Sustenance

Sermon for Grace and St. Stephen’s 6/30/19 2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14, Luke 9:51-62

 

          A couple of weeks ago I flew to Ohio for my annual conference.  Most of you know that I am a United Methodist pastor and my conference membership is with East Ohio where I grew up and was ordained.  Every other year there is one Episcopal priest who uses a week of his vacation time to go to Ohio and hang out with our kids while I attend conference sessions.  The East Ohio Conference is in the same small community on Lake Erie every year.  In the center of the little town is an auditorium and that is where we have our meetings, worship and ordinations. 

         Tuesday evening I dodged the bugs and entered the humid auditorium in my alb and red stole.  I walked in the procession and found my seat all the while gripping tightly to a beautiful red stole in my hands.  It was handed to me by a young woman who I met 13 years ago when I was fresh out of seminary and serving as an associate pastor.  She was about 14 years old and part of the youth group I oversaw in my role.  Over the years we spent a lot of time together: lock-ins, mission trips, conferences, church events, planning youth group calendars when she became youth group president, long talks about theology, the Bible, faith, struggles … calling.  She graduated, I began pastoring a different church and eventually I was writing seminary recommendations for her … three years later proof reading her paperwork for ordination and then I was sitting there with a red stole on my lap, as she had given me the honor of being the person to go on stage with her, lay hands on her with the Bishop and then place it over her shoulders. 

         At the rehearsal for the service I jokingly said to her “it’s like I’m Elijah and you’re Elisha!” to which she replied “but hopefully without you disappearing on a chariot into the clouds.”  And soon after I did get on a plane and disappeared into the clouds headed back home to Colorado.

         I came back and opened up to the lectionary scriptures for my Sunday to preach and what do I find … the story of Elijah and Elisha.  The passing of the mantle. 

           As I reflected further on this story, particularly in the context of one of our other lectionary scriptures for today- the Gospel reading where Jesus is walking around inviting people to follow him and they are shouting back their excuses- I could hear a clear message of calling and invitation but also in these texts I hear a bold statement about sufficiency. 

           Elijah is a tough act to follow.  Even with the moment of discouragement and despair we read about last week, he stays deeply connected to God, courageously faces powers and rulers equipped only with his assurance of God’s presence and power.  In deep famine he finds sustenance not only for himself but also a widow and her son completely given in to hopelessness.   

         And now Elisha has to carry on, wear Elijah’s mantle, continue his work.  Apart from a similar name, how could he have possible felt prepared for such work?  A life of saying things that people don’t want to hear and having the odds stacked against you.  But, Elisha knows what he needs to do the work ahead.  So he asks for it.  He doesn’t ask for an army, a funding source or even that endless supply of flour and oil that sustained Elijah and the widow.  Instead he asks for that spirit.  Elisha asks Elijah for a double share of his spirit.  Armies get conquered, food fills only until the next meal and fortunes get spent but that spirit,  that deep connection with God, the courage and faith that made miracles, that is what he needs.  Elijah says “ok, but you gotta stick with me until the end.” 

          Elijah soon goes in a whirlwind … but God remains -with Elisha, with prophets after him, with the Holy Spirit and with each of us called in our baptism to do God’s work thousands of years later.  God remains and that spirit carries on.

          And that’s what I saw that night on stage at the ordination, under bright lights standing in front of hundreds of people.  I saw the Holy Spirit, God’s presence with God’s people, carrying on, calling new people in new ways, and providing what we need for building the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. 

          When I went to conference this year I did not have much hope for what would happen.  These are very divisive and uncertain times for The United Methodist Church.  It may be my last conference there and it will almost definitely be the last conference with the denomination looking the way it currently does.  When I entered I saw a lot of retirees, heard a lot of strategizing, agendas and opposing views.   Pillars of the conference have died, many of my mentors have retired and the young people were underrepresented.  And this is not unique to just that area or that denomination.

          While we here at Grace have a vibrant community and so many wonderful faith filled young people, many churches in America are struggling and trying to hold on to what is familiar while realizing that change is inevitable.  In many churches the number of funerals far outnumbers baptisms.

          But God’s spirit is still moving.  God is providing sustenance.  God’s spirit was alive and present at that conference- the young woman I stood on stage with is bold, deeply faithful and courageous in her calling.  And whether or not a denomination changes, she is a reminder to me that God is still at work and providing what we need.

