Anniversary

Well … it's June 28 which means tomorrow is the day. One year since my dear friend died. One year since that evening I sat next to her in the Hospice room and held her hand as the breath left her body. One year since I sat on the floor next to my bed, head spinning, heart hurting wondering if I would ever sleep again. I know that anniversaries like this can mean different things for different people. For me it means a lot because that day means so much to me. In her final weeks Laura and I got closer than ever before in our relationship. Sitting next to her on her final day as her lifelong friends and loved ones said goodbye I felt incredibly privileged to be a part of her story.

Everything has reminded me that this day is coming. As the last snow thawed and the trees bloomed I knew it was coming. Vacation Bible School, Annual Conference, feeling summer sun, these are the things I was doing last year around this time and all of these things remind me of my talks with her, my heart ache, my prayers, my goodbye. But I wasn't dreading this day. In fact I was kind of looking forward to it. Sometimes I just want to get lost in remembering. Sometimes as I unload the dishwasher I put on a song I listened to on my way back from a visit with her and get lost in the memory, the feeling. As much as it hurts I enjoy the connection I still feel to her. But then I am called back to the moment by one of my children or a phone call or daily life. I have looked forward to a set aside time to get lost in the feelings, cling to the memories and reflect on what it all means. The church I currently attend has a Wednesday Eucharist service. I have arranged childcare so that I can go tomorrow because that is the best way I know to feel connected to the saints.

I also decided to write this blog. I don't blog as much as I thought I would when I started it. Honestly she was the person who suggested I blog and encouraged me. I just don't feel like opening my heart and sharing knowing that she won't be the first person to “like” it or share it or comment on it. Her model of open sharing, brutal … or maybe “brutiful” honesty, witnessing and comforting inspired me to write. So because it's still one way in which I feel connected to her, I decided to blog today. And share some brutiful honesty. Inspired by her I will be vulnerable and real and overshare.

On All Saint's Sunday I had her name put in the bulletin in the list of loved ones lost. I grabbed a white carnation and prayed her name onto it. When I went up for Communion I placed it in the basket along with the others as you were supposed to do. Then, the whole rest of the service I kept looking back at it. I wanted it back. I did not want to leave it there. I found myself thinking “I can just go get it after the service, no one will notice.” I knew how strange that was and that it probably pointed to something in my grieving process but whatever, I wanted it back. I did not want to let go of that white carnation. That tangible thing that represented my intangible feelings and thoughts and memories. Reason and appearance won me over though and I left it … reluctantly.

Another confession: I was devastated when her Facebook page was gone. All of her comments, likes, messages gone. All of her pictures gone. Our friendship wasn't one where we went out a lot and took pictures. It was more of a Bible study and deep conversation relationship. I loved scrolling through her Facebook photos and feeling like she was still here. But that's the thing … she isn't still here. After some days I realized that not having her Facebook presence was actually an important part of my letting go. Every day I quickly clicked on my “on this day” Facebook feed to find her comments and likes, and in a way it allowed me to hold on to her. But I needed to let go. It was time.

That happened right before I packed up and moved across the country. And here is the truth, I feel just as close to her memory here as I did in Ohio. I was afraid that physical distance might fade the memories but it did not. In the vast blue skies, the endless views and mountainous scenery I feel her presence just as I did at sea level. Thank God.

More honesty: I was nervous to go to my annual check up because I knew the doctor would do a breast exam. I remember standing in my dining room when Laura called to tell me she felt a lump. “You are young, you are healthy, it could be nothing” I said. It wasn't. In my dark moments I selfishly make the experience about my own fears and insecurities. But that is not how I want to feel connected to her. That does not honor her memory. She always reminded me not to worry. So many of her blog posts were about the importance of faith and letting go of worry. I can't stay in that dark place. I think the fear and doubt is natural, but you can't stay there. She very much wanted good to come from her pain, her experiences and her death. That is part of why she shared it so openly. So I will push away the dark moments and let the light of her faith and courage shine on them.

