Sermon from Grace and St. Stephen's 12/23/18

Monday morning is my time.  All of the other days are full of work, kids and other commitments, but Monday morning from 8:30-11:30 am my youngest is in school and I have some time to do what I choose.  So Monday morning was to be my time to work on this sermon.  I walked my oldest to school and as I am eating my breakfast my youngest comes to me coughing and with snot coming out of his nose saying he can’t go to school.   “Ok” I say “but if you stay home mommy can’t play with you because I have to work and you can’t have any sweets all day and we can’t go to see the Lights at the Zoo tonight.”  He agrees.  So I start digging into the scripture trying to focus and of course I am constantly interrupted by requests, questions and comments.  I can’t help but smile a bit when he only cracks the door and whispers as if that is less of an interruption.  But by the fifth interruption I was super frustrated. 

          As my level of frustration was rising with every footstep running down the hall, I was also sitting there looking at these scriptures for today and … quite honestly finding them to be super frustrating as well.  I mean I love the Magnificat or the song of Mary from Luke’s Gospel today, but reading it in the context of the other scriptures today I found it blaringly frustrating. 

          The Psalm today is Psalm 80 and the people are begging God for help.  They are begging God to please stop being angry and please hear their prayers.  It says that they are eating bread of tears with bowls of tears to drink as their enemies laugh at them.  It is raw, painful and honest.  It is also urgent.

         And then we read the passage from Luke, this beautiful hymn from Mary, which, like Psalm 80 is Hebrew poetry, a hymn in the same style- meant to allude to the ancient Psalms.  That connection would have been clear for the original Jewish audience.  It might be understood as a response to the pleas and prayers in the Psalms, a fulfillment of the hopes and dreams, an embodiment of the longed for salvation of which the psalmists wrote. 

          So, just to be clear, that means that basically God hears these pleas and prayers in Psalm 80 and is like “it’s ok, in over 1000 years a teenager of no social standing will have a baby and he will be hated and killed on a cross …. So take comfort in that as you drink your tears.”

          I don’t know if that was the answer they were looking for. When I pray I hope that my prayers will be heard right away and all the more with bowls full of tears and enemies encroaching.  So the seemingly distant and delayed response is frustrating.

          And then we have these words of the Magnificat- the mighty thrown down, the lowly lifted up, the hungry fed, the proud scattered-  these beautiful words, these words of justice and hope.  I hear them and I look around at what this world is and that justice and hope is hard to see.  I read these words of justice and hope in a world full of injustices and despair and it feels … frustrating. 

          Frustrating because what is on the news is not the lowly being lifted up and the hungry fed but rather the face of a seven year old girl, the age of my son, and she has died of dehydration trying to cross the border into this country.  And a story about how over 85,000 children have starved to death in Yemen.  And while we argue about who is to blame and the solution is unclear- what is clear is that the hungry continue to not be fed, and the lowly are not lifted up and it feels … frustrating.

          And if that is too distant than just outside of our doors are people struggling to survive these cold winter months.  In our own front yard are hungry people not fed, lowly people not lifted up and it feels … frustrating.  The scales are still tipped to the rich and the few waste food while the many go hungry and so these words of Mary, this hopeful song does not seem to match reality … a reality that is frustrating.

          With these thoughts wrestling about in my mind as I am working on this sermon I am interrupted again.  My four year old tells me that the mailman is here and asks if he can give him the chocolate covered pretzel we bought at the church bake sale.  So I open the door and he runs across the yard in bare feet and the mailman says thank you and my son bounces in delight and comes back with a smile. And I feel a little less frustrated.  Then my brother in law messages that he will be bringing my husband’s grandma down from Ohio to Texas so we can all be together after Christmas.  And I feel a little less frustrated.  And I get a message from two more people willing to volunteer at the school for the health screenings when I thought we would never find anyone who could help.  And I feel a little less frustrated. Then I get a call from the school asking if the special needs teacher can have a school shirt from the PTA because a kid threw up on her as she was caring for him and as I hand her the shirt I see her smiling face, hear her appreciative words, see how the sick child with special needs has been cared for and I feel less frustrated.  And I look around and see Christmas trees and twinkle lights and people all around me celebrating the birth of a savior born to lowly parents with a challenging message of self-sacrifice and deep love.  And all around me I see people who live in a frustrating world with frustrations mounting and yet walk the path of justice laid out by Christ.  And the frustrations fall into the background as signs of love and kindness become clearer.  I forget that I was frustrated as the sun goes down and sends a beautiful pink glow on a world full of people loving each other and serving Christ through their actions. 