          There is a tradition every year at the end of the ordination service.  The congregation in that big auditorium sits down and sings while some representatives stand at the front.  An invitation is put out for anyone who may feel called by God to ordained ministry to come forward.  And then we wait.  We sing and we wait to see if any brave souls will walk to the front to be prayed over.  I have been worshiping at Episcopal churches long enough to feel a little awkward at this altar-call type experience, but despite initial awkwardness after a few minutes I, like everyone around me had tears down my cheeks.  

          People came forward.  From all walks of life and all ages, they came.  They came not because the church can promise them wealth, security or armies of support, but because they believe that the Spirit calls and sustains us.  And I thought back to many years ago when I was a young teenager and took that awkward walk to the front of the auditorium, in front of all of those people, to say that I felt called to ordained ministry. 

          I thought about what that calling has looked like over the years since then. Some of it has been in church ministry, some of it has been through friendships, volunteer work, parenting and casual conversations.  Some of it has been through loneliness, doubt, depression and uncertainty.  Some of it has been through places I never expected, I didn’t expect that I would be standing here in an Episcopal pulpit in Colorado.  Some of it has been through deeply painful deaths and saying goodbye to the people who supported me.  But all of it has been sustained by that spirit, that spirit of God that moved over creation, passed from Elijah to Elisha and fills this room now. 

          It is that same spirit that we taught the children about one week ago when they filled our space with the songs they learned in Vacation Bible School.  The spirit that enables them to be strong and courageous even when the lions roar.  It is the same spirit that stirs within us when we see injustices that break our hearts in the world.  When we see the faces of children suffering.  The same spirit that moves within us when we are tempted to throw our hands in the air with helplessness, overwhelming guilt, or silencing despair. 

          And this is why Jesus says “follow me.” Because he knows that we can.  He knows the spirit sustains us.  He knows nothing in the world can quench the fire within us.  And so we are called to the difficult places, the pains of the world and the challenges of each day with courage, faith and hope.  Knowing that God is enough and the spirit of God will never leave us.   

Four Years

Four Years.  Today marks four years since I walked into that Hospice room and sat with her … since I whispered love and encouragement in her ear between goodbyes from people who loved her so much that they could barely breathe between tears … since we last communicated through a look, one last moment of eye contact before her eyes saw things I haven’t yet seen. 

It’s been four years and I am still unpacking what I learned from that experience … from her life and her death.  Soon after she died and every year since on this day I have written about it and I have said that watching her die pushes back on all my fears about death.  Those final moments were peaceful, full of love and beautiful.  But also watching her live taught me a lot about how I want to live.

Some days I find myself caught up in worry.  I worry about something happening to my kids and I worry about something happening to me or my husband.  Some days I let the fear take up more space than it should and my thoughts are colored by anxiety and “what ifs.”  The only way I can get back to a place of peace is through prayer.  Prayer where I admit I am not so good at prayer - honest, vulnerable, messy prayer.  And when I begin to hear the rational thoughts again, when my mind settles enough for breathing and wisdom I think about how Laura lived her life when her body was falling apart despite all her best efforts and the efforts of her doctors.  She lived a life worth fighting for.  With her head pounding from another round of chemo she cherished moments she could watch her children playing, hugs from loved ones and glimpses of the Holy Spirit at work within and around her.  She was still planning fun things, sharing moments of closeness with friends and loving everyone she could.  When there were so many very real reasons for her to shut down emotionally, let go of hope and drown in sorrow she didn’t.  Even until the day she died, she held on to her faith and in her vulnerability and brokenness was so incredibly strong. 

Four years later and I am far from the places and faces she knew, but I still feel her in my heart.  I remember her fierce support and belief in me on days when I doubt myself, I remember her unconditional love for her children as I kiss mine goodnight and I try to honor her by being open, vulnerable and faithful. 

My husband asked me when I wanted to preach next and gave me the choice of a few dates.  I picked June 30 right away.  I picked it because I knew my heart would be softer and more open today and also because when I preach I feel her close to me.  She is the Woman at the Well on my stole, the sassy, honest, questioning, strong woman who knew Jesus. 

When is the bake sale?

When I walked into my first PTA meeting I expected to find rows of cardigan clad moms discussing the next bake sale.  What I found instead was a few teachers and a few parents working tirelessly to make each child's elementary school experience fun and memorable.  I met women who had devoted countless hours to the PTA for ten years.  The lists of things they planned and carried out during the school year amazed me, being that there were so few people involved in the PTA.  