A couple months ago I pulled out my Book of Worship to work on a wedding and a piece of paper fell out of it. It was the funeral planning form I filled out with Laura. I remember that evening. Sitting on the couch across from her and alternating between laughter and tears as we talked. I turned over the paper and saw on the back some notes. I asked her “what do you want people to know?” The first thing she said was “tell my kids about me.” So now you know.

In an effort to conclude this disjointed post- a word of hope. One year ago I sat there in the dark on the floor next to my bed. I just couldn't go in. Too many thoughts swirling, too much to take in … sleep seemed impossible. But it did come. I slept and the sun came up and June 30 arrived. A new day. Maybe that's the blessing of an anniversary like this. June 29 will not last forever. Grief is like a boat on a stormy sea. It will settle and at some point land comes into view. So just hold on. Hold on to the memories, the love, the wisdom and the connection. Laura's family and closest friends have been an amazing model of what it looks like to grieve deeply but with hope and gratitude for the time shared. So on this first anniversary I will do my best to honor her and cherish the memories. I will say an extra prayer for the three monsters, the bearded man and beautiful. I will make sure I eat some junk food, cuddle my monsters, be honest with myself and others and love abundantly. Because that's the best way I can think to honor my dear friend.

Sermon from Chris and Kathleen's Wedding

Isaiah 43:1-7

Colossians 3:12-17

Sometimes we live our lives as though we are on a freeway, racing to the next destination. Either because we are frantic or stressed or afraid, we look forward and go as fast as we can to the next place. If anything gets in our way or obstructs our view we look at it with frustration and anger or we quickly become disheartened. But, sometimes we are able to take on a different view of life, not as a highway meant to be conquered but perhaps more like a river. A river with twists and turns, curves and valleys that leave us unable to see what is ahead, but maybe not so concerned about that as we enjoy the beauty of the world around us, the gentle movement of the water beneath us, a feeling of peace and tranquility, realizing we are not in control. When rough waters or rocks come we gently move past them, sometimes painfully, but with a kind of peace about us, knowing that we will keep moving and that it will be ok, floating through the waters with faith, moving through our life's journey with hope.

The reading from Isaiah is about a journey. It is God's word for a people who have been through tough times. It is about God's promise to restore God's people, to bring back the dispersed nation of Israel from the ends of the earth, to shelter and care for God's people who had seen much suffering, many twists and rough waters along the way. God is offering them words of hope, words of comfort. The prophet Isaiah writes, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.” It is an invitation to walk the journey with hope, assurance and peace, knowing that God is with them.

This is the scripture that Kathleen and Chris chose when I asked them to select a Bible passage that reflects both their relationship with God and each other. I can see why it is fitting. As Chris and Kathleen shared with me their own stories and the story of how they came together I immediately thought of a journey. They have each been to many places both geographically and emotionally. They have learned what it means to say goodbye and keep going through the rough waters. They understand that the world is a big place with exciting new adventures but home, family, love and faith are their top priority. The way forward has not always been clear for them, living in different parts of the country and not knowing when they would get to share a zip code, but even though they couldn't see the final destination, they trusted the journey, enjoyed the twists and turns and looked forward to traveling it together. A journey that started at a sports bar in Florida and will now take them to an apartment in Portland with Packer by their side.

And today their journey has brought them here. Somehow from Chile, Thailand, Argentina, Peru, Florida and Portland the two of them are here in Jackson, with their friends and family, standing before God, declaring their love for one another. And so we celebrate, we celebrate all of the journey that has led them to this place and all that lies ahead. We celebrate the joy and love that they share together. Kathleen said that she loves Chris's generosity and willingness to always help others, she loves how much he values and prioritizes his family, that he always makes her feel better about herself and more secure in her decisions. She loves his sense of humor and how much he makes her laugh, and of course she loves that he is tall and handsome.

