats to their safety? Brokenness and violence are all around me and there is fighting and quarreling everywhere as we label and shout at each other over differences rather than uniting for peace. Justice is never done and we are tired from bracing ourselves … waiting for the next mass shooting, waiting for the next cries for help, hoping they won’t be ours, waiting for the next tears to be shed, for the next traumatized generation to come into adulthood. How long Lord?

 

          Yes, Habakkuk’s time was long ago and far away, but the cries for peace, the cries for justice the cries to our God sound painfully similar as we attend candlelight vigils and gaze upon make shift memorials.

 

          So, we walk around with our jaws clenched, our cell phones held close and our shoulders pulled forward. We look over our shoulders and have second thoughts before we leave the house. We worry and we fear and we shake our heads in despair and frustration. And our bodies are sore from the tension, our souls are weary from the longing. Our eyes are burning from the images and our ears are ringing from the cries.

 

          This is how we begin a new church year. This is how we enter Advent, our voices shaking with emotion as we sing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” We wipe away tears as we pull out the Christmas decorations and we put colorful lights on our houses because we need a light in the darkness.

          I have to confess that I have never been a fan of many of the Advent lectionary stories, they seem a little intense and scary during a time of innocent joy and cartoon Christmas movies. Like today’s Gospel about two people randomly going about their day and one being “taken away” unexpectedly while another is “left behind.” It can sound a bit more like a spooky Halloween reading rather than something one reads in the light of a glowing Christmas tree.

 

          Or maybe not, maybe that’s how I read it when my jaw is clenched and my shoulders tight, when my phone is in my hand with the latest news and my forehead is crinkled in concern. Maybe I read it as scary because I am living in a world that is scary, preparing for the worst … dreading what may come. And so two people walking in a field and then one suddenly taken away while the other is left standing alone sounds like the next bad thing to fear.

 

          But what if we take a deep breath, roll back our shoulders, loosen our jaw and unfurrow our brow? How might it look then? If we can stop bracing ourselves for the next bad thing, we might clear our vision just enough to see the hope. And our minds and souls will remember the rest of the story. The good part. The end. The part when God takes on flesh to be with us, to take on our pains and sorrows and redeem them. The part when Jesus shows us that love is real and pervasive, that love is what lasts and that peace is what we have to look forward to.

 

 

          The words of Habakkuk are all too real for us today. The agony, the pain, the fear, the frustration, the absence of justice, the despair, the death, the tears, the loss, it’s enough to make you want to just skip over the short three chapters of this small, lesser known book of the Bible. But if you take a deep breath, unclench your jaw, roll back your shoulders, slow down your gait and let yourself read it to the end, you get to something really beautiful. You get to the hope:
“Even though the fig trees have no fruit and no grapes grow on the vines, even though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no grain, even though the sheep all die and the cattle stalls are empty, I will still be joyful and glad, because the Lord God is my savior. The Sovereign Lord gives me strength. He makes me sure-footed as a deer and keeps me safe on the mountains.”

 

Surprising and unexpected words from someone living in such terrible times. But Habakkuk wasn’t alone in those difficult times and relied on words of hope from God. In chapter two God tells Habakkuk to wait, even though it may seem slow in coming, wait because justice and peace will come.

 

          And isn’t this what we hear in Advent, this call to wait, this call to hold on, keep awake and don’t lose heart. Because God is coming and it isn’t something to brace ourselves for because it is good news, it is love, it is peace, it is joy. But sometimes it will feel like it is slow in coming and sometimes we just can’t see it through the tears. But that doesn’t make it untrue. God’s peace is real and so we can live as a people with hope, a people with peace, a people with love, a people who can rest in the eternal peace of God.

          When we are living in a constant state of fear, when we are bracing ourselves all day, it is hard to see the hope. And it can be overwhelming, it can leave us too exhausted to do anything, too frustrated to care anymore, too hurt to see possibility. And if that’s where you are, that makes sense. But don’t forget to take a breath, roll your shoulders, unclench your jaw and know that the Holy Spirit has not left you. There is hope. We know the rest of the Advent story, we know the rest of the Easter story … God comes, God is with us, Emmanuel. Amen

Punch

 

Sermon from Grace and St Stephen’s 10/16/22 Luke 18:1-8

          Sometimes the Bible is funny. It can be hard to pick up on that when it is read in such a beautiful and grand place, with a beautiful and grand procession by people in fine robes with titles and surrounded by serious faces and acolytes very carefully performing their assigned duties … but in all of that very important and very serious presentation … sometimes there is a bit of silliness. Like when a widow wears down a big mean unjust ruler by incessantly asking for justice. In fact, as I was studying this passage I came across a slightly different translation of verse five several times. It’s the part when the judge says “I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out.” According to scholars, the Greek verb translated as “wear me out” is actually a boxing term that literally means to “hit under the eye.” (Miller, 158) Which explains why one translation gives us verse five as, “But this widow gives me so much trouble that I will give her justice! Otherwise she will keep coming and end up giving me a black eye!” (Johnson, 268) Which let’s face it, makes for a pretty hilarious mental image. The widow coming day after day and punching the judge in the face over and over again until the red-eyed, swollen judge relents.

