Enough

Preached at Ellicott and Simla UMCs

Why would he do that? I have many questions for the landowner in the reading from Matthew. First of all: why didn't he just hire all the workers he needed when he went out the first time? Why would he hire workers so late in the day? Why would he pay the workers who were only there for a short period of time a full day's wages? Why would he have the manager pay the workers he hired at the end of the day first? He knew all the other workers would be standing there waiting and so they would see that they got paid the same? And why not save some money and pay those who worked a partial day a partial wage? There does not seem to be much logic to this scenario.

The sensible version of this story might go something like: the landowner went out in the morning, hired his workers for the agreed upon wage of a denarius which is enough to provide a family with food for one day. Later the landowner realized he needed more workers and since these workers had not been out in the hot sun all day he agreed to pay them for the number of hours they did work. No one felt wronged. That seems fair.

But of course as we all know … life is not always fair. As a mother of a three and six year old I often hear the words “that's not fair!” Sometimes it's true. Sometimes things are not fair. At snack time some kids get brownies and candy and others get carrot sticks and grapes. As we grow older we realize that some people get ahead not because of how hard they work or how long they practice but just because of who they are, their name, their status or a lucky break. Some people work grueling, back breaking jobs and make less than others who sit in air-conditioned offices and do little. Good guys don't always finish first. Life is not always fair.

But that isn't exactly what is happening in the story we read today. While you may argue that the actions of the landowner are not even or logical, they are just. The workers who were hired earliest in the day agreed to their wages and they were paid what they agreed to. He paid them a good day's wage and he paid them when the work was complete. All of the workers were paid enough and on time. Maybe they didn't think it was fair, but it was just.

What made the actions of the landowner baffling or illogical was mercy. This parable begins by saying “the kingdom of heaven is like …” and two things we can learn from it are justice and mercy. Even those who came late in the day were given a wage to live on. Those who were not called first, the ones that get there late in the game, the ones who think they will get nothing, are given the same reward. It may not follow logic but it is merciful.

The kingdom of heaven is guided by justice and mercy. This is good news. No one is above anyone else simply because of who they are or where they come from. No one is pushed out for failings, shortcomings and sins. This is hope for all of us who have shortcomings, failings and sins. This is good news for all of us who have been angered by injustice, who have suffered or watched others suffer at the hands of evil and injustice. This is a big sigh of relief for those of us who do not always get it right the first time and need forgiveness and mercy. So why then does it not always feel like good news?

In the story the workers found an employer who will pay them fairly, stick to what they agree to and provide a living for many people and yet they are upset. I think that perhaps the problem is not with the landowner or the manager, but with themselves. It's their own issue. Just like when God chooses to show mercy to others and it defies our sense of logic or what is fair it is not a problem with God's action but rather something within us. Our own inability to accept the abundance of God's grace and the worth of all children of God.

The other day I took my sons to play mini-golf and there was a school bus there. We were behind another family and all around us were groups of very young children from a daycare with caregivers spread out monitoring them. Some of the kids went back and redid holes, some lingered and played with the statues of animals for a while. All the kids got water bottles and snacks and happily played. As they were leaving I heard the family in front of us complaining to the front desk about the kids from the daycare. She didn't understand why they needed water bottles and snacks just to play golf or why they got to redo holes. She was mad that some of the children were running around. As far as I saw the children from the daycare did not disrupt her playing in any way but she was mad at what she felt was unfair.

Sometimes it's mini-golf, sometimes it's a new register opening up when we are paying after we stood in a long line, a bigger scoop of ice cream for another at the same price we paid, sometimes it's seeing another person get a discounted education that we paid full price for or love and forgiveness given to someone who wasn't around for the hard stuff. Sometimes mercy feels unfair.

Right now my three year old is trying to figure this out in his own way. He is struggling with the fact that I also love his brother as much as I love him. Whenever my oldest gets hurt my youngest immediately starts crying and runs to me because he knows I am about to give attention to his brother. The other day I told my oldest that he was “just the sweetest” and then I heard a sad small voice down the hallway say “mommy, why didn't you say I am the sweetest?” And when my oldest was at school my three year old said “Mommy, you love me more than Oscar … right?” I try to explain to him that when I give attention and care to Oscar it does not take away from my love for him. I try to explain that my heart is equally full for both of them. I try to explain that I am a mommy to both of them and will always be. But right now he loves me with his whole heart and the fact that I love someone else as much can make it feel like it isn't reciprocated.