Soon after I was approached by my son's teacher about running for PTA President.  I felt completely out of my comfort zone, having spent all of my professional career and all of my adult years immersed almost solely in the Church world, but with the current officers moving on with their children to middle school and a small pool to draw from for new leaders, I felt I was needed. 

I said yes, ran uncontested, and the next thing I know I am having my photo taken in a hotel lobby for my name badge at the state PTA convention.  I fell in love with PTA at that convention.  Not just because of all of the free stuff from the vendor's tables, but also because of what I learned about PTA.  What the organization does is what I feel passionate about.  It is all about advocating for the needs of not just your child, but every child everywhere.  PTA has advocated for things like playgrounds, free lunches, and free all day kindergarten.  There were sessions on various social justice issues along with things like fund-raising and recruitment.  

I also got to know the three other brave women who signed on for officer positions with me.  We did not know each other at all but between whispered conversations in session and personal sharing over meals we soon connected and found many areas of common ground and shared struggles.  

Throughout the year we did a lot!  We accomplished some new things that I am really proud of and I had some failed attempts that frustrated me, but it was a rewarding experience.  I discovered that the kids at our school know the PTA, they get excited to see us, they treat us like part of the school and they say thank you A LOT.  The teachers and staff treat us as valued members of the school team, brainstorm with us, and say thank you A LOT.  Over this past year I have learned so much about educational systems.  I have felt enraged at the injustices I see in the ways our country does public education and I have felt overwhelmed with gratitude at the ways in which our schools are caring, nurturing, and educating our children.  I know that teachers have many frustrations too and yet I have been blown away at the genuine care, concern, and passion I have seen over and over again in the classrooms of our school.  

I am about to start year two of my two-year PTA presidential term and I feel both exhausted and excited at the thought of it.  I wish more people would join their local PTA.  It is not about volunteering but about being informed and having a say in the decisions that will effect your child.  

There have been a few times when I will say I am the PTA President and the person I am talking to will chuckle or snicker.  I get it.  It conjures up images of gossip, stressing over bake sales, and overbearing parents, but when I tell people about my PTA involvement my son doesn't chuckle, instead he beams with pride.  He loves it and I feel like he and I are working together to do what we can to help the school.   And after a year of fund-raisers, events, volunteering, important decisions, and learning we still haven't had a bake sale.

Cutting Ties

So … what are you going to do? Are you going to wait and see what this Adam Hamilton conference proposes? Go to another denomination? Hope for a breakaway denomination? Or stay and work toward change? It's a question I have asked others and spent a lot of time thinking about myself since the decisions of General Conference.

One of my Lenten disciplines was to be in discernment for where God may be calling me vocationally. This meant: prayer, meditation, reading, conversations with friends, conversations with Bishops and forcing myself to refrain from jumping to a plan. As Lent concluded and Easter came I still had no answer, which I suppose means my discipline was a success, although it didn't feel like it.

Even though I am living in a different conference, East Ohio conference has always remained my home conference. The Bishop that ordained me and that allowed me to serve in another conference advised me to keep my connection to East Ohio conference and so I have. I have lived in two different conferences since then but remain tied to my home conference, travelling back for that big family reunion at Lakeside we call Annual Conference. It has felt good. I look forward to jogs by Lake Erie, conversations on the cottage porches of former colleagues and mentors, meet-ups for ice cream and the beautiful sound of voices in unison singing “For All the Saints” as we gather not just with each other but the great cloud of witnesses.

When I pull into Lakeside and see the lanyards with name tags, smell the water and watch the kids eyes widen with joy I am flooded with memories. I remember sitting on the shore when I was a preteen on a confirmation retreat and making a promise to always be best friends with the woman who is still my best friend, I remember the flood of candles in the dark when I was a youth leader and brought teens to Youth Annual Conference, I remember big welcoming hugs from saints who have gone before me, new friendships made, late night walks home from ordination parties and of course seeing parishioners and family members stand in support as the Bishop laid hands on me and called me pastor.

I made vows to my beloved church, vows I hold dear and have worked to honor. So now here I am at a crossroads, with so many others I have sat beside in the sticky wooden chairs of Annual Conference. What will I do?

I know that remaining in a denomination where the callings and gifts of my LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters are not welcomed is not an option. I can not stay standing as fellow children of God are pushed out. I will not raise my children in a church where, if they are gay, they will be told one day that who they are is not beloved, precious and Imago Dei. I have seen the lasting pain on the faces of those who were made to feel safe and loved in their home church only to be told it was all conditional.