Chris loves Kathleen's smile and that she laughs at his jokes, even if they are really lame (his words). He loves spending time with her and says that even if they do nothing they still have an amazing time just talking and hanging out. He loves that she calls him Chris Turner. He loves holding her in his arms and says that “no matter how others see me, Kathleen makes me feel special.”

Today they have invited all of us to be part of their journey, to witness their love, pray for them and encourage them as they go through the mountains and valleys. And they have asked God to be part of their journey, to bless them, guide them, lead them and surround them in peace.

The other reading that Chris and Kathleen have chosen for today is from Colossians. In that reading we are called to clothe ourselves “with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.” To forgive one another and to let the peace of Christ live in our hearts. And to be thankful, to give thanks to God.

In their words, in their devotion to one another I can see that Chris and Kathleen are thankful for each other, they are thankful that their journeys merged and that their future will be hand in hand. Chris and Kathleen, this passage from Colossians reminds you to stay in gratitude. Live life with thankful hearts whatever bumps may come. As the river of life twists and turns take time to enjoy the view, to celebrate the journey behind you and embrace what is to come. To remember that God is the source of love and give thanks and praise to God as you live in that love.

Right now your journey has brought you here, and in just a moment you will stand here, hand in hand and make your vows. Know that you are not alone on this journey. You are surrounded by your friends and family who love and support you -who will be here for you in your life as a husband and wife. And you are surrounded by the presence of those who have left this earth but are very much here in your love and joy, especially Kathleen's dad, who has made her who she is today.

And you are surrounded by the Holy Spirit, in you, with you, around you, behind you and before you, carrying you forward, around every twist and turn until you reach your final destination in the overflowing and everlasting love and peace of God.

Keeping It Real

Sermon from Grace and St. Stephen's 5/8/16 Acts 16:16-34

Many of you know me as Father Jeremiah's wife and others may be wondering what that woman who sits in the back and is always trying to keep her kids quiet in church is doing in the pulpit. It is not easy making a good first impression when you have two little ones. Under normal circumstances one would like to appear: collected, calm, rational, energetic, able to complete a thought without suddenly leaving to make sure a two year old has not escaped. But kids have a way of keeping you real, showing your true colors for all to see and making you honest. So instead of seeing me devoutly praying in the pews or hitting every note of the hymns, many of you have seen me giving out bags of goldfish crackers, bending over grabbing toys from under the pew and doing a lot of shushing. One Sunday I may have even said “if you two can not behave and be quiet right now then you won't have Ipad time today or EVER!” I know, I know, idle threats and perhaps even threats in general are usually frowned upon by parenting books. But thanks to the two mini people I always have with me you have also seen me giggling, making silly faces, tickling and enjoying hugs and kisses. Good impressions out the window, I am a mom of little ones and those little ones don't let me pretend to have my act together.

Kids have a way of keeping us real. They bring out our short fuses, our insecurities about what others think, our silly faces, ill-timed giggles and even, for my husband, messy high fives at the end of the service while wearing beautiful vestments. They keep us real … and they ask for the same in return. When they have these big emotions that they don't know how to control, when their urges are taking over their little bodies, when they don't understand or are afraid or too slow or too loud in church they ask us to keep them real. Remember who they are, remember their big heart, their innocence, their generously poured out love, their need. Remember when they were that tiny body holding tightly to your warmth in a brand new world. They ask us to still keep our arms open for them even when they push away, to keep looking at them with love even when they scream back. And of course it isn't just when they are little. We have all been teenagers and probably pushed away, embarrassed or insulted our parents. We have all been teenagers or young adults or maybe even full grown adults trying to find ourselves, be our own person, push away and all the while hoping our parents or someone can still see us for the child that we are- our innocence, fears, love, hurts and hearts.

As I read the passage from Acts, I heard this same sort of realness, this craving for love, acceptance and a desire to be seen. It starts with a slave girl. A girl with a gift that was not actually much of a gift to her, but rather a reason for her to be exploited. Like a figure in a circus she was put on display for the profit of her owners. In Paul and Silas she sees something real. She knows who they really are and she is letting it be known, repeatedly and inconveniently. And then she is set free by Paul. No longer profitable, finally seen not as a way of making money but rather as a real person.