For the earliest audiences of this parable in Matthew, there was a different kind of issue of unfairness happening. There were Jewish Christians, those who were the first to hear the Good News of Christ and then there were Gentile Christians, those who came later to the faith through missionaries and preaching. There were those who had been studying the law and the faith for their entire lives and then there were these new people who did not understand the history and the intricacies. They show up with their strange ways claiming the message of Christ for themselves and believing to have an equal share in God's love and in the kingdom of heaven. It was a problem … not for God … not for the kingdom of heaven, but for those who felt it was not fair.

It touches on so many of our worst parts: jealousy, envy, greed, feeling sorry for ourselves... I for one am guilty of all of these things at one time or another. Who among us has not at some point in our lives begrudged another's good fortune because of our jealousy? There's nothing like forcing a smile as you look through someone's amazing Caribbean all-inclusive vacation photos after you have spent the last three nights cleaning up vomit and doing laundry.

But maybe there is something even deeper happening when we cringe at the happiness of another. Maybe when we see someone who has done really vile things forgiven or a lazy person win there is another reason we don't feel like forcing a smile. It isn't because of what God has done. It is not that we are mad at some outside force like fate or good luck, but maybe it's our own thing. It's within us.

Perhaps those workers who were hired first thing and toiled in the sun all day, perhaps they were upset because they felt that the landowner's action meant they had not done a good enough job or they weren't as valued. Maybe we have such a hard time accepting the wideness and richness of God's mercy and love for others because we are having a hard time accepting it for ourselves.

We are used to assessing our value in life by comparing ourselves to others. If we do better than someone else we feel good. If we feel badly about ourselves we just look to someone doing worse and feel better. In school an A only has value because other people got Bs, Cs, Ds and Fs. A promotion only means something if it raises you above someone else. A win is only a win if it is a loss for another.

But maybe … in the kingdom of heaven we don't have to do that. We can just know that we are loved and valued and forgiven and cherished just as we are. There is enough grace for everyone. We do not have to stand on top of someone else for recognition. The joy and happiness of someone else can only add to our own rather than take away from it. Justice and mercy are poured out even on those of us who get jealous or greedy.

Some day my three year old will come to understand the depth of my love. He will love others and experience the joy that comes from an expanded heart with room for many. Some day he will know that when I hug his brother it is a way of reassuring him too that I am a loving and kind mother and that my love for him and his brother does not run out. But in the meantime as I try to teach this to him I am going to watch my words and actions to make sure I model this truth. That I don't bash others when I feel insecure, or get angry at the success of those seemingly “undeserving,” that I do not teach him by my words and actions that we are more worthy than others just because of who we are, that I force that smile and keep working on it even when I feel like pouting in envy. It's something we are all trying to learn and work on because unconditional love, unending grace and mercy poured out for all is not something we see often. It is not our experience of the ways of the world and our hearts have been hardened, our skin thickened and our expectations lowered. But God tells us that this is what the kingdom of heaven is like. This is our God- just, merciful, loving and full of grace. This is good news. There is enough to go around even to those showing up late, even to those who don't get it right, even to you, even to me. Amen.

Clarity

Tuesday I sent my older son to Kindergarten and then took my youngest son to his first day of Preschool.  He was so excited and barely said good bye as he happily ran into his classroom.  I went to the morning prayer service at the church I attend.  First I stopped in the bathroom to shed some tears.  It felt fair, I cried on my older son's first days of school.  Then I went in the giant sanctuary and realized I was quite early.  I walked through the dark echoing space with glimmers of light coming through the tall stained-glass windows as my only guide.  I made my way to the side chapel and flicked some light switches not knowing what they would do.  A light came on and I sat down in a pew.  The light was illuminating a beautiful image of Mary holding baby Jesus.  Mary looking large and beautiful, clearly the star.  In the image she is revered and in the chapel she is the main focus, prominent and honored as she holds her baby.

Having always been Protestant, this image of Mary was not one that was nearly as prominent or revered as others.  So I enjoyed the time of silence I had there to reflect on it.  I very much believe in the power of silent prayer.  The kind of prayer where you don't really know what you are praying for and the main objective is to continually keep your mind from wandering onto thoughts of the day.  I stared at Mary and worked to keep focus.

