On Hospitality: Of Grandmothers, Friends, & Jesus

(*something akin to the sermon preached for The Second Sunday after Pentecost)

Genesis 18:1-15 (21:1-17) | Psalm 116:1, 10-17 | Romans 5:1-8 | Matthew 9:35-10:23

While I went to a traditional church camp once in my childhood, my sleep-away camps during the summer mostly alternated between my sets of grandparents, fortunate as we were to live close to them. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to tell you how many times I dusted furniture for my grandmothers or how many times I dried and put away the dishes after the endless stream of meals. With the patience of saints, my grandmas would let me watch them closely as they baked and cooked. While one grandmother tended toward silence, the other chatted away, filling me with her wisdom. It would usually be early afternoon as she prepared a dessert that she would sagely tell me the proportions of everything for the cobbler filling, remind me to cool the shortbread crusts first, or tell me that a toaster strudel cut in half would work for a crust in a pinch. She preferred to have a cake or a cobbler at the table, but she said for the unexpected guests, she kept cookie dough (homemade, of course) in the freezer. Unexpected guests meant they called the day of to let you know they were coming, I guess, because she had time to bake, but I promise you, if you stopped by completely unannounced, there were at least some Little Debbie snack cakes still in their wrappers but tastefully arranged on a cake plate or platter on the table.

It’s not a far stretch for me to think about Abraham welcoming his three visitors to his tent, humbly offering a little bread and a little water, only to go tell Sarah to bake cakes and the servant to prepare the meat while he surely goes for the curds and milk. How many of us have sat down to feasts where our hostess has told us it’s “just a little something (she) threw together”? Abraham, full of duty and obedience, has followed through on his generous welcome to these strangers, and I can imagine Sarah listening from the other side of the tent to listen for their praise of her cakes, utterly surprised when she hears that she’s going to have a child in her and Abraham’s old age. Very much not laughing, Abraham is asked by one of the three: “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?”

With kids of my own, I find I’m not nearly as patient with my kids in the kitchen as my grandmother was with me. I’m not nearly as diligent about keeping my house clean (though there was a phase early in my motherhood that about made me crazy; I let the house be messy and preserved what was left of my sanity). Between storytimes, gymnastics, and park dates, along with keeping the kids relatively clean and fed, I was doing good to do dishes and laundry. Fortunately, there were other mamas like me whose husbands were working outside the home while we were holding down the fort. We scheduled weekly playdates for the kids when in all actuality they were mama dates. Whoever’s house we met at, we would let the kids loose while we gathered in the living room or around the kitchen table to vent or brag and always to laugh. There might be a couch full of laundry, a sink full of dirty dishes, and spots of God only knows what on the floors, but we greeted one another in solidarity and friendship and non-judgment. When snacktime or lunchtime rolled around, we’d bake some sweet potatoes and throw together a salad, putting everything in the middle of the table, and there would always be plenty. Eventually naptime would send everyone on our separate ways. We’d try to make sure the kids cleaned up behind themselves, but the hosts were always gracious (or eager) enough to let everyone get fussy kids home to bed. It would be a morning well-spent, leaving us all full and tired as good work does.

My older kids tell me this was part of our hippie phase, but maybe it was just another aspect of being hipster, of doing something before it was cool. In 2014, a priest circulated an article about what he called “scruffy hospitality,” and a follow-up article by another writer has been circulating this month. The point of these articles is that too often today we let our expectations of entertaining with excellence prohibit us from actually having anyone over, that we’ve actually prioritized  lawn maintenance and bathroom cleanliness over genuine friendship and fellowship. So, introduce “scruffy hospitality,” entertaining with open doors and hearts while leaving the judgment out of the picture.

Then there’s the hospitality of Jesus. I imagine Jesus looking out over the crowds, seeing with the eyes of God all the needs of the whole world. Jesus didn’t have his own house to worry about. Wherever he was, there was the hospitality. The New Testament version of hospitality isn’t just about offering room and board. It’s based on φιλόξενος (philoxenos). Philos, brotherly love, and xenos, stranger or immigrant or even enemy. In 2016, “xenophobia” was the #1 looked-up word on dictionary.com. It means fear of the stranger/others. Jesus’ hospitality is exactly the opposite, and it doesn’t require a fancy dinner or even a house: Jesus’ hospitality is in his very being, in his very presence. True love of others is “radical hospitality”–a catchphrase used often these days but not always with a matching sentiment. We can say we have “radical hospitality” and offer excellent food and open doors and fake smiles and broken, judging hearts . . . and newcomers to the church will not feel welcome. But in the midst of our gatherings when we acknowledge how good it is, how surely this is something like the kingdom of heaven, this heavenly banquet of love and laughter and song and silence, we know this is good news worth sharing with others, and others will know they are already part of the goodness and want to stay or come back for more.