Because of this, because they have cost the girl's owners money, Paul and Silas are stripped and beaten and thrown in jail. And that's when they have their next person- to- person encounter. As they are praying and singing hymns in their jail cell, the earth shakes and their chains are loosened. Back then, if a prisoner escapes or is freed, the jailer is held responsible and may be killed. So the jailer prepares to kill himself until Paul stops him. It's crazy, after being stripped and beaten, they are sitting in their cell, chains and shackles around them, their open wounds uncleaned and suddenly they have a chance to get out. They could see it as a message from God saying, “go, run, teach more people about Jesus.” After all, they could do a lot more work for the Kingdom of God with their heads attached. But they stay. They consider the jailer, not as the man who locked them up to rot in a cell but as a person, a soul, a child of God. They share with him the Good News of Jesus Christ. He washes their wounds, he feeds them, he and his family are baptized. A missed opportunity for escape turned into a celebration, a dinner among friends.

And then after that, in the part of the story not read today, the next morning word is sent to the jailer that Paul and Silas can go free. But they won't go. They want to see the police face to face, they want to be seen as people, they declare that they are Roman citizens and the police come and apologize. What a wacky turn of events: exploitation and beating end with baptism and apologies. A story of anger and violence turned into a story of real people.

It is so hard to imagine not taking that break for freedom. Not running out of that jail and instead staying, seeing the jailer as a real person and reaching his heart. But Paul and Silas were followers of a real, in the flesh God who invites us to take his body and blood. God, not high above or far away, but intimately with us, seeing us, loving us, knowing us.

It makes me think of that story on the news about the Pope and the Syrian refugees. For many of us the refugee crisis is hard to wrap our minds around. Five million refugees trying to find a safe place in the world. We see glimpses of their faces but know them only as “they” “them” “those people” or a problem with no solution. A people with no place to go and countries trying to figure out how to be hospitable and sustainable at the same time. It is a massive, world-wide crisis with no end in sight. But when Pope Francis visited a refugee camp in Turkey, he took the time to see this massive crisis as actual faces, with real stories and real hopes. At the refugee camp he got to know twelve refugees and brought them back home with him to Rome. And then suddenly we get to learn more about these people. We hear their stories, learn of their journey and see their tired two year old asleep on his dad's shoulders. Of course 12 people among 5 million are just a drop in the bucket, but those drops in the bucket are real people with real stories and as they asked the Pope to pray for them it was a witness to the world of what it means to follow an incarnate God who sees and loves people. A story of war, fear and survival turned into a time of prayer, acceptance and love. A story of violence turned into a story of real people.

Perhaps in a world full of hurting people, in a political season or even with our own family, this is the best way to keep the greatest commandment to love God with all our heart and soul and love our neighbors as ourselves- Seeing others as real people, remembering that everyone has a story, everyone has hurts, fears and love. Perhaps when we are at our lowest, feeling hopeless, afraid, lost or alone, what we need to do is see another for who they really are, look them in the eye and experience the presence of our incarnate God in that human connection.

Mother's Day is a wonderful day for some, an opportunity to give thanks and love to someone who has been able to see us through our darkest times, love us when we are unlovable, and keep their arms open for us when we push away. But for others it is a difficult day. Not every mother is able to give that kind of love to her child. Sometimes illness or survival or learned behaviors can stand in the way of a loving relationship. And that is a hard thing to deal with. We want to know, at any age, that at the end of our temper tantrum there will be a calm and loving voice to welcome us back to reality. We want to know that when we are awful or overcome with emotions or lost or afraid there is always a place to call home.

But even if our mothers aren't able to be there in this way for us, we know that our God is real with us, body and blood. Our God sees us for who we are, knows our story, sees our wounds, our hurts, our hearts and still sees us as children.