 

          But of course, we don’t always have to take things literally and we also don’t need to promote eye punching, so we can go with the translators who opt for the figurative “wear me down.” And, even with the figurative translation, the widow maintains her fierceness in persistently pestering this judge who the text tells us, “neither feared God nor had respect for people.” So we know he doesn’t care that she is a widow and should have protected status, as many others would.  He also doesn’t care about anyone or justice. But she does and so she keeps at it.

          I have to say that I am glad that the kids are down at Sunday School and not here to hear this particular scripture. Because I can tell you that most kids do not need further encouragement in the art of nagging. When I read this passage I actually have some compassion for the mean old judge as I know what it is like to be worn down. My 8-year-old will match anyone in persistence when he is determined to get a snack … several times per day. Most of us can understand how exhausting it is to have someone ask for the same thing over and over again, ignoring us when we say no. It can certainly wear one down. The truth is, persistence is only praised when you aren’t in the role of the judge, or when the persistent person isn’t fighting for what you are against. Persistence can be good or bad.

          Many of us are here because of the persistence of ancestors who dreamed of a better future, parents who persisted in caring for us, and our own persistence at facing each day even when the anxiety was thick or the hopelessness tangible. We celebrate those who fought oppression and injustice persistently so that we could have a better world, those who persistently work towards a cleaner earth, equal rights and a more just society. But there are things we wish were not so persistent- racism, hatred, crime, war, those who profit from the unjust treatment of others and those who just drive us crazy because they won’t leave it alone!

 

          Persistence in itself is not what Jesus is teaching the disciples with this story. In the introduction to this parable we are told that it is about the need to pray always and not to lose heart. It’s about persisting in faith. And the truth is, there is a reason why prayer and not losing heart are paired together. Anyone who has ever prayed knows that losing heart and giving up is a very real possibility.

          This parable ends by saying that God will not delay in helping those who cry to God day and night … that God will “quickly grant justice” to them. And yet, sometimes that doesn’t feel very true. Have you ever fallen on your knees and prayed deeply day and night, praying when the tears fall … crying out to God? I have and I have sat with others as they have. And it doesn’t always take away the bad news, it doesn’t always stop the disease or the pain or the injustice. Sometimes losing heart feels more likely than persisting in prayer.

 

          And I’ll bet that was the case with those first disciples that Jesus was talking to. The road before them was not an easy one. The task of telling this seemingly outlandish story about a guy rising from the dead must have seemed monumental. And they faced persecution, fighting, torture and death. As they endured their imprisonment or the stones thrown at them … did they think back to this story from Jesus … did they remember that persistent widow wearing down the judge? Maybe … after all we have these stories today, all these thousands of years later, passed on generation to generation, and that only happens through persistence in telling them, persistence in believing them.

 

          The truth is, persisting in faith is a choice. Sticking with Jesus is something we choose to do. Being in a faith community through thick and thin is a choice. Claiming Christianity is something we decide to do … in a world where that is certainly not always popular.

 

          It is a choice to pray, to show up on Sunday mornings, to give thanks to God, to lift our hands asking for the body and blood of Christ. It is a choice to keep at it and not lose heart.

 

          Sometimes I wonder what makes a person decide to stick with faith. I think back on the twenty years I have been working in churches, all the many young people I have talked theology with and taken on mission trips, all the babies I have baptized, the adults I have preached to and all of the invites to church events and worship I have put out there. And I wonder what makes it stick for some and not for others? I would love to be able to talk someone into faith, to do and say all the right things so that I could bring more people into the church and give people a lasting and enduring faith. But that isn’t how it works. I can’t control it, we can’t control it and we can’t even always rationally explain why we continue to choose faith.

 

          But we can be persistent. We can keep reaching out to others, keep sharing about our own faith and keep praying- not because our prayers can somehow control what happens, but because we are persistent in our faith, because we are choosing to stick with Jesus.

 

          In a world that does not always make sense and that often hurts our hearts, we choose persistence in Christ’s flipped over vision for the world- where a nagging widow gets justice from an uncaring person in power. Where the weak are made strong and the least are first. Where hope never dies even in the darkest hour. Where justice prevails even when matched up against wealth, status and power. Where mercy defeats cruelty and love overcomes hate. This is the choice we make, to stay together as Christ followers even though we know it will be hard. We may not always be able to explain it but that persistent faith sinks deep into our bones and the blood of Christ which we take starts pulsing through our hearts.

 

          I often don’t like the ways in which the female figures in the Bible are handled by interpreters. It seems that women are always characterized as sad, desperate, needy and weak, even when the text doesn’t actually say that. We read into these characters a lowliness or unworthiness that we then use to show how charitable the other characters are. And we are tempted to look at them with pity. Like in this passage, we could pity this poor, powerless widow facing a harsh judge. But this fierce widow doesn’t need our pity. She has faith, she has hope, she has not lost heart. It’s hard to see anything weak or pitiful about a justice-seeking widow giving an unjust judge a black eye. I like her fierceness and I hope we can find that fierceness in our acts of justice and our own persistence in faith.