          Being a youth pastor again has reminded me of just how much hope there is for the world we live in.  Often young people are characterized as uncaring, undisciplined, violent or weak and yet as I work with the teens of our church I find young people who care deeply, are thoughtful, intelligent, work hard and are generous with each other.  They have many frustrations and deal with a variety of struggles and yet their hearts are full of love and possibility.  It is inspiring and nurtures my hope.  It makes it easier to see God’s daily work toward justice and peace and harder to let the frustrations dominate my worldview. 

          Today we hear the words of an unwed pregnant teenager living 2000 years ago under an oppressive government and with few resources, certainly with her share of frustrations.  And her words ring out over the years, over the generations- her words of hope; her words of God’s acts of love, justice and mercy in the past, in the present and in the future.  She tells us who God was for those people singing Psalm 80 drinking their tears and crying out to a God who did listen, who was with them and who lived in relationship with them for generations.  She tells us who God is for us today in the midst of our frustrations, in the midst of our pain in the midst of our world and who God will be thousands of years from now.  And we call her blessed.

          Sometimes the work of justice, the work of God, the hope of the world is hard to see, sometimes it is buried under frustration, under injustices, under pain, under tears … sometimes you need to squint to see it, you need a magnifying glass to behold it and then when you do you recognize it as what has been, is and will be, what is all around us, what is in us and what knits us together.  And Mary’s song, Mary’s soul, magnifies the Lord, it is that magnifying glass making clear what seems hidden. 

          In her book Love Warrior, Glennon Melton writes about a conversion experience she had.  Her parents sent her to a priest after she told them that she was still an alcoholic with an eating disorder and had just had an abortion.  She goes to a church she has never been in and writes of her experience of Mary:

“I look up higher and see that I am standing beneath a huge painting of Mary holding her baby.  I look at Mary and she looks at me.  My heart does not leap, it does not thud- it swells and beats steadily, insistently.  My heart fills my whole chest but does not hurt, so I do not break eye contact with Mary.  Mary is lit up bright but I am in soft, forgiving light.  She is wearing a gown and her face is clear.  I am wearing a tube top and my face is dirty, but she is not mad at me so I do not bother to cover myself.  Mary is not what people think she is.  She and I are the same.  She loves me, I know it.  She has been waiting for me.  She is my mother.  She is my mother without any fear for me.  I sit in front of her and I want to stay here forever, in my bare feet, with Mary and her baby around this campfire of candle prayers … She is what I needed.  She is the hiding place I’ve been looking for.”

          Mary is a young woman of rebellion, courage and hope who can see God in the midst of frustration, who can sing joy even as she plays her part in a story of loss and death.  Her soul magnifies the grace of our God who looks at an imperfect people and an imperfect world and continues to plant seeds of justice, who continues to move our hearts to love and peace. 

          Christmas is almost here.  A savior born in a lowly manger to parents of no social standing is about to come.  A vulnerable baby with few resources laid in a feeding trough.  So take out your magnifying glasses because if you look closely, if you look past the frustrations and pain and sorrow you can see that this baby born to an unwed teenager is God made flesh.  Emmanuel.   

Life's Journey ... with Death

I'm tucking in my 7 year old and I can see on his face that something is wrong. I ask him what he is thinking about. The corners of his mouth start pushing down even though he is tying to hold back his sadness. When he gets tired the emotions tend to defeat his efforts at holding them back. After some questioning and encouragement the tears start to fall as he tells me he is scared that his grandma will die soon. His grandma just moved to our city and he is loving having her around. I want to push the emotions away so that he won't feel sad and can get a good night's sleep. I offer some feeble attempts: we need to enjoy the time we have with her here, she is doing really well and will probably live a long time, we don't have to be afraid of death, etc. Then I pause and get real. I say, “I understand. Death is scary. It is hard to love people so much knowing that they will die.” I explain to him that when I was a kid sometimes I would see my mom holding a photograph of her mother who died when my mom was sixteen and she would be crying. I used to get really scared that my mom would die and since it was the days before cell phones if she was ever late coming home from work I would be a wreck. So I get it.