When we first moved here I felt a bit like a National Geographic reporter on assignment. I had never been to Colorado before the interview. When we told people we were moving here they would ask “do you have family there?” I replied “we don't even know one single person in the entire state.” I have lived in Ohio and New Jersey so mountains, bears and altitude all sounded very strange and foreign. My friends and family from Ohio anxiously asked questions about what it was like out here. I remember saying things like “they are incredibly friendly and wear vests a lot.”

Now it has been three months and these strange creatures called “Coloradoans” have become real and beloved people to us. I have already been fortunate enough to make wonderful friends, Jeremiah got to spend weeks in rector's forum sharing our stories and hearing yours, and you have watched my face redden as my children greedily grab cookies at coffee hour, you may have even seen our whole family walking backwards down the hallway because the giggles it brings are irresistible. Things have gotten real.

And as we grow together over the years I am sure there will be many more giggles and red faces. It is wonderful to know that all of us, every single person here, can be who we are because we are children of God. Even when others may see us as a means to an end, a profitable venture, a criminal to let rot, an occupation to hold

accountable or just a number in a crisis, God sees us, really sees us, calls us child and embraces us with the love of an elated mother holding her newborn baby.

Worried Minds Think Alike

I've always known that my four year old has some of my traits, but our recent move across the country really put it in plain view.  Before the move we would talk about it as I tucked him in.  Tears would roll down his cheek as he said "I'm not going to make any friends there."  I would tell him that he is wonderful and of course he will make friends.  I would tell him that we could make friends together, but he insisted "I will never make friends!"  I would be thinking how I wished he would be more rational about it and see how silly it is to worry.  Then I would hear those same words coming from my own mouth.  My friend was planning a trip  to come see us and asked me if a certain weekend would work.  I said, "Of course it will work.  I have literally nothing on my calendar after the move.  I will just be sitting around lonely and friendless."  Then she played the part of the rational reassuring one telling me that of course I would make friends and look at all the friends I made in Toledo.  I heard her but I still had my doubts.  And now here we are; loving our new home and already making wonderful lifelong friends.

When it was time to drive away from our home of seven years I said "woo-hoo road trip!"  and turned around to see my four year old's chin quivering as he wiped a tear from his eye and said, "Mommy, I'm sad."  I told him I was sad too and we held hands and let tears fall as we drove out of our beloved city.  It was hard, but by Indiana we had joined the other two in singing along to the music.

Yesterday was his first day at his new preschool on his own.  Before school was an epic meltdown.  He was nervous and did not want to go.  I reassured him, told him things he could do there, told him how much he liked it when we went together, and stayed firm that he was going.  But inside I felt awful because I totally got it.  I was nervous too.  We have been spending so much time together, I was sad to be away from him all morning.  Besides that, I had been there.  I freaked when I had to go to preschool ... and first grade ... and youth club at church.  I remembered how that felt.  But I also know the rewards of doing things that are difficult.  I don't know how I learned it but somewhere along the way I decided that I would force myself to do things that were hard.  I remember clearly that moment as a 14 year old when I walked to the front of the room at my first speech tournament.  All I could think was "why am I doing this?"  After four years of speech team, two years of coaching and ten years of preaching I sure am glad I did it anyway.  I hope my son learns that same thing.  In the meantime I guess I have to keep compassionately pushing him but also keep knowing when not to push.  

I struggle with that for myself.   I love my current situation.  I love being home with the boys, I love being involved at my husband's church and my son's school.  I love volunteering and exploring.  But I also wonder if I should be pushing myself more.  Every time I did supply work (when you fill in for a pastor on a Sunday morning) I was like that 14 year old speech competitor.  As I packed the kids up, took them to a sitter, programmed the church address in my phone and drove to a place where I did not know anyone and was completely unfamiliar with their usual worship routines, I thought "why am I doing this?"  But every single time I was glad I did it.  I felt renewed spiritually, emotionally, physically and mentally.  I connected with people and kept working on the things I love like preaching and leading worship.  