 

          So when the day is long, the work is hard, the hope is distant and you feel like losing heart, think of this widow, come to God through prayer and find the strength to keep punching.

7 Years

I don’t blog much anymore. Being so open and vulnerable is not easy but Laura did it so well. She was honest … always honest …  and it connected with people. She encouraged me to blog and so this is kind of like an offering. Some people place flowers by a grave to mark an occasion, some may share memories together or do something thoughtful and difficult like write a poem. I write a blog every year on the anniversary of her death. It’s my bouquet of flowers laid on the ground- a symbol of remembrance, an act of appreciation, a small way of saying “thank you for the gift of getting to be near you for your brief time on this earth.”

If I want this to be a meaningful gift and something that represents my relationship with Laura then I have to be willing to be brutally honest and uncomfortably vulnerable. So I’ll talk about my first mammogram last year. Her life and legacy is so much more than the illness that took it, and yet I of course thought of her and what she went through as I sat there nervously waiting for my results. It was my first one (a lovely 40^th birthday present for all women) and a few days after it I got a call that there was a mass of some sort and they needed to do further imaging. If you know me then you know that despite my best efforts at positive thinking and deep breathing … I was worried. I had to wait weeks for the follow up imaging. Enough time to distract myself with other things and enough time to thoroughly worry about every possibility. When it was finally time for the appointment, I made conversation with the kind technician and held my breath every time I was told to (and hoped the forced breathing might steady my shaking). Then I was taken to a smaller waiting room to see if the radiologist would call for the ultrasound. The tech had said that if they saw that it was nothing I probably wouldn’t even need the ultrasound. So when they called me back for the ultrasound my heart sank. As I laid there on the table I thought of what all of this was like for Laura- how vulnerable one must be with their body in these situations, the torture of uncertainty and the looming possibility of bad results. I could picture her so clearly sitting in the chair at the Cleveland Clinic, listening to the oncologist, asking hard questions (and asking again and again until he really answered them). In that moment as I sat across from my friend and watched her hold her jacket on her lap, I remember thinking how young she looked (she was only 33). As I continued to lie there waiting … I started to remember other things I had forgotten, meaningful conversations or funny moments we shared. After the tech was done with the exam she said “I’ll be right back with some good news.” I breathed a sigh of relief but decided to just lay there and wait. I thought to myself “I want to stay in this time of remembering Laura.”

Everything was fine and I walked out with a very different result than my dear friend had. I absolutely hate medical tests and dread going back for another mammogram this year, but something about the uncertainty, the vulnerability, the helpless waiting broke my heart open and out flowed not just difficult but beautiful memories of this person that I love and love to remember. Seven years is a long time and sometimes the years start to shift, blur and distort our memories and it can be hard to hold onto the details. I was comforted to find those memories nestled in my heart and grateful for their companionship when I was in a stressful place. 

I am far from that time and place when I looked into her eyes as she breathed her last, but when I tell the story the tears are fresh because the love has survived the years. My life has changed a lot since she sat in the pews as I preached but her openness to me and her model of what it means to be a friend has influenced all of my friendships since.  And so here is my bouquet, a symbol of my gratitude, a sign of my remembrance and a small and humble tribute to a great and beautiful life.

Sermon from 5/8/22 "Granola Bars and Gatorade"

 Acts 9:36-43

          Who is Tabitha? We heard about her in the Acts reading today, but I don’t see her in the faces of the statues above our altar. I can’t find her depicted in the stained glass and we don’t have an icon of her at home. And yet, she is called a disciple in this passage. And while some of the people in the Bible go unnamed, we actually get two names for her, we are told that her name in Greek is Dorcas. We know that she lives in Joppa and for those of us who were at the Wednesday night Bible Study we know that is where Jonah went to hop on a boat and try to run away from God. We know that she was “devoted to good works and acts of charity.” We know that she made clothing and that she was part of a community of widows. And we know that she was beloved. The women were weeping for her and disciples were telling Peter to hurry up and come save her.

        When I read this passage this week I was very moved by that scene in Tabitha’s bedroom.  Peter walks in and here are all these women weeping and holding up the tunics and clothing that she had made. What a beautiful image of these heartbroken women treasuring these things she had made as they wept. My mother’s side of the family is Lebanese and so as I imagine this scene I do not picture stoic faces politely stifling their emotions while carefully showing Peter the tunics. I picture more of what my mom describes from her mother’s funeral: Middle Eastern women sobbing, trilling and wailing as they mourned together in community. Less of a quiet funeral parlor type scene and more of a cathartic, raw release of sadness. And I just find it all so moving- Tabitha was loved, she was an integral part of the community, she devoted her life to good works and acts of charity, she made beautiful clothing that others cherished and she was so devoted to her faith that she was called a disciple. She mattered. So why isn’t she more well-known. Why is she not as revered or talked about or painted as other more well-known saints?

          I decided to read up a bit more on Tabitha and was disappointed in what I found as I was reading a Bible Commentary that we often use as a resource.  It states, “Her loss is keenly felt because of the community’s responsibility for the welfare of its needy widows … Her healing bears additional witness to the importance of the community of goods. Yet the spotlight remains on Peter …”[1] and then it goes on to talk about what this whole situation says about Peter and how important it was in establishing Peter’s importance and close connection with Christ.