One year as my Lenten discipline I decided to dedicate myself to thirty minutes of silent prayer per day.  It was a challenge, but one that was well worth it.  At the time I was the pastor of a church and sometimes I would sit down for my thirty minutes with some seemingly impossible situation on my mind.  Something I just could not see the way forward through and lo and behold by the end of thirty minutes I would have clarity.  EVERY TIME.  Probably in the secular world this would be attributed to clearing the mind, deep breathing, etc.  All of those are probably part of it, but I also attribute it to taking the time to hear the Holy Spirit speak.  It was great and so when Lent was over I did it every day for years and years.  Just kidding.  I did what we all do with disciplines that are life-giving and eye-opening ... I promptly dropped it when my commitment was through.  I still pray but it's usually filled with petitions and usually not a full thirty minutes at once.

So I was sitting there in the chapel, staring at Mary, clearing my mind and I had a moment of clarity.  Her willingness to love even when she knew the suffering and loss that was to come is what makes her so honored and admired.  I thought about this in my own life.  I thought about how dropping your kids off at school, letting them gain independence, releasing them from the hug good-bye is a process of letting go.  It is a process of realizing that these people you love so much and hold so dearly will go out into the big scary world and somehow find their way.  We do it knowing that we can't control everything that will come their way.  There will be pain that can't be wiped away with a kiss.  There will be heartbreak that is not undone with a big hug and there will be suffering on both ends because that's what life brings.

If you are like me then you often have found yourself feeling as if you are not enough - not doing enough, not being enough.  As a stay at home mom I often struggle with this feeling as if all of my education and career preparation and potential was just for picking up toys and feeling guilty when my children eat too many sweets.  As a pastor I struggled with the pressures of growing a church, casting a vision, providing pastoral care to everyone, staying well-read, working for justice and all the other expectations of the job.  In hindsight I often forget that and see only the moments of success and joy.  Those amazing moments when lives are changed, the Holy Spirit is witnessed and the work feels meaningful.

After morning prayer I went to a women's book group and shared and listened to stories of beauty and struggle.  One person shared a story of how she came to the realization that her greatest sin had been not accepting that God loves her.  It was powerful.  We talked about people in our lives with "rough edges" who became saints in our journey.  We talked about our own inadequacies and struggles.  It got me thinking back to that image of Mary I spent the morning with.  We were all opening our hearts in a world of struggle and suffering.  We were all choosing to offer love even though it leads to hurt.  We were all Marys in our own way, cradling our cherished memories, our loves, our hopes while the cross stands in view.  Perhaps that is our potential ... our best selves.

Sermon from Grace and St. Stephen's Episcopal Church 9/3/17

Sermon for Grace and St Stephen's 9/4/17

Confession: I never tell people how long it has been since I pastored a church. I actually won't even calculate it in my mind. It's easy enough, my oldest was nearly 2 and now he is nearly 6, but before I do that simple math I change the subject. You see I don't care to admit how long I have been “out of it” because I feel like every passing year outside the weekly pulpit, every new layer of dust collected on my alb and the boxes in our basement labeled “Jen's office stuff” makes me feel one year less important. I'm not saying that's right or the way it should be but it's the way it is. I'm one year further from using my official title and it feels like I have less standing among clergy (although they do not act that way) like I'm less up on what's happening in the world of ecclesial and theological happenings. When clergy friends are relating stories of struggle and triumph my relatable stories are further and further away and I feel less and less “in the trenches.”

It's an ego thing. I remember (some years ago) when I was making the decision about leaving my job and I made this very vulnerable and raw confession to my husband … the kind of confession you only make to a very close friend or spouse … and now hundreds of you. I said “what if my ego can't take it?” I never thought of myself as particularly ego driven but what if not seeing my name on a pay check or church sign or my ideas written into monthly newsletter articles or having a list of people wanting appointments with me … what if it's an absence … an abyss too strongly felt and my ego crumbles?

In spite of my concerns and hesitations, the call I was feeling at that time for a change gave me the courage to jump into that abyss … that unknown world. And here I am (some years later). Now when the opening hymn begins you will not find me at the end of the procession wearing sacredly sewn vestments with a divinely inspired sermon in my hand but rather picking up crushed gold fish crackers, whispering warnings to my 3 and 5 year old, wiping remnants of their blueberry oatmeal off my clothes I did not have time to iron . . . and as the processional cross approaches tapping them to get their attention and remind them to bow for the cross. It is certainly a different view of things and a different type of trenches I find myself in.