 So what now?  I don't know.  Moving here was right for my husband's career and a great place for all of us to live, but what do I do next?  I have no idea.  And this is coming from someone who decided her career at age 13.  I have always mapped out my life and followed it completely.  Now I have no plan.  Maybe that's ok?  Maybe after years of pushing past the worry I am ready to live in a way that is less planned and more spontaneous? ... sounds too uncertain.  A wise friend told me that God's calling is less of a direct road map and more like the next stone across a foggy lake.  Sounds great, but hard for a person who over prepares and thinks everything out to the point of worry and reluctance.  Maybe I just keep hopping and surround myself with people who will push me to the next rock ... and keep holding my son's hand as we jump together. 

 

A Beautiful New Reality (Article for St Andrew's Episcopal Newsletter December 2015)

 Every year many of us Christians struggle to find a way to be in a state of “not yet” while the world seems to be in a state of “now.” During a time of celebrations, feasts, gifts and extravagance, Advent calls us to be patient, still and reflective. Many of us cling to the image of Mary during this time of waiting. She had no choice but to wait. Her wait was physical, emotional and visible as her belly expanded with the days. Baby kicks and stretch marks were the words of prophecy and promise for her. Pregnancy is a waiting game. On the good days you embrace and enjoy the moment you are in- cherishing every feeling and the anticipation. On harder days you wince as you look at a calendar, wondering “how many more days of discomfort, worry, stretching and back pain?” The wait is physical, emotional and visible to everyone (and they like to comment on it). Waiting, preparing, making more and more room for new life. The interesting thing about counting down the days of pregnancy is that you are actually anxiously awaiting something incredibly difficult and painful. When I went to the hospital having contractions with my second son Isaiah, I was hoping that the nurse would tell me it was indeed time. Even though he was a bit early, I felt ready. I did not want to be pregnant anymore and I wanted to meet my little man. I insisted on no drugs of any kind and no epidural. I calmly watched the clock tick through the night and the snow fall outside the hospital window. I helped Jeremiah figure out who would lead worship since it was a Sunday morning. I took deep breaths and repeated things like “faith over fear, mind over matter.” And then it got real. The nurse came in and looked shocked, she remarked on my change in demeanor. My calm, cool and collected face was replaced with discomfort, fear and dread. I remembered what it was like as the contractions got closer and closer together. I forgot about my mantras as my body contorted. The peace and calm was pushed out by a writhing pain that took over my entire body. Doubt replaced confidence. And then just when I announced to the doctor that she would need to do a c-section because I could not do it any longer, just when I had completely given up … new life. And within minutes I was blissfully holding a tiny baby with a perfect round face and asking my husband to please get me another Rice Krispie treat.

I found myself thinking about that memory in an unlikely place. I was sitting there in a dimly lit hospice room holding the hand of my dear friend. I was whispering encouragement in her ear and watching her husband encourage her by her bedside. There were so many physical reminders of childbirth. She was laying on her back as the painful cancer took over her body. Up to this point, during the months since she found out the cancer was back and it was terminal, she had prepared. She prepared her young children, her friends and family. She wrote letters, bought gifts, said what needed to be said. And I watched as the time came. It was hard. And then just when we started to settle in for the night, just after the hospice nurse left talking about increasing dosages … her last breath. I went home in a daze. I collected my kids from our neighbor and put them to bed very late. Jeremiah was at General Convention in Utah. I was worn out, hanging on the edge, about to fall into the depths of despair and just when I thought I could not do it, that I could not handle it, that the darkness would overcome … I laid down next to my then three year old and he asked me where I had been. I told him my friend died, he smiled and said “that’s good mommy because now she is with Jesus.”

Yes, new life. We wait with hope, we prepare, we make room, we count down, we try to say “not yet” to everything around us that says “now.” We look for hope and peace in a chaotic world that is full of fear and pain. Just when we think we can’t wait anymore, when this world needs a savior, needs hope … new life. A new life that changes everything, a new life that challenges us, that challenges the world we live in, that challenges our wish lists and plans and agendas and desires and relationships. It can be painful … but it is new life. A beautiful new reality ushered in with a tiny body. And just like my baby boys, just like resurrection … it is worth waiting for.