This isn't the first time my son has had these kinds of questions and thoughts. He has two clergy for parents and so funerals are a common topic in our house, plus he goes to mainline churches which typically have a higher average age so he has known many beloved church members that have died. All of this paired with his deep thinking and intuitive nature means he has had some hard questions in his less than a decade of life. I so desperately want to say all the right things because I believe that our early understandings and perceptions about death have a big impact on our lives. I remember interviewing a candidate for ministry when I was on the District Committee on Ministry and he said that when he was young and afraid of scary things his mother said “you don't have to be afraid of death because Jesus is with us and we will be with God and it will be fine.” This brought him a lot of clarity and comfort and it informed his theology into adulthood. I want to be that mom that says the right thing that will give my child confidence, strength, faith and hope. But I also want to be honest and let him feel what he is feeling without shame or dismissal.

So I think over my own history with death. I remember funerals of great grandparents and grand parents. I remember when I was very young and the next door neighbor's son died in a motorcycle accident. Everyone was gathered together on her porch with tear stained cheeks and long faces and all the neighborhood kids were playing together with occasional questions and moments of sadness. It felt heavy and big.

I remember when I was in high school and got home from taking the ACT exam and my mom told me that my cousin died in a car accident along with her father and half sister. I remember how deep the tears felt, how weird it was when I went to work at the Dairy Queen some hours later and cars were still driving by … as if nothing had changed. I remember everybody packing up the cars and making a caravan to be with my aunt and cousins and prepare for the funeral.

Years later in seminary I did CPE or Clinical Pastoral Education, what is essentially a full time, twelve week internship as a hospital chaplain. My classmates talked about their first deaths on the hospital floor and I tried to mentally prepare myself. When it was my turn for overnights sometimes the pager would go off but it was mostly for spouses and loved ones overcome with emotions. Weeks into the program and I was one of the few that hadn't been with someone during or immediately after the last breath. It would be strange to say I wanted to and honestly I didn't, but I did think it was an important experience to have in order to be prepared for church ministry. Then one night I was awakened by the beeping pager as I slept in the hospital apartment bed. I threw on the clothes I had laid out, pulled my hair back and walked over to the floor that called. I got the information sheet with the stats: 89 year old male and asked if there were any family. There was none. I went to the room and waited outside while the doctor and nurses chatted over resuscitation efforts. They talked about a show they had watched, made casual conversation and got quiet when they saw me as they left. I walked in and here it was, death. It was not the heartfelt moment of movies or memories. It was a body that was no longer breathing. Some rerun of a crime show was on the tv, the lights of the room felt too bright and yet also too cold. I touched his frigid hand, prayed and silently sat there in case he wanted a presence on whatever journey he was on. Eventually I left, checked for family again and finding none went back to bed. There was no drama, no grand farewell and yet all these years later I can picture it with clear detail.

In church ministry I witnessed death many times. In fact, there was a summer when I was privileged to be next to several women as they took their last breaths and that was part of a re-prioritizing I went through which resulted in me leaving pastoral ministry to be a stay at home mom for a time. Then there was the time I sat next to my friend and looked into her eyes as they lost focus and her body stopped. Each of these moments plus many more have made an impact on me in deep and profound ways.

Still I am human and the anxiety, fear and harsh reality of death creeps in even when I try to shut it out. Last Lent I found myself thinking about death more than I wanted to. The Parkland, Florida school shooting filled me with sadness, despair, grief, rage, guilt and anxiety and as I walked the Lenten journey I let myself bring to surface all kinds of worries and troubles. So I decided to attend an adult forum at church about death. We read Tom Long's What Happens When We Die and it was great. I actually took a class in seminary called Death and Dying and we read some great books including Stanley Hauerwas' God, Medicine and Suffering but Tom Long's book was so concise, direct and honest plus it hit me at the right time so I put it up there with my top book recommendations. Even so, I would say what helped me the most during that class was the conversation. I loved hearing the older members of the class share their thoughts about death and through their strength, honesty and hope I found the clarity and peace I was looking for.

Of course that doesn't mean I don't have those nights when uncertainty, anxiety and fear creep in, but my abiding hope and faith get me to the sunrise. So maybe that is what I will share with my son. The fear, anxiety, sadness are all human and important to be honest about and express. He will have his own experiences and journey and hopefully he will teach me the wisdom and insights he gains along the way. What I can offer him is a place to process, a listening ear and a faith and hope to bring him peace and rest for a new day.

