Three Years

It’s June 29 and I’m thinking about Laura.  It has been three years since I watched her breath leave her body. This is a day that holds a lot of emotion and meaning for me.  She encouraged me to blog and was so supportive of my writing and yet, three years later I barely blog.  I could give a million reasons why, not the least of which is the current political climate that leaves me with so many emotions and thoughts it is difficult to sit down in quiet and put anything into words.  Another reason is because I have gotten out of the habit of constant public vulnerability.  I used to preach every Sunday and anyone who has heard one of my sermons can tell you I get pretty vulnerable.  Now I preach about four times per year.  I am not used to putting myself out there like that all the time.  Now I put myself out there with close friends at a play group or a conversation with a lifetime friend or a book group where I have built trust.  But I still think vulnerability is so important and Laura modeled it so well.  She put herself out there over and over again.  She revealed her heart, her fears, her joys, her frustrations and it connected with more people than she ever knew. 

I have been thinking about her vulnerability lately, particularly with her children.  She loved them and protected them so fiercely up until that last breath.  She poured her heart into them and gave us all a glimpse as she shared pieces of the tough conversations at the end.  I will never forget when she wrote about telling them she was going to die.  I remember the way her struggled breathing, the painful sounds of death all slowed down when I told her that they were ok and cared for.  I told her that they said good bye and were doing ok and immediately her breathing slowed and within minutes it stopped.  The tear that streamed down her cheek as the hospice nurse commented on the photo of them next to her bed.  She never stopped opening her heart even when it hurt so much.

I have been thinking about this as I face that struggle every parent faces of learning how to let go a little each day and allow your children to be the independent wonderful people they are created to be.  I sobbed after I dropped off my oldest at kindergarten and prayed to God to help me turn off the news images of school shootings playing through my mind when I tried to fall asleep.  These things take an emotional toll on parents today.  Images of scared teens running to their parents and separated children crying at the border can make us want to hold on tight to our littles and never let go. 

Soon I am traveling out of the country and it will be the longest I have ever been away from my kids.  For months I have been thinking of things to tell their grandma who will be caring for them: remind the oldest to practice piano, don’t let the youngest eat too much sugar, they will want to sleep in the same room but only let them every couple of nights because they won’t sleep, they need this kind of lotion after a bath, etc.  I find myself thinking “maybe I should think of somewhere they can go in the event of a wildfire.”  It’s too much and for goodness sakes it’s only ten days! 

The truth is we have to learn to let go whether we want to or not because these children do not belong to us.  They are these wonderful little people preparing to take on this great big world and make it better than we ever could.  I remember when I had my first baby, people would say “he’s beautiful” and I would say “I know, it’s amazing!”  I soon learned that the proper response is “thank you.”  Thank you felt weird because to me he was so clearly created by God and I was just lucky enough to be part of that.  Why would I say thank you for a compliment not for me but for this amazing little human? 

We live in a world where we do need to be cautious.  We need to know who is with our child and are they safe.  We need to know where our children are and take time to connect with them, hear what they are feeling and offer them guidance.  At the same time, we need to trust.

Laura had to do that hard thing and trust her most precious gifts to the care of others and to God.  And now they are still completely wonderful. 

It has been three years since she died.  I remember the sounds and smells of that hospice room, the look in her eye before it unfocused, the feel of the tears down my cheek and the realization of what an amazing life and death I had just been given the privilege to witness.  It’s been three years since she died, a lot has changed but I am still unpacking all of the things I learned from her.

Today is also my nephew’s birthday.  Five years ago I got a text message with a picture of a baby in a rainbow shirt.  A rainbow baby- a beautiful gift from God after much sadness and loss.  Hope after despair.  June 29 is a special day for me.  It holds together loss, joy, love, sadness, death and birth.  It seems that the best way to acknowledge all of these things is to be vulnerable.

We did it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Spoiler Alert" Sermon from 4/8/18

Preached at Grace and St. Stephen's Episcopal Church

John 20:19-31

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let nothing upset you,

Let nothing startle you.

All things pass;

God does not change.

Patience wins all it seeks.

Whoever has God lacks nothing:

God alone is enough.