The Gospel reading today got me thinking about this … this jump into the abyss. The giving up of my dream job, my title, my long held identity, my status, my role, my sense of self. “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

I remember studying this passage in depth when I was in seminary. These words are found not just in Matthew but in Mark and Luke as well. We studied it in the context of what the original audience was experiencing which was severe persecution. This added weight to the words. Particularly in Mark's Gospel it is understood with urgency and quite literally rather than metaphorically. If you want to follow me you will actually have to pick up your cross and lose your life. At the time I remember thinking that other interpretations seemed weak in comparison. As if over time this passage had become lightened, watered down, particularly the phrase “my cross to bear.” Like the person who always gets left to fold the folding chairs after the meeting describing it as “their cross to bear” or if you are the only one in the family with ugly toenails and you decide it is your “cross to bear.” It's become a saying that people use and I remember feeling at the time I studied this that all of that internalizing and attributing to metaphor and explaining away took away from the tremendous weight of this charge. People were actually risking their lives to follow Christ, actually bearing crosses. Any other way of looking at it seemed like a cop out.

But now as I look at this (some years later) and I read that line “let them deny themselves” and understand it in terms of this context, it does not feel light, it does not feel like a cop out, it does not feel weak. It feels like a challenge, a serious charge, a legitimate way of understanding the road to discipleship, what it means to follow Christ, what it means to experience the power of the risen Lord. Denying self for the sake of following a suffering servant. Setting aside the things we hold onto to make us feel important and instead serving Christ. This ego stuff is hard.

In so many ways and times and places life challenges our egos, our sense of importance, our way of attaching meaning to our lives. Years ago I was contemplating how I would feel important without a job and today I'm contemplating how I will feel important as my youngest starts preschool and my other son kindergarten. Saying goodbye to the baby days, the days when a being is completely 100 percent dependent on you brings relief but also a shift in role. A change in the way one sees themselves.

And while my opening story made the role of clergy sound very important and noble and rewarding, it hasn't been so long that I forget the other side. I have an actual story of something that happened to me during ministry that I think illustrates what I mean by “the other side.” One day I was sitting in my office doing some work at my desk and in walked a chihuahua. I was surprised to see an unattended dog as my office was not near an outside door and so I did as any polite person might and said “hello.” The dog stood there and barked at me pretty loudly for a while. Then it stopped … pooped on my carpeted office floor and walked out. You may think I was surprised or horrified or startled but instead my first thought was “that's about right.” It seemed on par with what I had been experiencing with office visits at the time.

Whatever our role or occupation or place in life we have all had those moments in life when we feel the weight, fear and insecurity that can come from denying ourselves. Faith …. following … requires some ego work. The ability to let go of self, to shed the walls, the stories we have told ourselves, the protections in place and believe that even without all of that we can be loved, we can be accepted we can have meaning … it's not easy.

This summer I decided to dive into some Paul Tillich and I read “The Courage to Be.” In this book he looks at the paradoxes of existence. He explores what it means to exist and “be” in a world where we are surrounded by what he would call “non-being.” In other words, how do we get through life with joy, hope and courage when we are surrounded by the reality that we are mortal, we are finite, we are temporary. Death, disease, despair is all around us. Meaninglessness, hopelessness can feel so big and so strong that it could swallow us up. How do we keep going, day after day with this weight? With fear? With doubts? With pain? He talks about the ability to accept that we are accepted even when we don't deserve it. He talks about the courage to ask the questions, explore the abyss, express the doubt -and how that can be essential to deepening one's faith. He talks about looking into the face of meaninglessness and finding that there is in fact something greater, something beyond it.

I understood it as a way of letting go of the desire to understand everything, to control everything, and instead embracing all that life has to offer- trusting and knowing that God is there … God is here. That God is greater than us, present with us and when we can move past the fear and embrace the mystery then we can have the courage to move forward, the courage to be, the courage to live with faith. We can accept that there is existence beyond just our self and we are a part of it, part of this greater being, this eternal changelessness.

I see it as an act of self-denial. “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.” We have to be willing to lose, to fall into the abyss, to shatter the walls we put up and the self importance we create to find life in Christ. To let go of our fear of meaninglessness in order to find meaning.

And I don't think that I nailed it when I walked away from my career. I think it is something we do again and again and again. And we come every Sunday and confess that we have failed and give our souls sustenance so we can keep at it. The world just keeps challenging our ego. Opposing views, criticisms, hurtful words, despair, suffering, sadness. They come at us and Jesus keeps calling us to deny ourselves and follow him. To humble ourselves and embrace something bigger.

