Scars

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

5 Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sensitive

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

Genesis 1:1-2:4a

2 Corinthians 13:11-13

Matthew 28:16-20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Craving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luke 24:13-35

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         

---

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

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

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

Home

Where is home for you? This question has so many answers for me. Every now and then I have a series of dreams about the house I spent my childhood in, and I still haven't figured out what it represents for me. Now the place I call home is this lovely house I share with my husband and two kids. There are other places that I have called home and places that always bring me a sense of home when I recall them; like the chapel at the seminary I graduated from, the church I grew up in or gatherings with extended family. But over the years there has always been one place that week after week I have come home to no matter where I lived or what I was doing with my life. From the time I was born church has been that place for me. The prayers, the altar, the cross and of course the Eucharist are my home no matter what building they are in. My middle school years were particularly difficult for me. Everything I new to be normal was changed: family, house, friends, how I looked, etc. It was during that time that I really dove into my faith. I asked questions like crazy during confirmation classes and soon felt a calling to be an ordained pastor. When everything was changing that place was home and I knew it would always be there. It was where I could be me, ask any questions I had and be accepted.

So as I looked into the shocked and overwhelmed faces of the teens I work with as a youth pastor it was difficult to tell them in addition to everything else in their life: school, sports, friends, work, the church would also be closed. I know, I know that the church can never be closed as the people are the church and of course the Holy Spirit is not contained in the walls of that fancy building, but it still totally sucks that this place that has been so steady and constant in our lives isn't there at a time when everyone is freaking out.

That first week after the schools closed it was a flurry of zoom schedules, facebook live plans, tripods, webcams, video editing software and phone calls. I felt energized by the opportunities God was calling us to as a church. The truth is all of us (like all of us in the entire world) were in shock and just trying to figure out our way through all of this.

Now it is week four and I find myself thinking again about home. Many of us are stuck in our houses in a way we have never before experienced. So in a sense we are home, yet the ways in which we have built our lives, made meaning and planned our days are completely upended. Everything is different and there is no definite end date.

I believe the best way to get ourselves through this time is to find our way home. I came across the phrase in a book discussion I am in (on zoom of course). We are reading “Love Heals” by Becca Stevens and at the end of the book she lists twenty-four spiritual practices that guide her staff and community in the rehabilitation work that they do. The twenty third spiritual practice listed is “Find Your Way Home.”

I asked the others in the group what this meant to them and one woman shared that her heart aches for those who are younger and have not yet had the life experience to help them find home within themselves. I thought about that a lot. It is true that in all of the panic, worry, uncertainty and heaviness of these days I am relying on the resources I have developed within myself. I have had some lovely realizations that have brought me great comfort. One of those is realizing that I am not the same person I was when I experienced post-partum depression, one of the most difficult things I have ever gone through. Now I can see how I learned and developed inner resources of strength from that.

Through other stressful events these past few years I have found myself wanting to go to my room, lay down and quiet my mind. When I am looking for peace I look deep within and find it. For me, this is the presence of the Holy Spirit within me. It is a church that I can never be separated from no matter what life brings.

These days have been hard, every time I cough I have a pang of worry that I “have it.” I feel out of control, I worry for others, I wonder how long it will last and some days feel heavy, but I do know and trust that I can always find my way home to that healing presence within.

And I know that the young people I work with are building up those resources and finding confidence in their own ability to find peace within through this experience. I never want to diminish their pain, but I do see that this situation is an opportunity to look for a steady and lasting peace, one that is best felt in times of deepest need. A place that is home, no matter what happens.

Updated Holy Week Devotions

I updated the devotions for Holy Week from the Lenten devotional I made.  I made them more relevant to our circumstances.  I hope you find them meaningful ...