A Projection Project

The other day an email was sent to the church from a person saying they were leaving the church because of some things the priest said in his sermon. Two important things to note: no one remembers seeing this person in church in the last couple of years; my husband, the current priest, likely arrived after this person stopped attending, and he definitely never said the things this person believes they heard. This was a mere passing topic of conversation at the dinner table and not a major crisis or anything like that, but it did remind me of something that I really struggled with in ministry … and in life: losing control of people's perceptions of you.

At my last appointment (what we Methodists call churches where the Bishop assigns us) I remember going to a Clergy Day Apart a few months after I started, I had walked into a bit of a tumultuous situation at that church and so I was hanging on to every piece of wisdom, direction or advice I could get. So when Bishop Bruce Ough talked about perfectionists I was all ears. He said that perfectionists try to control the way others perceive them. Yes! That was/is/sometimes is me.

Trying to make sure everyone sees you in a positive light is incredibly frustrating and difficult in any role, and I felt this particularly in a public role as pastor. There was at least one person who would not even set foot in the church they had attended for years because there is an F instead of an M next to gender on my driver's license. The other thing that makes this even trickier for me is my need for honesty, being real. I am very vulnerable in sermons, newsletter articles, small groups, etc. For me sermons come from the places where I see Holy Spirit and life intersecting and often that involves sharing stories and feelings from my life. So sometimes I leave situations feeling weird, as if I overshared and lost sight of how I was being perceived by others.

There are times, when despite our best efforts at being likable people just don't like us. I have certainly had these experiences and I tell myself it doesn't matter, I tell myself it does not change who I am but it still doesn't feel good. There was a person in a congregation I pastored that said untrue things about me. I trusted this person and when I found out they were telling people these things about me it hurt. As a pastor I always try to love people and be careful with my words so I pushed away the temptation to talk badly about them right back or say the angry things I was saying in my head.

There was no happy, picture-perfect resolution to that situation as much as I tried for one and I have no idea how many people still think those bad things about me, but … I'm ok. There have been more personal and painful rejections in my life and in the end I survived them all. One day as I was driving home from work contemplating some church conflict or something I was listening to a book on CD by Eckhart Tolle and the thoughts spinning in my head came to a crashing halt when I heard these words “you are more than other people's projections of you.” I can't tell you how many times I have repeated those words to myself.

I am back in ministry now, although in a very different way. Now I am quarter time and not the person in charge of running the whole church, but I am so glad to have those lessons in my toolbox now. Especially in such divisive times.

I listened to this podcast the other day called On Being by Krista Tippett and it was a conversation (yes an actual conversation) between Sally Kohn, a liberal pundit, and Erik Erikson, a conservative pundit. It was the most refreshing thing I have heard in a long time. These people on opposite sides of so many issues were able to reveal their hearts, their experiences, their beliefs and find goodness in the other. They were able to shed all of the projections put on them for a moment and talk. So many times we think we know someone because of what they believe or how they vote. We project onto them all of our fears, our frustrations, our heartache and passion and under all of those projections the actual human person can no longer be seen. Maybe it is time to start throwing away the projections, the emotionally charged emails, the nasty comments and really try to see each other.

4 am

Suddenly someone in my dream is crying. My brain switches off sleep mode and it takes me a minute to realize I am in reality again and the crying is across the hall. Eyes barely able to open I stumble into my four-year-old's bedroom. He had a bad dream and he is shaking and sweaty. I climb into his bed and pull the puppy dog comforter onto both of us. He lays his head on me and wraps his arms desperately around me. I kiss his forehead and whisper reassuring words. His warm body nuzzles onto mine and his soft, fine hair tickles my chin. He lifts his sleepy head and gently places a tiny soft kiss on my cheek. After a whispered “I love you mommy” he stops shaking and I feel his body relax and sink into sweeter dreams. I enjoy a few minutes of snuggles before climbing into my own bed. Now I am awake. Often after one of my kids wakes me up in the night I can't sleep because my mind floods with things I need to do or remember, but this time is different. I look at the clock … 4 am.