Love Letter to Toledo

http://loveletterstotoledo.com/jennifer-williamson/

Sermon from St Andrew’s 1/10/16

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22
Seven years ago I was a name to many of you.  A name as part of a paragraph, a paragraph as part of an introduction that probably went something like this, “The Vestry and the Search Committee are happy  to announce that Jeremiah Williamson will be our new rector beginning in April.  He comes with his wife, Jennifer who is a United Methodist pastor.”  For many you I stayed a name for a while since I was busy being the pastor of Woodville United Methodist until 2013 when I became a stay at home mom and started coming here.  But now … well I’d like to think I’m more than a name, or maybe my name means something more, more fully a name.  Now that we have celebrated the birth of children together, we have mourned together, laughed together and prayed together week after week.  Now we are more.  But at first we were names to each other.

Names carry so much weight.  When we named our children we took it very seriously.  We read and researched and reflected.  In the end we cheated, we went with names that had already become great.  We took two amazing stories, Oscar Romero and the prophet Isaiah and attached them to our children in the hopes of bringing them roots and inspiration.  Names are a big deal, the first thing we learn to write, the first question we are asked, the word we sometimes dread and sometimes long to hear from others.
In the Gospel reading today Jesus is identified.  Sure, we already knew what  he would be called, but it’s here in this scene on the beach that Jesus is identified: God’s son, the Beloved.  This is who Jesus is, without this, before this he may have been a name as part of an introduction, Jesus of Nazareth, another name in the pages of history.  But now he is God’s Son, the Beloved.  This is who he is, identified by the voice of God after he emerges from the waters of baptism.  Now it can begin, now his work of saving and preaching and restoring can begin.

But more than just Jesus is identified in this passage.  This simple story of a group of people by the river is an amazing revelation of who God is.  It is a complete understanding of the Trinity in one moment, one sentence, one action.  It’s not very often that we get a mention of all three members of the Trinity in the same instance.  But here we do.  Jesus is praying, the Holy Spirit comes down like a dove and God speaks.  All three, right there.  What a sight.

This depiction might resonate perfectly with your understanding of the Trinity.  Jesus down here on the ground, God way up there with a booming voice bestowing things upon the earth and the Holy Spirit coming down.  Like a divine hierarchy.  But let’s open up the picture for a minute, see if maybe there is something more going on here.

Every now and then one is fortunate enough to read a book that speaks directly to one’s soul and revolutionizes one’s worldview.  For me, that happened my first year of seminary when I had to read a book called “She Who Is” by a Roman Catholic nun named Elizabeth Johnson.  The way she talked about the power of symbols for God, God’s relationship to humanity and the Trinity blew my mind, even in and maybe for it’s simplicity.  She suggests that the Trinity is more than a hierarchy or God looking down and giving gifts to Jesus and the Holy Spirit running around doing the work.  Instead she sees the Trinity as active, alive, moving, circular.  Less about the parts and more about the connections, the relationships.  God the Creator giving God’s self to Jesus the Son, loving and moving in him, all three bound together by love, equality and divinity.  Elizabeth Johnson explains what is sometimes referred to as a “social trinity” as she says:
“At its most basic the symbol of the Trinity evokes a livingness in God, a dynamic coming and going with the world that points to an inner divine circling around an unimaginable relation … Not an isolated, static ruling monarch, but a relational, dynamic, tripersonal mystery of love.”  “The threes keep circling round.  Whatever the categories used, there is reflected a livingness in God; a beyond, a within, and a within to the world and its history; a sense of God as from whom, by whom, and in whom all things exist, thrive, struggle toward freedom, and are gathered in.  To use one more model, this time from the eleventh-century theologian Hildegard of Bingen, there is a brightness, a flashing forth, and a fire, and these three are one, connecting all creation together in compassion.  All these metaphors express the Trinitarian structure of Christian belief in God.”