Monday, April 6

Collect: Almighty God, whose most dear Son went not up to joy but first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and peace; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Reflection: Yesterday was Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday.  That means that we began the worship service hearing about how the people shouted “Hosanna” and waved palm branches while Jesus entered Jerusalem.  They treated him like royalty.  We wave palm branches and process outside to remember this, but then our worship turns toward the cross as we read the passion, or the story of Jesus’s death on the cross.  What do you think it was like for Jesus to go from hearing shouts of joy and “blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” to then being put on trial and hearing the people yell “crucify him?”  Try saying both out loud “blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” and “crucify him!”  What does that feel like?  Humans are capable of such kindness and love and also such anger and meanness. How do you balance the two in your life?

Read through (or listen on your streaming service) these lyrics from Coldplay’s “Viva la Vida.”  Do you hear that same juxtaposition of having power and then being despised or tossed aside?  Have you ever felt both of these things in the same month … week … day … hour?  How can we find strength in the steadiness of Christ during these times?

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning, I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own

I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing
Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!

One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
Once you go there was never, never a honest word
And that was when I ruled the world

It was a wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in
Shattered windows and the sound of drums
People couldn't believe what I'd become

Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh, who would ever want to be king?

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Calvary choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

Tuesday, April 7

Scripture: Psalm 71:1-14

1 In you, O Lord, have I taken refuge; *
let me never be ashamed.

2 In your righteousness, deliver me and set me free; *
incline your ear to me and save me.

3 Be my strong rock, a castle to keep me safe; *
you are my crag and my stronghold.

4 Deliver me, my God, from the hand of the wicked, *
from the clutches of the evildoer and the oppressor.

5 For you are my hope, O Lord God, *
my confidence since I was young.

6 I have been sustained by you ever since I was born;
from my mother's womb you have been my strength; *
my praise shall be always of you.

7 I have become a portent to many; *
but you are my refuge and my strength.

8 Let my mouth be full of your praise *
and your glory all the day long.

9 Do not cast me off in my old age; *
forsake me not when my strength fails.

10 For my enemies are talking against me, *
and those who lie in wait for my life take counsel together.

11 They say, "God has forsaken him;
go after him and seize him; *
because there is none who will save."

12 O God, be not far from me; *
come quickly to help me, O my God.

13 Let those who set themselves against me be put to shame and be disgraced; *
let those who seek to do me evil be covered with scorn and reproach.

14 But I shall always wait in patience, *
and shall praise you more and more.

Reflection: This Psalm refers to God as a “refuge.”  During these times of social distancing and isolation we are forced to take refuge in our homes.  A refuge is meant to be a safe space/a shelter, but home is not always that for everyone.  Often in life our refuge can be found inside ourselves, the light of Christ deep in our soul, dwelling in our heart.  What spaces and places feel like a refuge for you?  How can you find refuge within when everything outside of you feels chaotic?  One of my favorite Lenten disciplines is to keep a journal.  Not the kind where you write about your day so you can remember it later, but the kind where you write your deepest thoughts for no one else to read.  Maybe writing isn’t your thing, drawing works too.  For your devotion today reflect on the word “refuge” and draw whatever comes to mind.  You don’t need to put your name on it or label it, it’s only for you and God to see. 

Wednesday, April 8

Scripture: Hebrews 12:1-3

Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.

Consider him who endured such hostility against himself from sinners, so that you may not grow weary or lose heart.

Reflection: We are almost at the end of Lent.  Perhaps this has been a time of resisting temptation.  Maybe it has been a time to think about how weak humans can be and how much we need God.  Maybe it has been a stressful time of getting through school assignments and hoping for a normal routine again.  Have you heard of the “It Gets Better Project?”  It was started as a way of combating the hopelessness that many LGBTQ+ young people may feel, particularly in their teenage years.  It is a collection of inspiring stories of hope from people who went through difficult times and found joy on the other side.  Sometimes people forget how hard high school can be, they get nostalgic and say it is the best years of your life.  I never say that.  I think it is hard and I wish I could go back to some of those difficult moments and whisper in the ear of my younger self “it gets better.”  How might this scripture reading from Hebrews bring someone encouragement in dark times?  When you look back at your life is there a time you wish you could have told yourself “it gets better?”  When?  People are saying that this pandemic we are experiencing is historical, that we will tell our children and grandchildren about it.  When you tell the story of this time period, what are some happy endings you hope for?  In times of struggle try to listen for that voice from your future self.  It does get better …

Maundy Thursday, April 9

Scripture: John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?" Jesus answered, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand." Peter said to him, "You will never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me." Simon Peter said to him, "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!" Jesus said to him, "One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you." For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, "Not all of you are clean."