4 am … that hour that has no sound, only the deep silence of a world lost in hidden caverns of the brain called sleep. The sun has not yet given signs of rising and yet the newness of night is wearing away. I find myself remembering other 4 ams in my life. I close my eyes and remember 4 am in the rocking chair. A baby nursing until sleep overcomes and the milk drips down his tiny chin that is red and bumpy from teething drool. I remember looking out the window at darkened windows and a still city, hearing nothing but deep silence. I remember softly setting him in his crib, pausing for a moment of marvel before going back to bed. I remember waking up and knowing that while the world slept I put a special memory deep into my heart.

Then I start to remember 4 ams from many years before. I remember walking down a different hallway into a different darkened bedroom, tapping my mother on the shoulder and the next thing I know I am scooped up and taken care of. She sits in the rocking chair, whispers assuring words and rocks me until the fever releases me into dreamland. I even remember that the old TV was on, it was that weird digital video of “Money for Nothing” and honestly that song still makes me nostalgic. I don't remember how long that sickness lasted but I do remember that love and care.

It's 4 am and I am walking down a different darkened hallway. A hallway just as familiar as that of my home. It is the church where I was baptized and spent Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings. Where I cried when my mom left me in the nursery and played tic tac toe on unfolded offering envelopes in the balcony. My parents were the youth leaders which meant that even though I was still a small child I was at the youth group lock-in. After hours of running around giggling and avoiding Nerf darts I am tired. I turn the door handle. The room is empty except for my dad in a rocking chair watching Young Frankenstein. He was chaperoning the under used movie room which was a place of dark stillness in the midst of a church full of hyper teenagers. I climbed onto his lap, I remember being a little scared of the movie, and burying my face into his shoulder. I don't remember how much sleep I got that night but I do remember the way it felt to find a place of comfort and love in the dark stillness of night.

As my mind replays these images I tell myself to hurry up and fall asleep before my 6:45 am alarm goes off. But I have this pit in my stomach. The memories of love and warmth have not made me feel warm and cozy but rather some kind of deep ache in my stomach. My parents have recently turned 70 and I am now the age they were when they held me on those dark nights. Some day my boys will be on their own, out in the world and finding their own special 4 am memories. It is that ache that comes with the awareness of time, the sudden ability to see the vast space between our days and the knowledge of love so deep it hurts.

I picked up my son from school yesterday and he showed me a worksheet with apples, ants, alligators and the letter A colored green and red. My youngest is doing worksheets in school. More so than his first day of pre-K this made me realize how much he has grown. He is learning independently from me and preparing for the world. I start to feel that ache but I also feel such joy in seeing his confidence and abilities. Time is passing, but I get to watch and while I put away these memories deep into my heart I also get some souvenirs along the way. So I will keep that waxy worksheet and know that I have it, even at 4 am, as proof of this beautiful life I get to witness.

Questions Worth Asking

I was following my kids through the aisles of the kid's area at our library when I overheard a conversation happening next to me. Based on what I heard, my guess is the two women having the conversation are in a Bible study of some sort together and one is the teacher and the other one is new to it. The teacher announced that she had looked into the questions the other had asked and had the answers for her. At this point my kids had discovered that the library has CDs so they were occupied with that. I leaned in a bit to hear more of the women's conversation and noticed it followed a pattern. The teacher would say “you asked this … and here is the answer.” The first question was “how do we know the Bible is true” which was met with some scripture citations and talk about faith. I found myself really wanting to interject to affirm the questioner. I sensed her getting quieter with each answer and wished I could say “these are really thoughtful and good questions.” I believe that thinking critically and asking questions is a sign of a healthy, living faith and a genuine attempt to integrate one's practice of religion with one's lived faith. It was even harder to mind my own business when I heard the next question, “do we have to believe that all people of other religions will go to hell?” At that moment I looked up in horror … because both of my kids were proudly showing me their selections … Kidz Bop CDs.

I felt for the woman with the questions because I too have had those questions and still have questions. I love digging into the Bible, wrestling with it and deepening my faith. I am energized by conversations on theology and reflecting with others about life, faith and religion. I also remember how I felt when I was told that there was one clear answer to the question about people of other religions. I felt confused, upset, silenced and unsatisfied.