           So … in other words … these women are wailing and these disciples are running around looking for help because they didn’t want to feel guilty about not helping a widow?? Hmm … and the whole “community of goods” thing … so she was healed because the town needed more clothes??? Are we supposed to believe that all of this sadness over a woman who devoted herself to charity was just because she was a widow who made clothes- and that it might cause problems for others if she died??? Are we forgetting that she is called a disciple? Are we downplaying the communal mourning? Did we forget that she matters not merely for her labels or what she produced but for who she was?

          And then of course it’s all about Peter.  Her life, death, resurrection and the community’s role in this- is all just to prove that Peter is just as important as Paul? Part of a “who does God love more” competition?

          I’m not into any of that. There must be more here. Tabitha deserves more. Something in this story made me feel connected to Tabitha. I like this disciple who makes clothes and has these deep relationships with these other widows. It’s really hard to devote oneself to good works and charity. It is not nearly as appealing for most people as devoting oneself to money and power. Good works and charity feels much more like a losing battle.  And that’s something that I can relate to … losing battles. I am after all a Cleveland sports fan, I have devoted my life to serving mainline churches whose denominations suffer from declining membership and have helped organize a group to advocate for public education which is quickly falling prey to systems which seek to make it profitable rather than meaningful. Add to that environmental concerns, justice and just general kindness and love and it can seem some days like it’s all a losing battle. It can seem some days like we may as well throw in the towel. With temperatures rising, children being killed in war as they try to flee and a deeply divided nation where discussions become contests in who can make the other person feel worse- it can all seem a bit like trying to push a giant boulder up a very steep mountain. And so I identify with Tabitha and her devotion to seemingly tireless causes with no wins in sight like charity and good works. And I identify with those grieving women too because life and loss and pain and reality is hard.

          But I think in my quest to make a hero out of Tabitha I have missed the mark of this passage. Just as I think the New Interpreter’s Bible Commentary missed the mark by making it all about Peter. Just like I miss the mark every time I forget that I am doing things I believe in to get wins or be successful and not because of my faith in God. Just like we miss the mark every time we think what we do as a church, as a community or as people doesn’t matter if it isn’t flashy or resulting in massive amounts of followers or immediate gains.

          Two thousand years later we read this passage and we know that it isn’t about individuals. Tabitha and Peter are both long gone. Of course they are saints of the church to be remembered and honored, but only because of the role they played in what God is doing. Tabitha was brought back to life and that is completely amazing, but it wasn’t forever … she died as we all do. The miracle that happened that day was in order to point to the resurrection of Christ and its eternal implications. What happened in that room was an in breaking of the Holy Spirit on this earth to point to God’s presence which is unending and tireless in pursuing love. And so all of our good works and charity, all of our bold witnesses and courageous advocacy are not losing battles as they are part of a much larger story of a God who is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end.

          Since it’s Mother’s Day I will tell you all a story from my perspective as a mom. Both of my kids are playing flag football this season. They are doing it through the YMCA so it’s volunteer coaches and no score keeping (but of course all the kids know the score). Both my boys have been lucky and have very kind and patient coaches this year. We see the other teams out there with coaches screaming and getting angry and telling kids to go to the sideline if they make a mistake and we are grateful for the kind encouragement and fairness of the coaches our kids have. But … they couldn’t score. Which sometimes made me wonder ... does meanness help make wins? But us parents kept bringing them to practices, pulling out our lawn chairs and putting on our winter hats as we sat through very windy practices and miserably cold games. We kept cheering them on, passing out snacks after games and tracking all of the good things they did so we could remind them of that after the game.

          But then last week something crazy happened. We brought out or lawn chairs and hats, we made sure their shoes were tied and their jerseys cleaned and we sat and watched like always, but … they won. Both teams. And when my 8-year-old caught a pass and ran 40 yards down the field I was literally jumping up and down screaming with all the other parents and then we parents all gave high fives to each other after. When the game ended and the kids realized they won, we cheered with them. Because we know that you don’t always get the win. That good works and charity, niceness and kindness are not the easy road. We know there will be losses, but the losses are made much easier by people cheering for you anyway and handing you a granola bar and a Gatorade after.

          Tabitha was brought back to life by Peter. The tears stopped, the community came to believe in Jesus and the good works and charity continued. Peter’s mission continued, the word about Jesus continued to spread. But none of it got easy, and they moved forward only because they knew God is at work. God is present, God does not give up. And keeping our focus on that rather than our own failures, our own frustrations and our own fears- sustains us for the journey. Perhaps Tabitha’s image isn’t found among stained glass windows and statues, but rather it is reflected in the faces of the faithful who walk this journey. We see her dedication to good works and charity in our efforts to make this world a better place in any way we can, even if it seems fleeting. We see her love and connection with others in the faces of those who grieve the ones they have boldly loved. And we see her story in the body of Christ that keeps at it, keeps trying and keeps hoping because this story is not just ours, it is much bigger than that, so let’s keep cheering each other on.