St. Anskar

My Lenten blog post for the Episcopal Diocese of Colorado
 http://faith.episcopal.co/resources/blog/

Inside a "dead church"

In the Tuesday morning women's book group I attend we cover a lot of topics both light and heavy. It is a varied group as far as religious background goes and there are a number of women in the group that have recently come to the Episcopal Church from more fundamentalist/literalist Christian traditions.  It has been a learning experience for me as they share both their positive and negative stories of what it's like to live in a more conservative church.  I was having a conversation with one of these women after group and we were talking about when people find dissonance between their personal beliefs and the church, for example if a gay man realizes the church he is active in believes homosexuality is a sin.  I asked, "why don't they just go to a mainline church?"  She hesitated as I'm sure it's not an easy answer and said "we are told those are "dead churches."  Oh, right, yeah .... I have heard that before.  In fact my Episcopal priest husband grew up in a Pentecostal church that talked about those "dead churches" with the hymnals and pews. 

Growing up this was not a concept I was familiar with.  I grew up in a very loving moderate United Methodist Church.  My family was close with the pastor, actually I think everyone in the church would probably say they were.  I went to Sunday School every Sunday, youth club on Wednesdays and when I was a child and my parents lead the teenage youth group I went along to countless retreats, rallies and mission trips.  We had hymnals, we had pews, we had potlucks, we had sacraments and creeds, but I never in my life would have thought of it as "dead."  

Today I am raising my kids in a great big, beautiful, stone Episcopal Church with an organ, hymnals, stained glass windows, creeds and even a little chanting and incense on occasion.  We live in a city that some consider to be a hub for the mega church.  Focus on the Family is headquartered here and New Life and all it's branches are here plus tons of Christian organizations are based here like Compassion International, Young Life, etc.  I feel pretty confident that some people may look upon the pointy stone tower and think "dead church."  

Here's the truth, there are certainly some mainline congregations that might in some ways fit this description.  There are churches that have become merely a gathering place for one or two families holding onto the past and watching the doors close before they relent to giving up power or allowing change.  There are some clergy who see "traditional" as an excuse to phone it in and put little effort toward innovation or excellent worship.  Yes, they do exist.

However, I grew up in a mainline church, I worked in four mainline churches (two as an ordained United Methodist pastor), supplied in 15-20 mainline churches (supply means fill in on a Sunday for clergy when they go on vacation), been involved with the five mainline churches my husband as worked in and attended countless others and I can say with full certainty they are not "dead" churches.

It's hard and not helpful or honest to attempt to speak for an entire denomination let alone a collection of several denominations (the term mainline usually encompasses several historic denominations like United Methodist, Episcopal, Presbyterian Church USA, Evangelical Lutheran Church of America, Congregational, etc.).  I can only speak to my own experiences and from my own perspective.  

Sometimes I feel like mainliners are so careful about not offending others or excluding others or seeming to put down others that we rarely go to bat for ourselves.  I in no way intend to put down others and am not looking to compare, but rather give a fair hearing to the hymnal users of the world.  And of course, not all mainliners use hymnals or organs.  In my own tradition there has been a push toward more "contemporary" forms of worship for a long time and it is not uncommon to walk into a United Methodist Church and find a pastor in jeans, a screen with lyrics and a drum set.

But this is my experience.  Sometimes we kneel.  I never did this growing up but now that I worship at an Episcopal Church I do it often and it feels good ... sort of.  I struggle to keep my knee from slipping down the kneeler forcing me to do a split when I am wearing tights.  I use different kinds of muscles to hold my lower back straight so my butt doesn't jut out and hit the pew and I frequently turn my head to check and make sure my little ones aren't climbing over pews or destroying those ribbon bookmarks in the hymnals.  But all of that effort makes me feel like my body is engaged in the prayer.  Kneeling feels like the position I want to take when I am urgent and passionate and humble in my requests to God.  And even though large displays of emotion tend to not be associated with more formal traditions, you will definitely see people crying as they kneel in prayer.  Every Sunday.  Sometimes it's me.  

We pass the peace.  I definitely use hand sanitizer afterwards during flu season but I love the chance to look people in the eye and acknowledge our presence to each other.  Christianity is incarnational.  We believe God took on flesh in Jesus Christ.  So it seems natural that flesh and bones Christians would be part of our worship experience. 