I grew up in a very open-minded, non-judgmental United Methodist Church and I remember when I asked my pastor during confirmation class why bad things happen to good people he sat with me in that question, affirmed me for asking it and never tried to silence me or offer easy answers. That was everything to me and it laid the foundation for my adult faith and my calling into ministry. But when I went to college I started to hear views that did not match mine but were labeled as the “Christian way.” I heard this at the church I worked at as a youth leader, the Christian groups on campus I explored, the staff on the mission trips I went on and also from people in my religion classes who weren't Christian. Those who weren't Christian labeled and identified a certain belief set as Christian and ripped it apart. I never doubted my faith or my commitment to the Church, but I did wonder where I fit.

Then I found a place where I fit. My first week at Drew Theological School was everything I hoped for and more than I thought possible. The deep questions were not just ok, they were necessary. People from all different backgrounds and with different beliefs were wrestling together with these topics and then kneeling down for Communion together. And when I signed up to go to India and met Dr. Ariarajah I finally found someone taking on the question of other religions in a way that was loving, honest, sincere, open and deep.

In his book Not Without My Neighbor Dr. Ariarajah talks about growing up in Sri Lanka and the close relationship he had with his neighbor. They welcomed him into their family practices of Hindu worship and while he was Christian this never seemed to be a problem. When he heard a missionary talking about people of other faiths going to hell and that heaven is a place only for Christians, he felt he didn't want to go there, he didn't want to go to this eternal resting place without his loving neighbors that he knew were good people. This began his exploration of a theology of religions, or how we as Christians can stay true to our own beliefs while also making sense of our relationship with our brothers and sisters of other faiths.

The idea of God tossing away wonderful and loving people into an eternal fire did not match with my understanding of a loving and compassionate God and I was so relieved to hear that there are other ways of looking at things theologically. Dr. Ariarajah explores the challenges and the possibilities through dialogue, scripture, Christian tradition and personal spiritual experiences. And in the end does not offer an easy answer but rather a path of honest exploration and deep faith questions.

All of this is to say what I did not say to that woman in the library … faith is a dynamic, living, enduring thing and if you ever want to explore those questions … I promise you aren't alone.   

Teddy Bear Picnics and Snoring Cathedrals

Every Sunday I worship in a great big beautiful stone church with breathtaking stained glass windows and an immaculately kept yard. One of the challenges of worshiping in a place like this is that you can't tell from the outside that there are actually people inside. The city has strict rules about hanging banners and so the church is left with small signs on the doors to let people know there are things happening there. It is a challenge to let people know it is a vibrant, welcoming congregation inside that intimidating building.

I thought about this on my recent pilgrimage to England. We toured many great big beautiful stone churches with breathtaking stained glass windows. Inside these cathedrals was a constant stream of tourists with cameras out as they half listened to tour guides. I wondered how these churches make the connection for people between the beautiful architecture and the lived mission and worship of Jesus Christ. As I kept watch for these connections and signs of life in the cold dark buildings I noticed some really beautiful things happening.

Like when my husband and I entered St. Peter Mancroft in Norwich and found ourselves in the midst of a teddy bear picnic. Two very friendly older women welcomed us, asked us where we were from and how our trip was going. They then told us stories from the church's past and present. One of the ladies let tears fall as she told us of their last priest's sudden departure. The whole time they were talking they were taping together little green paper teddy bears to hide around the worship space. They invited us to have a seat on the carpet and join the many running toddlers and chatting parents for juice boxes and games but as this was a rare time away from our little ones we declined. We left feeling welcomed and inspired by the Spirit's movement in that big stone building.

The choir I was traveling with (but not singing with) sang evensong in Norwich Cathedral four evenings that week. Each time I was in awe as I stepped into those ancient pews occupied by monks and bishops of the past and looked up to the boss coated ceiling that seemed to stretch for a mile. As I settled in and followed the words of worship I noticed the tourists that stopped, listened and sat down. I noticed the regular worshipers who prayed passionately as they knelt. I got to know the kind and welcoming clergy with fascinating stories of their own. And that cathedral became so much more than the Instagram pictures I posted.

On a free day in London my husband and I stopped at a market to buy an overpriced bobby teddy bear for our youngest and then wandered into the open church door behind it. We were in St. James Piccadilly and it was a welcome break for our feet after a day of roaming the city. We sat in a pew and as I looked at the light coming through stained glass I heard something. It took me a minute to identify the sound. It was soothing and quiet. I turned to my left and saw about twenty rows of pews with feet sticking out. The church welcomed homeless people to sleep in the pews and the sounds of snores and deep sleep breathing enriched my prayers and soothed my soul.