I'm thinking back to something I said at the beginning of this sermon. When I was talking about the opening hymn and my place in (or actually not in) the procession. When I am trying to get myself into an internal place of worship and worried about the kids behaving. When I am trying to find my place in the bulletin and hold the page on the hymnal and remember what verse we are on while one kid is asking for his Pokemon book and the other needs his snack because I told him he had to wait until worship started and the opening procession is as long as he can wait. When I want to take in the beauty of the music and the meaning of the words I am singing and the majesty of this space but I just remembered that the water bottle I brought leaks.

And standing above the pews and the people and the vestments is the cross. And it comes to where we are … calling … beckoning. And I tap my kids on the shoulder and remind them to bow before the cross. Maybe that is the most important and best thing I can do. Recognize my frailty, my dependency and nod a “yes” to Christ's renewed request to follow him … and for these four years I have been in the pews with them and however many more are to come … teaching my children to do the same.  

Two Years

Today is the second anniversary of the day my friend died.  As the day is coming to a close I just feel sad.  I feel sad that she died; I feel sad that life changes so quickly; and I feel sad that the day is over.  I know that for many the memory of a sick loved one suffering is one that is forgotten with hard work and effort.  And the anniversary of the day someone died may be a dreaded day when sunset is slow and the sunrise can't come fast enough.  But right now I feel sad because I wanted to remember every moment, replay memories and feel connected to who she was ... to who I was two years ago. 

And I did think of her all day.  I had a lovely morning sitting by a pool full of happy children telling my new friend all about the amazing woman I was lucky to know two years ago.  But as I tucked in my son and read him "The Giving Tree" I found myself lamenting at the changes life brings.  I have changed in the last two years.  That is not a bad thing, in fact I would say I have grown and bettered myself in many ways, but sometimes I miss who I once was ...  I have been blessed with so many wonderful new friends in this wonderful new place, but sometimes I miss the friends that used to be near and now are far.  

But two years later and I am still unwrapping the gift Laura gave me through my relationship with her.  She taught me so much about being a friend.  She came into my life when I was a pastor and spending most of my time with people a good bit older than me and as I transitioned into the world of stay at home mom I suddenly found myself with people my age and opportunities for friendships.  Laura had so many friends and was so good at it.  She helped me navigate that time by modeling (and offering) friendship and critiquing my wardrobe when it was needed.  

We were moms of little children at the same time and I remember thinking how sad it was that I would one day become a mom of teenagers, then college students, then adults but she would forever be preserved in time as that young mom.  But I continue to learn from her parenting.  I remember the way she guided her children through her illness, I look at her Instagram pictures of snuggles and giggles and I see how amazing her kids are and I hope to be able to emulate her combination of honesty, respect, fun and intimacy in parenting.  

And I'm writing in my blog.  Something I only started because of her, her example and encouragement.  These days I don't do the self-revealing, pouring out my heart to people as often as I used to when I was in a pulpit every week so personal writing feels strange, but it is definitely one of the ways I feel connected to her.

As this day closes I remember how much she believed in me ... and how much I believed in her.  And that inspires, comforts, challenges, humbles and blesses me for another year.  

Seasons

      I slipped between the two sheets of my bed and they were cold. It was the first chill of Fall and for a moment I was transported back to a different place and a different time. For a minute I forgot about the long hallway outside my bedroom door and pictured the square shaped creaky hallway of our 1930s house. I forgot that mountains sat in darkness outside my window and pictured the big old trees and friendly homes on our old block. It was just a flash, but it was so clear; the smell, the sounds, the chilly Fall air outside our cozy brick home. Even after I was transported back to my current time and place I stayed in that moment in my mind. I thought of the great big piles of multi-colored leaves the kids jumped in; happy trick-or-treating between puddles; corn mazes and apple trees; putting the kids in over-sized t-shirts to paint pumpkins at the neighbor's house; the sound of a football game at the University down the street; first day of school nervousness as a mom; first night at home with a baby; crunchy leaves under stroller wheels; watching the big tree blow with the wind of a rainy day; sweatshirts and lazy Sunday afternoons watching the Browns in the living room.