As curate here at St. Luke’s, I have felt the generosity of Spirit from everyone here, whether we’ve shared stories or just smiles and handshakes. I know the importance of the obedience of Abraham–the hospitality of our grandmothers–and the significance of sharing wholly who we are where we are among friends. And I have seen with a sense of the Christ-mind and the eyes of compassion the work that is done and still needs to be done in our community. We have much work to do, but I know full well there is abundance of Spirit to do it. The same hospitality that has been shown to me needs to be shown to everyone we meet, with and for the love of God.

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Synchronicities

Just when it seems like everything’s hitting the fan, grace shows up and grants the gift of perspective. For me that means taking a breath. Taking a step back. Looking around with compassionate eyes and a gentler heart . . . especially toward myself.

“Take it one day, one step at a time,” I hear myself say to people nearly every day. If we take everything in all at once, we are easily overwhelmed and succumb to the “craziness” instead of naming what it is that we actually don’t want to deal with. (Reality: I call myself out for using “busy” and “crazy” too much; there are better, truer words to use. Why am I using them to begin with? What do I need to hold myself accountable for?)

Once I remember to slow my breath, love myself and family more, and try not to be so perfect, I think grace has even more room to work her magic, which translates into my seeing more readily how God is at work in the world about me. Synchronicities appear. Things seem to fall into place. And when I get off track again, something like a migraine might reappear to slow me down and help me regain perspective.

While I’m slowed down, I might realize that lovely stories keep popping into my head; brilliant writers are sharing their words; beautiful people keep coming into my life; love just fills the air I breathe, even when things are hard.

So I remind myself to slow down, to write even when it doesn’t make sense, and to keep giving room for Grace to do Her work.

Give yourself a treat. Tend the flowers or the pretty weeds. Go to the music festival nearby. Enjoy a meal with friends at home or out and about–the company is the important thing. Just love, and allow space for life to happen. As my next best friend Kaitlin says (we haven’t met…yet…, but I love her words),

“If we hold space for each other, we learn how to truly be alive with one another, as we cast off judgment and wait for the grace of God to journey with us into unknown and sacred places.”

I’ll meet you in those sacred spaces, following the breadcrumbs of all the synchronicities along the way.

Peace and love to you.

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Love: Our Inconvenient Truth

Acts 1:6-14 | Psalm 68:1-10, 33-36 | 1 Peter 4:12-14, 5:6-11 | John 17:1-11

Over a decade ago, filmmaker Davis Guggenheim followed former presidential candidate Al Gore as he lectured worldwide about the necessity of addressing climate change, specifically global warming. His endeavor led to the 2006 release of the documentary An Inconvenient Truth–“inconvenient” because there’s not really anything convenient about global warming and “truth” because it’s scientifically- and evidentially-based. That the climate is changing is inconvenient to us because it promises to disrupt our routines and demands. If we want to continue living on this planet, let alone driving our cars and eating and shopping like we do, we are going to have to make some significant changes. It’s true that we are part of the solution in preventing a global disaster and that we have the choice to make on whether or not to live into our responsibility to care for our earth. It’s equally true that the endeavor is going to be inconvenient on many levels, not the least of which is figuring out how to handle the recycling when you live in the county. We might reach a point when we ask,

“Is it really worth the trouble?”

This notion of inconvenience stood out to me this past week as the Feast of the Ascension drew nearer. I prepared for our Wednesday morning Eucharist in full knowledge that Thursday was Ascension Day, and I was thinking, “Isn’t the Ascension one of our major feast days?” I tell you this like a confession, because I should know the Principal Feasts forwards and backwards. Thinking about it, I do, because they are integral to our faith and tradition. (Easter, Ascension, Pentecost, and Trinity Sunday are our lunar feasts with their variable dates, and All Saints’, Christmas, and Epiphany are our date-specific feasts.) Obviously needing a refresher, I read more about Ascension Day. It always falls on a Thursday, being 40 days after Easter. Some churches have interesting–though definitely not encouraged–practices to mark the Ascension, like moving the Paschal candle out of sight or not lighting it for the remainder of the Easter season. Quite often, it is not marked by a festal Eucharist on the day, as it is acknowledged in our liturgy the Sunday after, as we heard today. So, through the years, we’ve decided it’s inconvenient to celebrate Ascension Day on Thursday. We’ll give tribute on the Sunday after because that’s just what we do, and besides, it’s what we do for All Saints’ Day, too. We could schedule a special weekday service, but “Is it really worth the trouble?”