Does that mean I stay and work toward change, discern if God is calling me somewhere else ... cut ties?

The other day I was asked a question. A question that filled me with both pride and humility, made me smile and cry. A woman that I first met when she was 14 years old and a member of the church where I was the associate pastor asked me the question. She asked me if I would be the person on stage with her when she is ordained at East Ohio Conference this June.

It is a reminder to me of the hope and promise still alive in my home church. It is a beautiful expression of the love I have given and received in my years of ministry. It may also be a beautiful way of saying good bye, knowing that as long as people with her passion, intelligence and courage are working in The UMC then it is in good hands. I don't know. I am still discerning.

One thing I do know is that no matter where I place my ordination, no matter what church I serve, what role I have … the sanctifying grace I have seen, the people I have loved, the church I have vowed to serve … it will always be tied to my heart.

No Answer

After the PTA meeting last night, I got the kids to bed and started watching The Real Housewives shows my husband refuses to watch. My husband had a work meeting and at 9:15 pm texted “I'm on my way.” I watched a few more scenes of fancy lunches at beach houses in the Hamptons and checked my phone. It had been over 30 minutes and he still wasn't home. The drive home takes about 12-15 minutes. I texted him, no answer. I called, no answer. I started to worry. I text again, nothing. I call again, nothing. I had the laptop next to me and I remembered that if he was signed into Google then Google maps would show me where he was. We discovered this once when he called me for help avoiding a traffic jam on the interstate. I click on the location button and it shows him in Pueblo, a city about an hour away. So now I am panicking. The logical thought would be “he meant he was on his way to dinner, which they usually do after that meeting and the location feature isn't always accurate” but my first thought was “someone wanted to steal his car, threw him in the trunk and drove it to Pueblo.” There was a voice of reason inside me trying to be heard but worst case scenario flashes overpowered it. This was all within a matter of minutes before I reloaded the page and it showed he was at a restaurant downtown. I breathed a sigh of relief, closed the computer and thought “I'm going to be a wreck when my kids can drive.”

I have always been a worrier. I can remember being very young and crying because I thought my mom must have died in a car wreck when she decided to pick up a pizza on the way home from work and was late getting home (in the pre-cell phone days). I knew all of this was a risk when I decided I wanted to be a mom. I also knew that my desire to have children outweighed my fears and that whether or not I became a mom I would still have attachments. Being a mortal attached to mortal people breeds anxiety.

I know that my worry comes from my inability to accept what I can't control. The fact that I worry about something has no bearing on the final outcome, but it is hard to avoid. One of my Lenten disciplines this year is to allow myself to be in discernment. I have veered from the path I always expected myself to take since I was called into ministry when I was thirteen years old. I realize that a sense of calling at age 38 may look very different from what it looked like 25 years ago and so I really want to allow myself to be open to whatever God's calling might look like for me right now. Part of that process is reminding myself that I am happy where I am and there is no urgency. I am using tools like meditation, conversations and journaling to try to keep myself open rather than rushing to find an answer.

I am also trying to take fear out of the equation. How many of our decisions are influenced by fear? Part of letting go of fear is fighting that same battle I have fought so many times with worry. I need to stop pretending as though I have control, accept that things change and life is unpredictable and unload the weight of the world that keeps creeping onto my shoulders.

I came across this passage as I was reading The Interior Castle written in the 16^th century by St. Teresa of Avila. She writes:

It's tempting to think that if God would only grant you internal favors you would be able to withstand external challenges. [God] knows what is best for us. [God] does not require our opinion on the matter, and, in fact, has every right to point out that we don't have any idea what we're asking for. Remember: all you have to do as you begin to cultivate the practice of prayer is to prepare yourself with sincere effort and intent to bring your will into harmony with the will of God. I promise you that this is the highest perfection to be attained on the spiritual path.”

My husband came home safely. He had in fact meant that he was on his way to dinner and then accidentally turned the vibrate on his phone off. He felt really bad for worrying me. I was just happy he was home. That worry was over, but a new day brings new risks, fears and unknowns. And so I keep working, discerning, letting go, breathing deeply and doing my best to live this life.

We're All Chickens

Sermon from Grace and St. Stephen's Episcopal Church 3/17/19

I remember the way it glittered in the sun, the gold on the Dome of the Rock reflecting off the cathedral crosses and Temple remains.  The city of Jerusalem was a thing to behold.  Our first glimpse was from our tour bus window, we stared as our Methodist pastor tour guide called out a hymn number to the group of almost all Methodists and I avoided eye contact my Episcopal husband lest I see an eye roll at yet another Methodist hymn.  But he too had his eyes glued to the window and honestly, singing felt like the right response.  It is a place of such story, such legend, such turmoil, such hope, it’s amazing that it is also real stones and roads that you can walk and behold. 