The hymns are pretty old and so is the organ.  I am no organ expert.  In fact, when my husband was listening to tons of organ pieces as part of his search for a new church organist I couldn't tell one song apart from another (insert gasp from people at my church).  But I've never heard anything fill a space like an organ.  All the way up to the top of the high arched ceilings and all the way down the aisle is filled with the deep and full sound of the instrument.  And sometimes I sigh a bit when I see a hymn I don't know or one that people are struggling to sing has six verses.  But when I can shut off the noises in my head and focus on the words I am singing they move me to my core- the depth of theology, the timeless and beautiful metaphors.  Even if I only manage to fully pay attention to one verse, it makes me think and pulls my heart into my own (mediocre at best) singing.  

There is also something to be said for singing together as a congregation.  One year when I attended the annual gathering of conference clergy there was a band to lead the music and the words to newer Christian songs were on a screen while the hymnals were stored away somewhere.  The band was really good and the music was good.  I liked it.  However, it was made for a band, certain lines were repeated for emphasis by the lead singer, there were unexpected slows for emotion and no music to know when to go up and down with my voice.  Also, the instruments were too loud for me to hear anyone around me.  I realized that I really missed singing with the other clergy I was in covenant with.  I missed the feeling of hearing all our voices raised together to "O For A Thousand Tongues to Sing." I like joining my off pitch voice with fellow Christians around me,  I especially like it when my friend who is a professional opera singer is sitting next to me and making my weak voice blended with her strong one sound great.  

We say creeds and written prayers.  We also always have time for impromptu, personal prayers to be said aloud or quietly during "the prayers of the people."  Here's the thing ... I'm not comfortable with the amount of male pronouns used in the Nicene Creed or most hymns, and I am allowed to take my own liberties with those pronouns when I am in the pews (it's actually much clearer who we are referring to if God is God and Jesus is he), but these creeds are the most well thought out thing I will say all week (second only to the Lord's prayer).  Do you know how much time, thought, prayer, wisdom, intelligence and even bloodshed went into these statements of faith?  And I believe them.  They make me feel grounded, they remind me of where my faith is in a world of shouting voices and disagreement.  They also connect me to worshipers from the past 2,000 years.  

The sermons are great.  I know, I know, it's my husband usually preaching (or me which would make this paragraph incredibly annoying so let's exclude my sermons), but they are great.  The lectionary dictates what is preached on, which I find to be an incredible discipline.  You have to seek out what the spirit is saying and struggle and be challenged.  You can't skip things that don't fit with what you feel like saying and you get to dig in and research and wrestle with a chunk of text, not just one line.  The sermons are meant to provoke and challenge.  It is not a list of rules or judgments.  There is room for diversity (and believe me there is a lot of diversity of opinion in mainline churches).  Your experience, brain and heart are needed to complete the sermon.

We read a lot of scripture.  Sometimes a church will describe itself as "Bible based,"  I've never heard that used to describe an Episcopal Church but they read more scripture than any other denomination I have ever experienced.  And it's not just a line from here and a line from there, it's chunks.  Every Sunday you get: a Psalm, an Old Testament passage, an Epistle and a Gospel reading.  We stand for the Gospel because these are the words of Jesus.  We are encouraged to research, wrestle with, discuss and dig into the scripture.  My favorite part of seminary was my Bible classes.  If you dig into a passage it is amazing how it comes to life, opens up, moves you, challenges you and speaks to your soul.  

The people are amazing. So, when I started my second appointment, my first one as a solo pastor there was some conflict.  In fact, two months in I called my District Superintendent in tears saying I didn't know what to do (it only took two months to break my then #1 goal as a young woman pastor- do not cry!).  There was some heavy conflict.  One of the people I went head to head with became someone I treasure greatly.  We kept at it, we didn't walk away and after another month or two we were big supporters of each other ... and we did some great and creative ministry together.   People are difficult and sometimes newcomers are turned away by people believing each person is a reflection of the church's principles.  But we are a collection of sinners asking for forgiveness, frail humans depending on grace.  We are desperately trying to be better together with the Holy Spirit making that possible.  The people I worship with here do amazing things that you would not know about to just see them in the pews.  They start nonprofit organizations for at risk teens in the foster system, they volunteer with battered women, they nurse hospice patients to comfort, they feed the homeless, they work for justice and they live out the love and mercy of Jesus Christ no matter their occupation or situation.  I am so inspired by these repentant humans I share a kneeler with.