Our final worship experience was at the majestic St. Paul's Cathedral in London. The crowd was large and I found myself sandwiched between several different languages as my eyes worked to take in so much beauty. When the organ played and the visiting choir sang it filled the massive space perfectly. The gold colored leaves seemed to become animated by the music. The echo off the high ceiling forced the preacher to speak slowly but when we prayed in unison it sounded like thousands more. It was the feast day of Mary Magdalene and as the sermon and scriptures told of the apostle to the apostles it felt fitting with the crowd of people from all over the world prepared to carry the message back to the places they were from. Passing the peace was a little awkward from some as you could tell it was not something they were used to but I loved getting to offer them and all these new people around me “peace.”

Peace is what I felt as it was passed to me and it is what I felt when I walked into those great big stone buildings. Peace from the beautiful carvings and art around me and peace from the active presence of the Holy Spirit in each place and person we met.

Milk

     In the late 14^th century a woman on the brink of death had visions she believed to be from God. Later she would devote her life to a small cell next to a church where she would write and reflect on these visions. Last week I went and sat in that cell. It is simple, quiet and at the time, empty. In order to get there I walked through St. Julian's Anglican Church and through a door off the main worship space. Because her name is unknown, she has been given the name of Julian, the patron saint of the church where she lived and worshiped.

     So there I sat, in the cell of Julian of Norwich. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. As my feet rested and my spirit relaxed I looked for an image in my heart. I wanted to channel some of that same spirit that revealed such beautiful and profound images to her. What I saw was my breastfeeding child. It was a memory of sitting up in the middle of the night with my newborn and marveling at how his tiny jaw move up and down, his body calmed and his belly filled with what my body provided him. A memory of how it felt to be so connected and to be so satisfied in mutually fulfilling each others need. A memory of that mix of instinct, love, relationship and human dependency.

     I thought of this and I understood what Julian meant when she wrote of feeding from the breast of Christ. When I first read these words I was in seminary and had never had the experience of babies, but of course I am a human and know what it means to be hungry and fed. The words surprised me, touched me and stayed with me until 12 years later I sat in her cell with my eyes closed and my breath slowed.

The mother can give her child to suck of her milk, but our precious Mother Jesus can feed us with himself, and does, most courteously and most tenderly, with the blessed sacrament, which is the precious food of true life … The mother can lay her child tenderly to her breast, but our tender Mother Jesus can lead us easily into his blessed breast through his sweet open side, and show us there a part of the godhead and of the joys of heaven, with inner certainty of endless bliss … This fair lovely word 'mother' is so sweet and so kind in itself that it cannot truly be said of anyone or to anyone except of him and to him who is the true Mother of life and of all things. To the property of motherhood belong nature, love, wisdom and knowledge, and this is God.

(Julian of Norwich: Showings Translated by Colledge, Edmund and Walsh, James, 1978, page 298-299)

     Sitting in her cell with my sweet memories before me, I understood the beautiful connection she expresses between Christ and humans, the deep love, sharing and vulnerability in the act of self-giving and being fed. I also felt deeply understood as this simple and beautiful act that my body did was held up, made holy, celebrated and revealed as a means of knowing Christ.

     Two days later our group had the privilege of a talk from Dr. Brian Thorne, a professor of psychotherapy and expert on Julian of Norwich. He talked about the human need for validation, to be heard and seen. He looked at the ways in which Julian does this for people through her writings of God's radical love, grace and acceptance. As I was listening it occurred to me that this woman who wrote about God almost 700 years ago, a woman without a name who wrote the first book ever written in English by a female, has amazingly connected with people and provided a space outside of dominant male metaphors for Christians to feel seen, understood and deeply loved. At a time when any kind of feminization of men is still seen as degrading and humiliating by society we have the image of Jesus as mother and it is powerful, endearing, strong and deep.  A reminder that our experiences of God are valid, Jesus's sustaining milk is for all of us and powerful things happen when we share the ways in which God has revealed God's self in our lives.

     And so, I opened my eyes. I walked over to the table with little candles for prayers. I looked upon Julian's statue and said a prayer for my dear friend struggling with cancer. She is a mother and the pain of seeing her children worry about her, the fears of not being able to provide for them are at times overwhelming. So I lit the candle and left it there because I knew Julian would understand. I knew too that our loving Mother Jesus hears our prayers in a way that is deep, loving and real.