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, "Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord--and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.

"Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, `Where I am going, you cannot come.' I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

Reflection: I’ve led several week long mission trips with teens and on the last night we always had a foot-washing. The leaders would grab a plastic bin full of warm water and a towel and we would wash the feet of the teens.  Every single time the room filled with tears.  Once I asked them “why the tears?”  They couldn’t explain it and I regretted asking because it was a beautiful Holy Spirit moment not meant to be explained.  Our church does a foot-washing every year at the Maundy Thursday service.  Have you ever had your feet washed by another?  What was it like?  If you do not want to have your feet washed, why do you think that is?  Imagine what it would be like for Jesus to wash your feet.  How has the practice of “social distancing” changed the way you look at touching others?  How can we love, serve and comfort others when we can’t be near them?

Good Friday, April 10

Scripture: Psalm 22

1 My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? *
and are so far from my cry
and from the words of my distress?

2 O my God, I cry in the daytime, but you do not answer; *
by night as well, but I find no rest.

3 Yet you are the Holy One, *
enthroned upon the praises of Israel.

4 Our forefathers put their trust in you; *
they trusted, and you delivered them.

Reflection: In her book Inspired, Rachel Held Evans writes:

“Often I hear from readers who left their churches because they had no songs for them to sing after the miscarriage, the shooting, the earthquake, the divorce, the diagnosis, he attack, the bankruptcy.  That American tendency toward triumphalism, of optimism rotted in success, money, and privilege, will infect and sap of substance any faith community that has lost its capacity for “holding space” for those in grief.  As therapists and caregivers explain, to “hold space” for someone is to simply sit with them in their pain, without judgment or solutions, and remain present and attentive no matter the outcome.  The Psalms are, in a sense, God’s way of holding space for us.  They invite us to rejoice, wrestle, cry, complain, offer thanks, and shout obscenities before our Maker without self-consciousness and without fear.  Life is full of the sort of joys and sorrows that don’t resolve neatly in a major key.  God knows that.  The Bible knows that.  Why don’t we?

        It is telling, and extraordinary, that in his most vulnerable moment, Jesus himself turned to the Psalms.  Hanging from a Roman cross between two thieves, while his mother and loved ones watched in shock, he cried, “Eli, Eli lema sabachthani?”

        “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46).   It’s a cry straight from Psalm 22, the God to whom these words were first spoken, speaking them back in human form.  Three days later, Jesus would rise from the dead, but in that moment, when all hope was lost and the darkness overwhelmed, only poetry would do.” (pgs 110-11)

When have you experienced a time when “all hope was lost and the darkness overwhelmed?”  When was a time you “held space” for someone?  When was a time someone “held space” for you? 

Holy Saturday, April 11

Today is a day of darkness.  The church is dark, Christ has died, the altar is stripped as a sign of his abandonment.  We know what will happen tomorrow.  We know the good ending at the end of this story, but for now we sit in darkness.  Try to sit with the darkness for a moment.  Sometimes when unpleasant thoughts come into our mind we grab our phone or turn on the tv or find a way to distract ourselves.  Try to refrain from doing that and let the thoughts pass, almost like you can watch them move through your mind, just sitting with them, finding a word from God in the darkness.  What does it feel like to sit in darkness?  What are we afraid of in the darkness?  What observations, feelings, knowledge or wisdom have you gained from this season of Lent?