There is so much more to say, but no one likes blog posts that are too long ... well maybe my mom would.  Thanks for hanging in there with me for this subject that means so much to me.  I suppose it is my thank you note to those intimidating buildings with the big wooden doors, the hymnals with the worn out binding and the musicians using their gifts to help people like me lift beautiful prayers to God.  To the amazing people who have brought me to the faith.  The pastor who let me ask any questions I wanted in confirmation class, the mentors, prayer teams and generous souls who died and left their hard earned money to ensure these structures can stand.  The councils who wrote the creeds and preachers who stayed up wrestling with those tough passages.  The acolytes and altar guilds, those who sewed paraments and filled the baptismal fonts.  The Holy Spirit who keeps it all alive.

Finding "The One"

If I were to write an essay on how I spent my Christmas break it would inevitably include some reference to organ music.  While some of it was live at the beautiful worship services I attended, the bulk of it was coming through the tiny speakers on our laptop as my husband sat on the couch carefully reading through many organist resumes.  He is looking to hire a new organist for the church.  Perhaps you may think "what's the big deal? You just need someone who can play along with a few hymns each Sunday."  If you think this ... you are wrong.  It is a big deal as the music program at our church is top notch, covering ages 5-100 and bringing a multitude of events from the gentle but powerful Choral Compline services to an endowed concert series to a week of choir camp in the mountains for kids and teens.  So as my husband and his team scour the about fifty (seriously) resumes they are trying to figure out how to take into consideration all the many qualifications and also look for something more, something harder to quantify or describe ... how to find "the one."

I find myself on a similar search in other ways.  For example, I am looking to find how I want to live out my pastoral calling as my kids are getting older and spending less time at home.  I have been volunteering in various capacities and wondering where God is calling me to next.  I love volunteering at the church where my husband is rector.  I think it is so wonderful that my children feel comfortable and loved there.  I love that my kids know things about Joshua and the battle of Ai from the Wednesday night Bible Study and it makes my heart burst when my son loves going to choir practice every week.  But I am ordained in a different denomination that I also love.  I love preaching, teaching and providing pastoral care.  These are the things that in the past have always brought me fulfillment and excitement.  At the same time I love having the time and availability to volunteer at my son's school.  I love getting to know the children and feeling like I am (in a small way) contributing not just to my son's but many children's education and sense of value.  I see ways I can help the community through the school organizations I volunteer with.  I don't want to give that up.  Also, I love keeping a balance to our family life.  I like having dinner together around the table as a family most days, praying together before bed and while housekeeping is not something that I particularly enjoy or comes naturally, I do like having the beds made and laundry done and providing the family with a warm and welcoming place to seek refuge and rest.  I love where we live and exploring it through new adventures, playgrounds and hikes. I currently have about fifty ideas of where I want to either: work, volunteer or continue my education.  How do I find "the one?"

When I first moved here almost two years ago I was determined to find "the one" in a different way.  I needed to find a really close friend.  Someone to bond with and keep the isolation that can come with being a stay at home parent at bay.  I had a few really wonderful friends in Toledo that totally got me and I always felt comfortable with and regularly enjoyed a really good deep laugh with and I needed to find that.  I would meet another mom and wonder "could this be the one?" And then realize she already has tons of wonderful friends here and my desperation is not attractive or shared.  I am lucky to have a husband that gets me and regularly makes me crack up but since we moved here his work hours have increased and I needed to find ways to adjust to that.  

Two years later and I have not found "the one" of anything.  Something even better has happened. I have found several.  I have several really wonderful friends each bringing out a different part of me, each teaching me different things and inspiring me in different ways.  And over time those relationships will grow to a place where we "get" each other more and more.   I have also had a lot of different experiences through volunteering that have taught me new things about myself and stretched me in different ways.   