When things are going well, this is a question we ask, isn’t it? “Is it worth the trouble?” I enjoy riding my motorcycle or bicycle without a helmet, feeling the wind in my hair. I enjoy float trips without the bulk of a lifejacket. We can live comfortably without a savings account. We’re enjoying the good life. No need to rock the boat. No need to be inconvenienced. Besides, so many people are exploited for sake of fear and what-ifs. I’ll decide what’s good for me and mine, thank you very much, and we’ll make it just fine.

Two friends are on public transit heading somewhere in the Portland area. They are both young women, one in a hijab. Perhaps both women are Muslim. A fellow passenger directs racial and ethnic slurs toward them. While everyone nearby undoubtedly hears, three passengers took particular notice of the aggressive man and attempt to deescalate the situation, only to be met with fatal violence. Who knows what might have happened had the violent man followed the young women with no one to intervene, but we read this summer from our study of Small Great Things how extreme racists truly despise betrayers of “their own kind.” Was it worth the loss of two brave souls to stand up for the young women who may or may not have been in physical danger? Was it worth the trouble?

Nothing about our tradition promises convenience. Nowhere in our catechism is there promise of ease and comfort, accommodation or advantage. Nor does anything about our faith tell us to look the other way when we see a neighbor suffering. Nothing about our Savior says we have permission to sit back and take care of ourselves only. However inconvenient, we’re supposed to go through the trouble, whatever it is, of loving one another.

There are times when we grumble over having to take the high road because we gotta do what’s right and bump up the amount we leave for a tip or fix our tired spouse a nice dinner. But I doubt there was any grumbling coming from Ricky, Taliesin, or Micah as they stood between an angry man and two scared young women. Whether they were Christian or not, it sounds to me like they went into the furnace like Meshach, Shadrach, and Abednego–men of great faith, trusting God’s will be done, trusting that love would win.

One of the protector’s (Taliesin, 23 years old) sister “emailed a statement to The Washington Post on behalf of their family, saying her brother lived ‘a joyous and full life’ with an enthusiasm that was infectious.” She said:

“We lost him in a senseless act that brought close to home the insidious rift of prejudice and intolerance that is too familiar, too common. He was resolute in his conduct (and) respect of all people. … In his final act of bravery, he held true to what he believed is the way forward. He will live in our hearts forever as the just, brave, loving, hilarious and beautiful soul he was. We ask that in honor of his memory, we use this tragedy as an opportunity for reflection and change. We choose love.”

From the Epistle today, we heard: “Like a roaring lion our adversary the devil prowls around, looking for someone to devour” (1Peter 5:8). I would say our adversary the devil has devoured Jeremy Joseph Christian, the angry man on the train. His last name is Christian. That a “Christian” committed such an act of evil serves as a dramatic wake-up call so that we might find ourselves on the side of the protectors rather than the perpetrator, on the side of love and not evil.

It’s not just the radicals or severely unstable who are at risk. All of us undergo the same kinds of suffering in body, mind, and spirit. And the devil preys upon us, especially our strengths. Take righteous anger and make it hateful. Take talent and use it for deception. Introduce temptations of lust to love, greed to wealth, apathy to intelligence…there are so many ways for evil to occur. In our final weeks of seminary, my peers and I marveled at the variations on a theme of trials and tribulations we were all facing. One friend very plainly, sweetly, and courageously stated that we were all baby priests about to be born and released to the world to do God’s work and that the devil was not happy about it and was trying hard to distract us. I recalled two professors describing the spiritual journey, saying that when we’re on the path of God’s will, there’s no end to hardships we might face, and how when we’re succumbing to temptation or turning our backs toward God, there’s no easier slope to descend. Ultimately, our daily struggles are couched within this larger scope of what is of God and what is not, what we commonly call the battle of Good and Evil. Daily, we have the opportunity to choose love.

God must have thought it was worth everything to show humanity the rewards of being of God. Knowing we couldn’t understand on our own, God gave us Jesus. In ways we scarcely understand, Jesus glorified God the Father in the completion of His work–drawing people to God, delivering a message of love, and showing obedience to God’s will. Jesus lives into his belief in God . . . and his belief in humanity. When I came across this thought in my study, I paused.

Belief in God, I’ve got it. Belief in humanity?  . . . Do we have it in us? Because the headlines would have us believe every other person has hate speech at the ready or a bomb, gun, or knife ready for a kill. My faith in humanity? We don’t have a great track record.