     I can only sit with nostalgia for so long so I started thinking about more recent memories, closer, newer memories. I thought about the way the hot summer sun permeates your clothes here. Mornings at the playground checking that the slides were not too hot followed by cool evening walks after a fast-moving storm. I thought about red dirt in the kitchen from hikes left on our shoes. Vacation Bible School with new names and new ways of doing things. The stunning views that took our breath away on that first drive through the mountains. Endless giggles and rides at the local kids' amusement park. Breakfast and shopping while being a tourist in my own town with my mom. New friends, new story times, new play dates, new parks … so many new things. Grasshoppers and bunnies, deer and cacti. Endless blue skies over pointed peaks. I thought of that late night on the back porch, finding meaning in one another's stories with friends over wine and twinkle lights. Vacation evenings spent playing card games as a family as we realized we no longer have a baby in the family. Outdoor concerts under towering holy stones with welcoming faces. So much time pushing swings “higher!, higher!” I thought of kiddie pool fun and potty-training messes.

     Somewhere in the midst of warm thoughts the sheets became warmer and I drifted off to sleep. The next morning would bring a new season of memories that will one day keep me warm even as the air brings a chill.

The Fruited Plain

Last Sunday I preached at two small churches out on the plains. When I got the email asking if I was available I jumped at the opportunity. In Toledo I had plenty of Lutheran and United Methodist offers for supply work (when you fill in for a pastor on a Sunday). Since we moved here, I've only preached at my husband's church (which was wonderful). I told my husband, “I've never been so excited to drive an hour to preach to 20 people.”

It surprised me how excited I was, I guess you don't always realize how much you miss something until it is back. I went from preaching every Sunday to once per month to twice in six months. Honestly, I'm on the fence about whether or not supply work is for me. I get anxious about arrangements for the kids since their dad is also working. If it is not a United Methodist service I get nervous about keeping the liturgy straight. I hate the feeling of skipping something or saying the wrong thing. It also feels a little weird to leave the church with my robe folded over my arm, a check in my hand and no relationship with any of the people. But I love preaching, I love meeting new people, I love leading worship and I see this as a unique opportunity to experience and learn from the ways in which other churches operate. Every time I preach I feel renewed, a bit more like myself again and grateful to the pastor that invited me and the people who opened their ears and hearts to me.

So off I went. The kids were dressed, fed and given backpacks filled with more than they could possibly need for the morning. A wonderful babysitter would pick them up after the early service at their church and they would come home to full lunchboxes neatly arranged on the kitchen counter.

I was really looking forward to the drive and thankful that it was east and not west. East is flat, west is mountains and I'm still a little nervous driving the curvy mountain roads out here. I try not to look out the side window when we go on these roads with very little margin between pavement and huge rocky drop off. I am baffled as to why these mountainous roads lack guardrails, but comforted by the fact that since we moved here I have never heard of a car randomly plummeting off a mountain highway.

The flat terrain felt familiar. It reminded me a bit of my old daily commute to Woodville, except this place does open spaces like nowhere I have ever lived. As far as the eye can see is very far. The sun was bright and green surrounded me on all sides. The empty road was bordered by yellow and purple wild flowers. As I left the city there were hot air balloons and parachutes on the horizon to the south. It was refreshing and an opportunity to be reflective. Just the fact that I was alone felt exciting and energizing. As a stay at home mom with no extended family even remotely nearby I am always with my kids. It's my choice, I love being with my family and I see it as a gift and a limited opportunity to spend so much time with them, but sometimes a break feels really good.

I drove toward the great big windmills and then soon was behind them. The speed limit dropped and there it was- a little white church with a nicely mowed lawn. I got out and sat on the front steps. I somehow always seem to be early. A lovely couple arrived and we spent the time before worship talking about their church, their children, their grandchildren and the journey that brought them to this town, population 400. The people began to come in. Fifteen including me, six of them children. And of course, because that's how life seems to be, there was a fellow Penguin there (graduate of my Alma Mater, Youngstown State University). Before I began, a kind man said, “don't be nervous, just have a good time.” I started to say, “oh I'm not nervous” but instead just said, “thank you, I'm looking forward to it.”

One of my favorite parts of the service was the part when the congregation got to select the hymn. All of the children immediately threw their hands in the air, “number 261!” they happily shouted. We sang 261, “Lord of the Dance” and the children got up from their seats next to their grandparents, went into the aisles and danced as they sang the memorized verses.