I'm not going to lie though, I'm definitely still struggling to figure out what is right for me and my situation and I do still secretly hope for a new best friend to move down the street from me.  Perhaps the key is to realize that there are so many beautiful people and beautiful opportunities in this life and anything we can do to make the world a better place or connect to another person is worthwhile.  Every person and every opportunity has a unique perspective, specific gifts and can inspire a new part of ourselves. In the meantime ... I get to listen to some really great organ music. 

Light in the Dark

Sermon from Grace and St Stephen's 12/25/2017 John 1:1-14 Christmas

When I was in college I remember complaining to a friend that every class had to start with some sort of historical survey. I was a psychology major and I loved learning about human behaviors, relationships and how the mind works, but before we ever got into that we always had to read about the history of that particular branch of psychology. The same with all my electives. I had to read chapters about the history of theater, astronomy, and every major world religion … I couldn't believe it when I arrived for my first day of my summer step aerobics class and was directed to a desk and a book where we had to learn about the development of aerobics before we began. As I would read about names, dates and locations, wars, brutal regimes and plagues (those last three not as much in step aerobics) my eyelids would suddenly gain too much weight to hold up and my mind would drift. Naturally seminary brought with it a whole lot of history. I was fortunate to have some great professors not just for the two semesters of straight up church history but also all the theological and Biblical history in my other classes who taught it in really interesting and relevant ways.

But when I sat down to dinner after the McJimsey lecture with our own Dr. Carol Neel and asked her the topics of her published works I have to confess that I prepared myself for more polite nodding than genuine fascination. But as she started to explain a book she wrote some years ago I was totally intrigued. Carol wrote an introduction and a translation for a ninth century book that a mother wrote to her son. This medieval book challenges not just the prior held understanding of women's literacy, education and influence of that time but also it challenges the ways in which we tend to look at relationships of the past. When we read of wars, famines, brutal rulers, names and dates we see only a society so very different from ours, circumstances unimaginable for our comfortable selves to live in and we make assumptions about how they related to one another, perhaps assuming that with so much death and despair and child mortality, there was a certain kind of emotional distance even within families. So I was very curious about this woman, Dhuoda's, love letter and parental guidance for her son so long ago.

The book was written during a particularly bloody era. Dhuoda's husband worked closely with Louis the Pious until Louis's sons rebelled which resulted in terrible wars and also her husband making a deal to prove his loyalty to Charles the Bald and offering his young son as part of that. To this son, who eventually is killed avenging his father's death, she writes this book of love, wisdom and instruction. In the introduction to her book Carol offers background on Dhuoda and life in the ninth century, pointing out that during such bloodshed and fighting there was also such devotion to religious life- endowing churches, establishing abbeys, studying the scriptures. And all of this is what I found myself thinking about as I read these words from John about the Word that was there even in the chaos, shining in the darkness, never overcome by darkness. This Word here in humanity, among us. A mother's letter of love, abbeys, churches, religious devotion present in such dark times of despair and enduring longer than any of the emperors or borders or weeping.

Light in the darkness. At the beginning, in medieval times, today … again and again, never letting the darkness win the day. Even in the beginning, before all of us, before time and space- was the Word … with God. A relationship. Love. A Word is something that is revealed. In the beginning the Word was with God. A revelation always intended even before creation.

Even though we no longer live in medieval times and can look back at those stories of war and pain with shock and distance, we still have darkness in our world. Sometimes the pain of the world feels so deep, so pervasive and so inescapable. Some days it feels like the darkness is overcoming the light.

And it's not just out there. The darkness of the world is not just in the newspaper headlines, twitter feeds and political rants. It's in here. It's in us. As scary and painful as outside forces like war, disease and injustice may be to confront I believe that the darkness within can be the scariest to face.

The inner demons we carry with us, the self doubt that manifests as insecurity and pushing others away, the prejudice we try to cover with words but comes out in actions, the fears that eat away at us at night and tell us to protect, defend, close off. And the sadness that threatens our joy, that casts a shadow on our worldview and tries to convince us that it will never get better. The darkness that starts to choke out the light in our souls.