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[1] The New Interpreter’s Bible: Volume X, page 162, Abingdon Press, Nashville, 2002

By Wolfymoza - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=48549944

If Not You, Then Who?

 

All Souls Unitarian Colorado Springs 4/24/22

          If not you, then who? Have you ever been asked that question? It can be seen either as a way of helping someone discern a calling and empowering someone to make a difference in spite of all of the negative voices in their head telling them they aren’t good enough … or it can be seen as a guilt-inducing way of pulling someone into a position they are reluctant to fill by tapping into their inherent desire to make the world a better place. I was asked this question on a sunny June day last year outside a coffee shop by D11 school board member Julie Ott.

          I had been asked by teachers at my kids’ school if I would consider running for school board. The thought of a political campaign and then resulting public office felt overwhelming, intimidating and also exciting. So I did what any good mainline pastor would do who has been through a lengthy and in depth ordination process, I started a process of discernment: meeting with people, doing research, praying, asking questions and wrestling with pluses and minuses. At the time I was asked “if not you, then who?” there wasn’t an answer, I was it. It was the beginning of summer and there weren’t many prospective candidates out there yet. But as the months went on the answer became more clear. If I didn’t win, I knew who would be making decisions that would impact my children and every student in D11 and the fire lit within me only burned brighter.

          I worked hard, really hard. I became fast friends with three incumbents who were running for reelection. We were the four that were endorsed by the teachers of D11 and were running for four open spots. We started working harder and harder not just for our own campaigns but for each other’s as we realized more and more what was at stake.

          At the beginning of the campaign I knew there were some conversations about Critical Race Theory but the then Superintendent of D11 publicly announced that Critical Race Theory was not being taught in D11 and will not. I also looked up the Social Studies Standards with Colorado Department of Education and it was not in there. It wasn’t being taught in d11 and no one was advocating for it to become part of the curriculum, so surely the election would focus on the real issues of D11, of which there are many: declining enrollment, achievement gaps, old buildings falling apart, teachers not feeling heard and an attitude of competition rather than collaboration between schools. After several days of a flooded inbox with emails asking only one question, I realized I was wrong. Door after door, email after email … I was asked “do you believe Critical Race Theory should be taught in schools?” Clearly someone was pushing this issue … and they were successful.

          The candidate forums and campaign materials from others became shocking and upsetting to me. Candidates were trashing the superintendent, blaming him for years of academic and enrollment decline when he had only taken the position one year before the pandemic closed schools. And the conversation about equity got weird. To be honest, when I learned about the equity audit that was done in D11 (and paid for by a grant) and the resulting equity policy and equity department that was formed I was shocked we didn’t already have those things in place! Of course there are achievement gaps and of course we should be honest about those and of course we have to find ways to address them so that every student has what they need to succeed! But other candidates talked about how the distraction of equity talk was the reason kids struggled to read. Equity was defined as something that told kids they would never succeed because of who they are and they should just feel bad about that. When in truth it was an effort to finally address systemic inequalities and long standing barriers to success that have been in place for hundreds of years. And yes it did talk about race because if we don’t talk about it how do we ever address racial inequities and if we don’t address them then we are saying we are fine with achievement gaps and an educational system that is built around the premise that privileged kids should succeed and others should be left behind. It was an effort to actually address the declining standardized test scores that everyone was saying they were so upset about rather than just complaining about them and pretending that just doing what we have always done will work.

          It became the whole “talking about race is racist” argument that attempts to silence any efforts of progress. It also became scapegoating the superintendent and blaming some hidden agenda on indoctrinating our students. When those of us who have spent endless hours volunteering in schools know that teachers are working hard, they care about their students, they are finding creative ways all the time to engage students and educate them and teachers are people with all different political and religious views- not some homogenous group set on producing students that adhere to some kind of agenda.

          All of it worked. The constant complaints with no actual solutions other than “stop critical race theory” which wasn’t being taught anyway. The scare tactics and fear-mongering, the massive amount of involvement from churches like the Church For All Nations and their “Cultural Impact Team” who hosted parent boot camps where they trained parents on “getting back their school boards” for things like “Christian values” and away from things like equity and culturally responsive teaching. And the narrative that teachers are making children question their gender and creating a world of trans, bi and gay students who will destroy the moral fabric of society. The messaging worked …. Well that and the $180,000 that was put into the campaigns of candidates by a group called Colorado Springs Forward.

          During the campaign I also saw who was filling the public comments at School Board meetings. It was the same four people shouting about masks and critical race theory over and over again. People like me, the involved parents, the SAC chairs and PTA presidents and classroom helpers weren’t there. We were in the schools building relationships and trying to be part of the solution. But we needed to start showing up. Rational people who care about the education of our future, the inequities in our educational system, the value of educated teachers and the importance of keeping a quality system of public education in this country needed to show up.