What I believe Elizabeth is saying is that the Trinity is about relationship, and we are invited to be part of that relationship.  God as Father, Son and Holy Ghost, all parts engaged in self-giving.  God says “this is my Son, the Beloved.” It is about the relationship.  The Holy Spirit comes down and then Jesus goes about his work in the love and embrace of the Creator and Sustainer.  They are more than motionless figures, names in a book, images to be worshiped.  They are not three isolated separate Gods, but rather a relationship.
And so here we are gathering together, experiencing God through relationship.  We come face to face, we join our voices in prayer because we are more than just names, we are relationship.  We are God’s beloved, saved by Christ, experiencing the presence of the Holy Spirit and holding one another’s hands.

We are invited to be part of this dynamic relationship between God and creation.  God gives God’s self to us in love, mercy and compassion and we are called to give ourselves to God and one another, keeping the relationship active.

When we baptize we enter into this act of self-giving.  The Holy Spirit is alive and moving in the water, God is calling the baptized, and then the newest Christian is sealed with the sign of the cross.  In baptism we do not use last names because we are part of this family, this relationship where those distinctions do not matter because we are called beloved.

But here’s the down side of relationships.  They can hurt.  I take that back.  They will hurt.  We don’t get to stay in this moment forever.  We have to say good-bye at some point.  Whether it’s relocation or death or rejection or any kind of change … and it hurts.   When we open our hearts and give of ourselves to another, through shared faith or shared pain or shared experience or compassion or love or friendship, we open ourselves to immeasurable joy and deep pain.  Sometimes isolation is tempting, it  might seem less risky, more reasonable.  But God calls us to love.  Love God and love neighbor.  Give of yourself.  This is our calling.  This is what we are baptized into, a relationship with a God who gives.  So we keep at it, cherishing the rewards and weathering the losses.   We keep our place in the divine dance, in our relationship with a living and moving God.

Seven years ago I packed up our stuff and headed west from Youngstown to Toledo.  I cried the whole way as I thought of all the wonderful people I loved and that loved me that I was leaving.  You were names to me and I was a name to you.  And then we knelt and took bread and wine together.   We said goodbye to beloved members and friends, we ate donuts and chili, we sang Bible School songs, taught Sunday School, did Bible study together.  We sang and worshiped, we cried and prayed.  We grew, we welcomed more people into this place.  And now our names mean so much more to each other.

In a few weeks I will once again pack up our stuff (a lot more stuff this time and twice as many people) and head west, very west from Toledo to Colorado Springs.  I will cry as I think of all of the wonderful people I love and have loved me.  I will cry when I think of your names and what they mean … the relationships.  And then I will go to a place where I am right now just a name, a name as part of an introduction that goes something like, “The Vestry and the Search Committee are happy  to announce that Jeremiah Williamson will be our new rector beginning in February.  He comes with his wife, Jennifer who is a United Methodist pastor and their two children.”  And you will become a name and accept names as you look for your next rector.
And then something will happen.  God alive and active, the names will become more.  Relationships will blossom, holy moments emerge, bonds form and the names will mean so much more.  This is life.  A circle, a dance, always moving.  This is how we be the people God is calling us to be, engaging in loving relationship, opening our hearts and experiencing Christ in one another.

I will never forget watching my children get baptized here in this place.  Their wet baby heads and wide eyes as they watched the candle.  I’ll never forget the loving faces that greeted them as they were brought down the aisle with the other newly baptized.  I’ll never forget because the Holy Spirit was in this place, making it more than a simple group of people in a building, making it holy.  Today Oliver will have this experience.  His wet head and wide eyes will be welcomed with love and joy by people who will be so much more than names to him.  The Holy Spirit is moving in this place today.  Father, Son and Holy Ghost, active, alive, giving, receiving, loving.  Right here.  And we are a part of it.  Each of us with our own identities, stories and names, each of us together, called Beloved.