As I do for 600 or 6, I wore my vestments and preached my heart out. I left feeling as though I had worshiped. I felt cared for and grateful for a lovely morning. I got in my car and headed to the second church. It was a lovely building with an addition built in 1967. I wondered about their story. It's age showed, weeds and winds seemed to move more quickly than the small congregation could manage. I took a seat on the steps, under the bird's nest in the light fixture and breathed in the fresh country air. Across the street was a massive car junk yard and there wasn't much else by way of neighbors. The people were kind and rejoiced over each person who arrived. They usually get five for worship and that Sunday, counting me and the three month old, there were nine. There was a sound system and an organist. The candles were lit, announcements made and we prayed our way through the liturgy. During “Joys and Concerns” we found ourselves in a conversation about how annoying built up earwax can be and what a relief it is to have it removed, and we thanked God for that. I preached my heart out as I looked for eyes to make contact with. When the service ended we all found ourselves in the back of the church as everyone had some role to play in making the church function. This was not a place where one would come and slip out. Everyone was known and everyone worked to keep their church going. I drove away feeling uncertain about their future but in admiration of their stamina.

I made a right turn out of the parking lot and there was my purple mountain's majesty above the fruited plain. Pike's Peak lead the way home. I put down the windows, turned up Band of Horses and took in my last moments of alone time and flat ground. I felt renewed and grateful. Grateful for the opportunity, grateful for the people, grateful for the Holy Spirit showing up. I also felt grateful for the way my heart felt toward my denomination. I felt remorseful for the bad thoughts I had as I watched my denomination argue at the General Conference. I felt connected again, in a way that only happens when you worship together. This year was the first year since I can remember that I did not attend East Ohio Annual Conference (I'm counting the years I went to Youth Annual Conference as a teen and as a youth leader). There were four years when I served in West Ohio that I actually went to two annual conferences. So I felt strangely disconnected and these two little churches brought me home again. I suppose you can say they helped me realize that my heart is indeed still strangely warmed.

Sermon  from Ellicot and Simla UMCs 8/14/16 Luke 12: 49-56

     Remember when it was Christmas? Remember the warmth of the fire and the sparkle of the Christmas lights? The cozy sweaters looking upon fresh white snow? The church decorated with poinsettias as we read about the birth of the one called Prince of Peace? That memorable story of a baby born in a manger, with a promise of hope and love? In Luke's telling of the birth of Christ you may remember the angel and “a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors.” And so at Christmas we have ornaments and wreaths that say “Peace” in gold sparkly letters, we pray for peace in the world and we hope that the telling of the birth of Christ will spark peace in the hearts of all who hear it, in the ears of those who are hurting and in the world so sharply divided.

      So, what's up with the passage read today? Perhaps you, like me, find it troubling. I can get on board with the lovely warm messages of peace. I even have my own sparkly, decorative sign that says “Peace” that I put up every Christmas. Every night I pray for peace on earth. So I have a hard time with the part when Jesus says, “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!” Wait a minute while I go hide my sparkly “Peace” decoration …

     I don't think Jesus really cares about sparkly decorations in this passage, in fact I think he is mad. In his commentary on this passage, Luke Timothy Johnson points out that the Greek words used in this passage are meant to convey strong emotions … if you couldn't already tell by Jesus saying he wants to bring fire to earth. And so Jesus delivers this strong, emotional, angry message. He talks about division, about families being split against each other. And it is hard to hear, it is troubling, it is hard to reconcile with the strong messages of peace and love we hear in other passages, like the birth story.

     Of course there are some who will feel perfectly comfortable with talk of division. Some who might see this as a justification for their anger and hatred toward others. Perhaps there are angry teens out there thinking “see, it's ok for me to hate my mom because she won't let me stay out late.” Or disgruntled church members thinking “see, Jesus says it's ok for us to scream at each other over whether or not we should change the wallpaper in the parlor.” But more seriously, relationships can be a struggle, they take compromise, work and effort so any passage that seems to encourage throwing in the towel, saying a few choice words and storming off may be appealing.

      I actually hate division. I hate it when I'm not getting along with someone or don't feel connected to someone. When I was pastoring churches conflict and upset feelings made my stomach hurt. When people threatened to leave the community it was terribly upsetting. I feel anxious when people are arguing or things become heated. My heart pounds louder when someone is saying things that I strongly disagree with or when I am saying things I know someone else strongly disagrees with … it is uncomfortable.