          I met so many wonderful people while campaigning and some of us got together to talk about how concerned we were about the agendas of the people who would be making decisions for our school district, the one we have been championing and talking up and volunteering for and sending our kids to and do everything we can to help. We needed to organize and speak up for the involved parents, the dedicated teachers, the passionate administrators, the rational community members and the students- the students who have breakfast in the morning and the students who depend on their school for that, the students who need individual educational plans to address their unique learning challenges and the students who are labeled as gifted/talented because they process information differently, the students who live in the west end of town and the east end of town. The students who have parents who can chaperone the field trips and the students who have parents who work multiple jobs, the students who come to school from the bus and the students who come from the car they slept in. The students who speak English at home and the students who speak a different language over the dinner table. All of these students deserve quality public education.

          And the truth is public education is under attack. The narrative that is gaining traction is that public schools are socialist failures that need replaced by private schools and schools run by for-profit companies that will be better because they will have to compete.

          And so we organized. We are a group of people who heard the question “If not you, then who?” and the answer was no one. There was no one preparing to watch the Board of Education and hold them accountable, to unite the voices of those who are passionate about public education and give power through numbers, to partner with organizations like Inside Out, Men of Influence, Citizen’s Project, El Paso Council PTA and others who believe in equity- that every student deserves an opportunity to succeed. We have been able to amplify the voices of LGBTQIA+ students by standing alongside Inside Out in calling out transphobic and homophobic statements made by Board members not just because they are ignorant and offensive but because they cause real harm to students and families. We have joined with Citizen’s Project to speak out when the superintendent was pressured to resign and when the Board voted to remove the equity department from the budget. And we have raised our voices together to say that racism is not ok. And that may seem basic, but I have been utterly shocked at the blatant racism from members of the Board of Education. And we do all of this while at the same time finding ways to partner with schools and help them in any way we can.

          We are also holding true to our belief that democracy cannot be bought and that helping more people realize the value of their vote will make for a more inclusive city that meets the needs of those who are often overlooked. So we are working with the League of Women Voters and Colorado Latinos Vote to increase voter registration and participation in local elections.

          There are some things we take for granted in our lives and the opportunity to send our children to a quality public school to receive a well-rounded education is one of those things, but the truth is, if we don’t speak up for it, if we don’t fight for it, if we don’t insist on it- who will?

          I’m not usually one for memorizing a single line of scripture and taking it out of context, but there is one that is embedded in my heart and that is Micah 6:8 “What does the Lord require of you? To seek justice and love kindness and walk humbly with your God.”

          Resisting political agendas that seek to make a profit off students while neglecting their needs is justice. Speaking up for the ones who do not have a seat at the table is justice, giving my time to make sure that every student has an opportunity to be educated is justice. And kindness is not the same as being nice. Being nice may be seen as staying quiet with a polite smile and never talking about anything that might offend someone. Being kind means demonstrating love to all of God’s children, being willing to give more resources to those who need them and enduring discomfort to have the difficult conversations that call for change. All of this done with humility, recognizing our missteps, recognizing our own biases and always looking to extend grace to one another. This we can do together.

Throughout this process of organizing and all of the emotional ups and downs, the potential wins that ended only in crushing defeat, the signs of hope that were only meant to pacify us in the hopes that we would be quiet- in all of that I have been held up by the grace, passion and bold courage of others. I have been inspired and uplifted by those that are walking this journey with me and in knowing that I am not alone, I can answer “If not you then who?” with US.

         

Sermon from Easter Vigil 4/16/22 at Grace and St. Stephen's

 

          I have fond memories of my first Easter Vigil service. Growing up Methodist, I had attended several Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter morning services but the Vigil was something new for me. It was my first year of seminary and Jeremiah was doing his student ministry at an Episcopal church by our school in New Jersey. His priest was giving him the opportunity to chant the Exsultet and he was nervous about it.
I walked across campus with him from the student apartments to the darkened chapel where he practiced over and over again. To this day, when I hear it chanted I still think back to sitting in that empty chapel and listening as the words bounced off the large wooden cross and empty altar. The next day I attended the service and was completely caught up in it. The dramatic fire lighting up the pitch black space, the series of readings that layered upon one another to build up to the dramatic moment we are now in, the loud organ and passionate shouts of Alleluia as the big black curtain dropped and massive amounts of lilies appeared. The joy on everyone's faces as we sang those first Alleluias that had been buried away since Ash Wednesday. It gave me goosebumps on my arms and tears in my eyes. The strawberries and champagne that followed the service were also a surprise for this cradle Methodist.

          While it was all very new to me, it of course is very old to the church. The first evidence of the Great Vigil service is from the second century in the region that is now Turkey. In my church history class, I remember my professor detailing the way in which the ancient church celebrated this liturgy, processing in the candidates for baptism who proclaimed their beliefs and were celebrated as new Christians. It is in fact one of our oldest Christian liturgies and yet it still feels so very relevant and even at times emotional. It still speaks to us today- in this very different time and in this very different part of the world.

          Perhaps that is because this story that we are reenacting, retelling and recelebrating is so very real. We all know darkness. We all know heartbreak, pain and uncertainty.

          One of the things that always strikes me on Good Friday is how normal the day is outside of the church. Inside the church it is a dark, empty, sad space full of mourning and loss. We read the last words of Christ and sing songs about crucifixion and loss. We walk out in silence and some even with stomachs growling from fasting and we contemplate the emptiness of a world without a Savior.  But when we walk outside the doors it is a normal Friday with school, work, social activities, movies to watch and tasks to complete- you can even find Easter egg hunts and kids sitting on the laps of giant bunnies on that day when our hearts sit in darkness.