          As we followed tour guides, listened to lectures, touched rocks and worshiped in churches one thing became clear- there is something inexplicable about Jerusalem.  You can hear it in the Bible stories and hymns we sing- a place both longed for and beloved and yet also feared and dreaded.  A place of worship, praise, reunion and stability and yet also a place of battle, war, conflict, separation and change.  It is as if it was placed at the meeting of two tectonic plates that can’t quite come together and so it shifts and rumbles, and you just know that at some point something seismic will happen. 

          It is a city that is in the news headlines we read and the ancient scriptures we read- claimed by different ethnicities and religions, a hot bed of spiritual activity, cosmic encounter and political turmoil.  Three major world religions have deep roots and claims to it and in some places that looks like shared worship spaces with well-respected and understood boundaries and in other places it feels like tension and unrest. 

          As I looked upon this glittering city I remembered the words of the Gospel read today: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”  You can hear this tension, this dichotomy in Jesus’s words.  It is his focus, where he is destined to go, the culmination of his journey and yet he knows it is where he will be rejected, despised and suffer.  His words sound like those of someone who is frustrated but also deeply in love.  Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that will let him down, the city that will nail him to the cross and also the city he loves and longs to gather under his wings.  The city of frustration and hope, longing and despair … death and resurrection.

          It’s like our Lenten journey.  We begin with a reminder of our mortality.  Ashes smeared on our head as we are told that one day we will die and all of this around us that we value so much will be dust.  We reflect on temptation, sacrifice and mortality as the darkness of Good Friday comes nearer.  But we also enter our Lenten journey with confession, we kneel together and repent for what we have done and what we have left undone and we gently move our fingers from our forehead to our chest to our shoulders as a sign of our blessedness, our redemption, our forgiveness.  We walk this Lenten journey with Christ knowing that the darkness of Good Friday will not be the end and hoping to better ourselves for life ahead.  It is a time of honesty, vulnerability, darkness, sadness and also hope, togetherness, promise and anticipation.

          It’s complicated ... kind of like gathering chickens.  Up until last summer when I read this passage what came into my mind was this beautiful mother hen, extending her wings as her sweet young sensed her invitation and nestled into her warmth and protection.  But then a friend asked me to gather her chickens for her and it was not at all what I pictured.  Sure, I was not their mother hen, but it was far more chaotic than I had imagined.  Chickens don’t care when you call out to them, they don’t listen to whistles or hand claps, they don’t even seem to have any purpose in where they are going or any plan, they are just running around all feathery and messy.  You just have to be patient, throw that food into the coop and shut the door as fast as you can.  It’s a little crazy, at least for someone like me with no experience.

          So now this is more like what I picture: Jesus with arms extended, wondering what we are thinking, hoping and waiting for us to come while we run around in a hurry to walk in circles making a big mess around us.  We are all just a bunch of chaos full of longing and rejecting, loving and hating, pushing and pulling, peace and conflict, joy and despair … just like that holy and complex city of Jerusalem. 

          A couple of weeks ago I beheld a holy mess from my computer screen as I watched The United Methodist Special Session of the General Conference.  I have been a member of The United Methodist Church my entire life and this June will have been an ordained United Methodist pastor for ten years.  I don’t want to talk about United Methodist polity or the complexities and details of what happened at that conference as much as you don’t want to hear about it.  I am exhausted of all of the commentary and social media posts about it.  But I will say that what I watched unfold was so very human.  It was all these people gathered together trying to be church.  They were praying and singing, holding hands and worshiping and then yelling and shouting, condemning each other and breaking a part.  Apparently an arena full of Methodists that was about to be filled with layers of dirt for a monster truck rally can be as complex and chaotic as the holy city of Jerusalem. 

          But people will and did point to what happened and say “you see!  This is why I don’t go to Church!  They can’t even get along!  They are all over the map!  I would rather just worship God on my own!”  And you know, they aren’t wrong, we do mess it up.  We argue, we push and pull, we are all over the map and we constantly confess that we mess up.  We are frustrating, we are chaos, we are human.  Sometimes we say the wrong thing, sometimes we don’t even know where we are going, sometimes we even hurt each other.  And we all have days where we think it would be easier to just be by ourselves. 