The Gospel of John dives right into these dark places. It does not begin with a beautiful image of a baby born in a manger, it does not preface the narrative with historical background or important names and dates. It goes right to the point, right to the heart. It starts at the beginning, in the darkness.

This is the accepted reality of life. There is darkness. And this story of Jesus is here to confront that. God's revelation, God's Word, God's redemption, incarnate love has been there since the beginning, it was always part of the plan, part of the human condition. We were born through it. “All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.” We are born through the Word. We exist in the revelation of God. The light in the darkness has been shining since before we can fathom and nothing- no dictator, no war, no famine, no sadness, no pain has extinguished it.

This light is with us. It is incarnate, in flesh. And through this we are called children of God. We live in the light and the light lives in us. This is our reality. This is our Christmas story. The Christmas story in John is not the stuff of Christmas pageants and bed time stories. Instead of a nativity scene there is a simple light in the dark. Instead of a manger there is a mirror. Held up in front of us. We have come into being through the Word. We are benefactors of God's revelation. The Word is here, with us, in us, pushing against the darkness.

Christmas is an emotional time. The music, the colorful lights, the warm fireplace are all meant to elicit emotion. And sometimes that can be sadness. Sometimes I get a little sad around the holidays. The marking of the passage of time, the nostalgia, the sense of longing can be sad. I was feeling this last year at Christmas Eve. It was my first Christmas ever not spent in Ohio. When I was growing up Christmas Eve was always spent at my aunt's house. Grandpa, aunts, uncles, cousins, mom, dad, sisters, brother all together with beautifully wrapped presents, delicious food, sounds of laughter and sleepy hugs good bye. I was thinking of this as I drove my two little boys home after the 4:30pm service last year. My husband wouldn't be home until very late, after the 11pm service and we don't have any family here so it was just us. I decided to take the boys to McDonald's, a rare treat in our house. They were thrilled. We walked in with our church clothes on and they hurried over to the high stools that spin and giggled in excitement. I brought them their food and they were blown away to find a toy with their food! It was a pig that repeatedly said things like “Oh yeah, piggy power!” I sat on the stool and continually reminded them to eat the food I felt guilty for feeding them.

I looked around and I have to tell you that McDonald's on Christmas Eve night is kind of a sad place. There was a security guard at the door, tired employees and just a few people eating alone. The boys didn't care, they were having the time of their lives- a new toy mixed with salty food and the magic of Christmas morning almost here. Then … I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find a young couple standing behind me. They looked familiar as I think I had seen them on the streets downtown. They had some bags of belongings around them and looked homeless. Honest confession … I looked over to make sure my purse was still by me and glanced at the security guard as I was sure they were going to ask me for money. They reached into one of their bags and handed me something without a word. It was two toys, one for each of my boys. The boys' eyes lit up and they jumped up and down. I reminded them to say thank you.

In my heart I felt a light burning down some of my darkness- my prejudice, my self-preservation, my self-centeredness in thinking that Christmas could only be truly experienced in the comfortable and familiar places of my childhood. I was a recipient of kindness and generosity in a dark and lonely McDonald's. The light in the darkness. And I realized something else, just as they were the Word incarnate for me there in that place, we were for them too. Perhaps the giggles and excitement of children is something that brought them joy. Perhaps the smiles and thank yous is what they were hoping for when they put those toys into their bag. The Word is in us from our birth. We are children of God.

When the story of my life is written it might say the year I was born, the year I died, some significant historical occurrences during my life span, the names of my parents and children, the location of my birth and death. Some basic facts, recorded somewhere for no one to read and if they do then I am sure it will add weight to their eyelids and make their minds wander. But beyond that, beyond the basic facts lies a truth that we who are gathered for worship on Christmas day all know. A truth that makes all of our lives so much more interesting and bright and hopeful and meaningful. I am born through the Word, I am part of God's revelation through Jesus Christ. We all are children of God. God chose to pour God's self into flesh and dwell among us. And God has been here with us, dwelling in the hearts of mothers caring for their children in the midst of medieval war and dwelling in the hearts of those seeking a break from the street at a McDonald's on Christmas Eve. This was the plan, all the way from the beginning and through the end. This is the light the darkness has never and will never overcome. This is Emmanuel. God with us.