     I don't need to tell you that right now we are in a season of sharp divisions. We are in the middle of an election season and politicians are counting on division. They are hoping for your strong feelings for them and against the other. On any given day it does not take long to find someone saying or typing reasons why we are in for sure and certain doom and destruction if the other candidate wins. We are divided over candidates, divided over issues, color coated based on our side and easily angered at anyone on the other side of the line. Surely this wasn't what Jesus had in mind … was it?

     Our own church is also divided. Last week I attended a talk at First United Methodist from the pastor there who was the head of the delegation to Jurisdictional Conference. As you may know the new bishop of the Rocky Mountain Annual Conference is the first openly partnered lesbian to be elected as bishop in The United Methodist Church. I watched as Pastor Kent addressed the crowd, some of whom were very much against the election. He explained how the election came about, his perspective, what might happen next and then talked about how he was having trouble sleeping. Because he knew that people would feel hurt and angry and he knew that some would leave his church. He knew that there is a fracture in The United Methodist Church and talks of a split. And that hurts. It is scary. It is hard. It wasn't exactly the kind of church meetings I remember as a kid, where the biggest question was which pie to eat first and what color the new choir robes would be. But here we are … divided. Surely this isn't what Jesus had in mind … is it?

      It's hard to understand. Just when we think we have Jesus figured out or some sort of hold on what the Bible is all about, we get a curve ball that makes us look critically at ourselves. A curve ball like Jesus getting angry and preaching about division.

     Maybe there is a way to somehow hold together this impassioned message about division and the Biblical message of love and reconciliation. Maybe there is a way to wrap our minds around the Prince of Peace saying he did not come to bring peace on earth.

      Jesus calls us to give of our hearts. To give of our whole selves to God and love the Lord our God with all our heart and all our mind and all our soul. Jesus calls on us to feel, to feel passion for God, to love our neighbors and care deeply for the marginalized, the widowed and orphaned, to seek justice. When you do that, when you put your heart into something, all of your heart, you are going to have passion, you are going to care, to feel and maybe even get angry.

     And sometimes that might cause division. But not the kind of divisions that we so often see in our world, violent divisions or self-righteous divisions or division caused by a lack of desire to work to be in genuine relationship. But rather the kind of division that comes from a heart bent on love, bent on Christ and bent on peace.

      In the passage before this one Jesus is talking about people who are ready and people who are not. People who are living their lives for God and people who are living their lives for comfort. There is a difference, a division of you will …

      Right now in my life I spend most of my time with two little people. I have two boys, a 2 year old and a four year old. I am taking time off from serving churches to stay at home with them and so my view of the world these days is often through that filter. I look to my experiences day to day to make sense of the world. And so as I was reflecting on this passionate speech from Jesus I found myself reflecting on the last time I gave a passionate speech. It was not a brave speech delivered on the front lines of justice, a rousing sermon preached to a captive audience that opened hearts and changed lives, but rather it was a lecture to my kids. And yes, I was angry and definitely yelled. It was the day after we returned home from vacation, last Monday actually and I was sorting through stacks of laundry and suitcases that needed unpacked while doing the normal things like making their meals and getting them dressed and making sure no one peed their pants. Every time I said anything to them like “brush your teeth” or “tv time is done” or “let's go to the store” it was met with whining. Even when I joined in a fun game with them it always ended in a temper tantrum from the one that did not win. Finally, when I asked my four year old to put his shoes on for the 5^th time and the two year old was on the floor protesting a trip to the store I got angry. I raised my voice, pointed my finger and did my best to infuse toddler logic into an explanation of why mommy was upset, why their behaviors were unacceptable and what the consequences would be if they continued. I got upset because I was annoyed and my patience had run out and because I needed to go to the store. But there was another reason too. I want my boys to live their lives in a certain way. I want them to be respectful and kind. I want them to be humble and compassionate. I want them to turn their hearts to God in a world with so many other options. So I guess you can say I want them to be different, divided from others in the world. I want them to have a passion for justice and love that gives them the courage to speak up when something is wrong, to go against bad behaviors and be willing to risk for the sake of Jesus Christ. I want them to live their lives for more than comfort and desire. And sometimes that might set them apart.

      So I guess division isn't always a bad thing. It seems that when our hearts are involved, there are times when we need to be set apart.

      Could this be what Jesus had in mind? People willing to give of their hearts to God? People bravely living against the grain, seeking what is right in a world full of other options? I don't know, but I would say that is something worth getting passionate about.