          But there is Jesus … with arms stretched, wide like a mother hen, beckoning us into his warmth and love.

          When those Pharisees come to “warn” Jesus about Herod, they may not have the purest intentions.  They wanted to see what he would do.  It is another instance of people putting Jesus to the test.  If they tell Jesus how much danger he is in will he change his plans and save himself?  Or will he press on, knowing what can happen? 

          Jesus does not turn back.  He presses on.  And not because he doesn’t know the chaos he is about to enter, not because he has false expectations of the people he is trying to save, not because he is naïve, not because he doesn’t see the hurt people cause each other, the ways they reject his love or those who betray him.  Not because he doesn’t know that those who wave palms before him will shout “crucify him!”  not because he doesn’t know that the Church charged with carrying out the sacraments, spreading the Gospel message and being his hands and feet will make mistakes, will hurt each other … will be human.  He presses on because in all the complexity and all the chaos, in all the messes we make and the ways we fail each other- we are God’s beloved children, we are created in  God’s image and longed for by our Savior.  Jesus presses on with outstretched arms beckoning us to come to him because no matter who or where we are, there is a spot for us in the warm, loving and nurturing body of Christ.   

The UMC: Watching and Waiting ...

Years ago when I started a blog I titled it “Looking Out the Window” and that is just what I feel like I am doing as I watch what is happening in The United Methodist Church. I have been a United Methodist since I was born. It is the church that guided me, taught me, nurtured my faith and supported my calling. I went to a United Methodist Seminary and read through the sermons of John Wesley while sitting next to George Whitefield's thumb in The United Methodist Archives. I grew up going to plenty of UMC conferences (Explorations '98 and '00, Youth Annual Conferences, Youth Jams, etc.), I worked as a youth leader at three different UMCs. When I was serving in West Ohio Conference, I went to back-to-back annual conferences as my membership was (and is) still with East Ohio. And in June of 2009, a journey that began with a sense of call at age 13 brought me on stage in Hoover Auditorium in Lakeside, Ohio for one of the most meaningful moments of my life … my ordination as an elder (pastor) in The United Methodist Church. It is very much home.

And yet, here I am looking at it through a window. I am currently working at an Episcopal Church and have been raising my kids in The Episcopal Church since I went on VLOA- family leave status in 2013. Since then I have attended Annual Conferences, done supply work at UMCs and maintained relationships and connections in The UMC but I am not in the thick of things as so many of my UM clergy friends are.

Both churches where I served as pastor I would characterize as predominantly conservative congregations and there were moments of tension over various things The UMC did that were perceived to be in favor of same sex marriage or changing the language of the Book of Discipline regarding homosexuality. I remember the emotions, focus and energy those required of me. I thought of that as I was reading a post about support/counseling/care opportunities for clergy at the upcoming special session of the General Conference.

Perhaps I should back up a bit because not everyone has an inbox full of UMNS stories on what is happening. A special session of The United Methodist General Conference (representatives from every UM Conference/Area in the world) has been called to deal specifically with The UMC's stance on same sex marriage and the ordination of what the Book of Discipline would refer to as “self-avowed practicing homosexuals.”

I thought about offering my own synopsis of the three main plans (or 5 according to some sources) being put forward, but I am definitely no expert and recommend instead googling the work of “The Commission on a Way Forward” or the Council of Bishops' statements.

All of this is to say the church of my baptism, confirmation, first sermon, wedding and ordination may be breaking. It is quite possible that the institution will do what so many institutions do best which is nothing, but even that will not be without consequences, fractures and pain. I wonder what will happen to the churches I have pastored that I remember so fondly and hold in my heart. What will happen to the seminary that is so dear to me and my husband? What will happen to the conference I call home and the one I am currently living in? What will my future in The UMC look like?

Most of all I find myself thinking about those who do not have any distance from this right now. Those who are in the thick of things. Those who are loving and listening to those who have very different views and holding onto hope of unity. Those who feel angry and hurt by angry and hurtful words. Those who get into the pulpit with a pit in their stomach and trembling hands because while they know God is with them, the emotionally-laden words can become personal and it hurts.

Even though I may have a little distance at the moment, I can't pretend this issue is not important to me or that I have no investment in which way this goes. There is a reason I tremble when I talk about it. My convictions, passion and beliefs are so deep and so important to me. This is hard. So while I watch I am doing what I can to stay informed, being careful with my words and praying, praying, praying …