          In the same way when tragedy strikes or when a loved one dies we experience that same strangeness- when the mourner's world is shattered and their heart grief-stricken but the rest of the world goes on. Cars keep going up and down the roads, children keep laughing and the world continues to spin. It is strange to have one reality in your heart while living in the midst of a very different reality. To have a thick and heavy darkness inside while standing in the sunshine next to people going about their normal days.

          It is a juxtaposition we Christians know well. We go about our normal lives and daily routines but with this remarkable story filling our hearts, bringing us hope even in the despair and wisdom even in uncertainty. We mark our seasons not by the sports calendar or the sales events at the car lots, but rather by this ancient calendar that takes us through birth, life, death and resurrection. We believe in crazy countercultural ideas like that love is the source of all being, that justice matters and that we should do nonsensical things like feed the poor, clothe the naked, bring healing to the suffering and actually care about people other than ourselves. Where widows and children have more wisdom than rulers and things like water, bread and wine are more valuable than the most expensive jewels.

          And today we got to participate in the miracle of new people entering this life of faith with us, newly baptized Christians that will be nurtured by our community, loved into faith by their parents and guided by their godparents and sponsors.

          It isn't always an easy thing, guiding people into this life of faith. In fact, I am a godparent and often wonder how best to live into that role. I try to find ways to teach my godchildren about the faith, give them meaningful gifts to remind them of their faith and always make it known that I am available to talk about anything- even doubts. But it isn't as if one can force another into believing, or persuade someone simply by words to live into this countercultural value system we swear to. Perhaps the best that we can do is promise to be with them through the whole story- through the darkness and unknown and through the resurrection and joy. And to keep reminding them of that story, keep finding ways to whisper it into their lives- that love wins, hope is real and resurrection will come. That the flowers that withered and died will burst forth from the ground again, that those who suffer in pain will rise in glory, that the sun that has set will rise again, that no matter how heavy the darkness, how uncertain the path, how miserable the anguish … God doesn't let go.

          Thinking back on that first Easter Vigil I experienced, the one that started with an Exsultet chanted again and again into a dark and empty space- one of the reasons I remember it so fondly is because that was a special place for me that I like to remember. Part of why it is special is because it was a place where I often felt carried in my faith by others. A good seminary experience is a time of deep questioning, a time of picking all aspects of your faith apart, a time of being confronted over and over again with the injustices and pains of the world, a time for constructive arguments, life's deepest questions and brave people sharing their doubts. It is a time to let your walls down so that you can be shaped and molded into someone who can lead others into this life of faith. One of the things that helped me most during that time took place every Thursday in that chapel where I listened to Jeremiah practice his Exsultet- my fellow students and professors who were asking those hard questions and sharing their own pains and vulnerabilities, who were questioning and challenging- they all knelt for the bread and the wine together every Thursday and in kneeling with them, I knew I could get back up. I remembered the rest of the story, I remembered and was carried by the power of faith, I was prepared for kneeling alongside others in their darkness.  Their model of faith even in darkness, strengthened mine.

          Perhaps this is how we can be good God parents, good church members, good fellow Christians along the journey- we can keep kneeling together, keep reaching up for the Holy Mystery of the body and blood of Christ even in a world where that doesn't make sense to most people. We can keep reminding each other that the dark curtain will drop, the Alleluias will return and the lilies are just hiding behind the altar. We keep walking this story together over and over again and praying it into the world. So that when the tomb is empty we can see it, we can understand it and we can shout Alleluia even when the rest of the world is just going about their daily lives.

          After all, we baptize while it is still dark. The baptisms tonight were before the lilies sparkled and the Alleluias rang out and the tomb was declared empty. They were baptized into darkness, uncertainty and loss. That is faith. That is our radical story of hope and persistent belief. Of a God who is still with us in the dark. That is our countercultural, radical, strange, hard to explain Christian story- that we believe even in the dark, that hope never dies, that love is stronger than death and that faith is worth having. That is why it feels so good to shout Alleluia, not because we don't know darkness, but because we do.

Sermon from Grace and St. Stephen's 2/13/22 "Trees and Chocolate Cake"

 

Jeremiah 17:5-10, Psalm 1

          Our Tuesday morning Women’s Book Group has been learning a bit about botany as we read together Braiding Sweet Grass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. In the book she weaves together her knowledge as a botanist with the passed down wisdom she is the recipient of as a member of the Potawatomi Nation. So when I read this metaphor about the tree by the stream, sending out its roots, nourishing its leaves and bearing fruit-  in both the Jeremiah reading and the Psalm, I immediately thought about all the learning I have been doing through reading this book.

          One section in particular came to mind.  She is talking about the mast fruiting phenomenon of pecan trees, meaning that the trees go for long stretches of time without bearing fruit and then all together offer an abundance. She writes, “When the trees produce more than the squirrels can eat, some nuts escape predation. Likewise, when the squirrel larders are packed with nuts, the plump pregnant mamas have more babies in each litter and the squirrel population skyrockets. Which means that the hawk mamas have more babies, and fox dens are full too. But when the next fall comes, the happy days are over, because the trees have shut off nut production. . . so [the squirrels] go out looking, harder and harder, exposing themselves to the increased population of watchful hawks and hungry foxes. The predatory-prey ratio is not in their favor, and through starvation and predation the squirrel population plummets and the woods grow quiet without their chattering. You can imagine the trees whispering to each other at this point, “There are just a few squirrels left. Wouldn’t this be a good time to make some nuts?” All across the landscape, out come the pecan flowers poised to become a bumper crop again. Together, the trees survive, and thrive.”

          It is mutual thriving, interconnectedness … like a tree sending out roots to the stream, bearing fruit for the animals and feeding the people. There is no way to look at nature and not see how everything is connected. The air, the land, the plants, the people … all reliant on one another.  And so the prophet Jeremiah uses this metaphor. For the tree, the water is life. Without the stream it withers. So it is for Judah. Jeremiah is referring to the people of Judah as the tree and God as the source of life, when they continually separate themselves from that source they cannot thrive.  As Father Jeremiah said in his Wednesday night Bible Study on this passage, “Self-reliance is repeatedly the sin named by the prophet Jeremiah.” A failure to recognize our interconnectedness and our dependency leads us away from the source of life, from what sustains us. It takes us further from the river.

 

          I once found myself in a place that survived by the river. It is a small town with a couple of restaurants, a couple of churches and a diner on the edge of town along the state highway called “The Speed Trap.” I learned a lot about small towns and what it means to be in a community in the years that I served as a pastor there. Their proximity to each other and distance from a city kept the people very interconnected. They saw each other at the drug store, the grocery store, the post office, school pick up and church. Sometimes their interconnectedness drove me crazy. I heard lots of things “secondhand” “So and so said this the other day at so and so’s house.” Rumors took off quickly. There were feuds that lasted generations even after the initial cause was long forgotten. And people were so comfortable with each other that they often went straight past polite and made me very uncomfortable with the direct manner in which they spoke to one another.

          But it wasn’t long before I was part of the community. Because of the 30 minute commute home, church members would often have me over for dinner when I had a late meeting. They let me into their homes, showed me family pictures, told me their stories, fed me delicious food and even changed my flat tire. They trusted my new ideas, listened to my sermons and called me their pastor. As they were sustained by the river, I was sustained by them in sometimes unexpected ways. Like when I would show up to a house for a pastoral visit and see the Tupperware on the table which meant I was going home with a treat, and sometimes that was chocolate cake. Or when a retired pastor who attended the church seemed to magically appear at the hospital after I had my first baby and sweetly nestled my son’s fresh skin into the nook of his aging arm. When sweet Clarence had my then toddler son and I over for apple picking and fresh honey from the hive and I had so many apples that I shared them with my neighbors in the city. When I returned from maternity leave to find that a thoughtful man in the congregation had installed a curtain over the window in my office door and a mini fridge next to my desk to make it easier for me to pump milk for my new baby. Or when the funeral director and I let tears fall as we rode in the car together past the elementary students lined up along the road, as they said good bye to their classmate. That place with roots in the river was a place where people sustained one another, not always easily, but steadily.

 

          Last week marked six years since we saw Pike’s Peak on the horizon with a car full of car seats, snacks, toys and everything else that could fit. It has been six years since we came to a place not sustained by a river but rather sustained by a mountain. I remember telling my then four year old, “the white on the top of that mountain becomes the water we drink from our sink!” It took us a while to learn how to grow things here. It takes time, attention, watering and protection from the hail. Eventually we found a way to develop roots. My husband now has a full garden that we all help tend to and celebrate the first signs of sprouting spinach. And at the same time our roots have found a way to thrive in the thin mountain air and dry earth.  This place too is interconnected.  And like everywhere else, that can also drive me crazy. The differences in religious and political perspectives can sometimes make for tenuous connections and heated conversations.  But I also see the many ways in which we sustain one another here. People here are more likely to let you in than in other places I have lived. They are used to new people and will give you a chance. Many people don’t have generations of family here and so friendships become deeper out of mutual need and appreciation. And sunshine soaked hikes are a great way to open up to one another while navigating boulders.  Every week I meet more amazing people who inspire me with their openness, passion and ability to speak honestly about what they believe. This place, with roots in the mountain, is a place where people sustain each other, not always easily but with eagerness.

          The tree by the river in both Jeremiah and the Psalm remind us that we need to stay close to the source. The water is life. God is life. We stand by the stream of God’s grace and strength and let our roots soak it up. It nurtures our soul and makes our leaves green and then we are able to bear fruit for the world around us. We are at our best when we remember not to drift off alone in the desert, bent on our own self-righteousness or our unwillingness to see the benefit of others. Because here among the trees, close to God, we can get through the drought, whether it is a pandemic, tragic loss, doubt, sadness or the absence of hope, because we have the shade of one another’s leaves. We are interconnected, like the pecan trees that feed the squirrels … thriving together.