But reflecting on my memories of the things I’ve seen and done, places I’ve been . . . thinking of the people I have the privilege of working with and praying with . . looking out at all of you . . . I understand why Christ believes in us. He gave Himself to us. He gave us the Word. He gave us knowledge of God that we experience when we show love and compassion in tenderness and in bravery. He gave us Light and eternal life because in God, there is only life triumphant, even if the mysteries confound us and we can’t understand how. God gave of God’s self to us through Jesus and continues to give to us when we follow his way of obedience to God’s will and live into a life of true Love.

Is it worth the trouble . . . to obey God: to love the Lord our God with all our heart, mind, strength, and soul, to love our neighbors as ourselves, to bear witness to the ends of the earth of God’s enduring love?

Yes.

Is it inconvenient to follow God’s will? Only if we put ourselves before God. Only if we put our self-interest above all others.

Is following Christ hard and likely to take us into places and situations we would rather not go? Perhaps. Our imaginations can be quite finite and not cover all the potentialities of God’s dream for us.

By following Christ, we participate within the life of God which allows us “to experience here and now something of the splendour, and the majesty, and the joy, and the peace, and the holiness which are characteristic of the life of God.”* We get a taste of the eternal life, and we get a glimpse of what holds us together in God, thanks to Jesus Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit. What holds us together, what restores us, what builds us up is love. It’s up to us how much we choose to love. It may not be convenient and definitely won’t be easy, but it is true and good and totally worth it.

 

*William Barclay, The New Daily Study Bible:The Gospel of John, vol. 2, Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001, p. 242.

 

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(Almost a Sermon)

 

(This is the sermon written for today. The sermon preached had a lot more LOVE in it, thanks to the Holy Spirit and a wonderful Saturday.)

Exodus 24:12-18 | Psalm 99 | 2 Peter 1:16-21 | Matthew 17:1-9


As guilty as I am of it, I’m still amazed of how often these days more and more people are busy looking at their phones instead of at each other or looking through their phones to take pictures to capture the moment so it can be shared broadly through the social media venues. Again, I’m guilty, too, because I benefit by seeing the experiences of others, seeing what brings you joy, knowing when you are hurting (if you post it), and generally having a sense of what is going on. Unless we bump into each other at the grocery store or call each other on the phone (yes, phones are still good for phone calls), online is the way many people connect these days.

If he’d had a phone, don’t you know that Peter already had photos taken, had tagged Jesus, James, and John and had marked the location complete with new hashtags for Moses, Elijah, and the three new booths he was going to set up when he was saying, “Jesus, this is going to be so good!”

Only, it wasn’t.

Really, how many times are you able to capture a picture of the amazing sunrise or sunset, one that gets all the shades of purple, blue, pink, and orange spread all across the horizon? How many full moons and moonlit landscapes have you photographed and felt that the lunar beauty was adequately portrayed?

Peter thought he caught was what going on and was ready to mark the place and spread the news, but it wasn’t time. He didn’t have it right just yet, but what didn’t he have? What about Jesus being transfigured into full glory before them isn’t enough to verify his status as Son of God?

Because God already spoke from above when Jesus was baptized. Peter already said Jesus is the Messiah, and Jesus shushed him then, too. Jesus has been performing works giving witness to his authority and to the glory of God. Surely this mountaintop transfiguration is just the thing to bring around all those on the fence about believing. Now we’ve even got Moses and Elijah for certain on our team. We’re ready to hit “send” on this press release now.

But in this account of the transfiguration according to Matthew, the apostles heard the voice from the cloud, repeating the baptismal approval and adding what I’m sure had to be a booming “listen to him!”, and they hit the ground. Well, it says, “they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear,” but if you’re covered in a cloud and hearing the voice of God, you’re most likely going to hit the ground because your time has come. The apostles were afraid.

In Mark’s gospel, Jesus doesn’t know what to say to their fear. In Luke, they all keep silent. Here, in Matthew, Jesus comes to them, touches them, and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

The apostles look around and see that the moment of transfiguration has passed, along with Moses and Elijah. It’s only Jesus with them now. As they make the trek down the mountain, Jesus orders them not to tell about what they’ve seen until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead–basically until what he’s already told them will happen has actually happened. He’s going to be captured, and he’s going to die and rise again.

Why wait? Jesus continues to perform miracles. Crowds still seek him out. He’s working as one with authority. Why wait? Because there’s more. Epiphany is a season of light, focusing on Jesus’s ministry in the world, how God manifests Light in our world through the Incarnation, but that’s not all of Jesus’ story. The Light of Christ gets overshadowed not by the cloud of God but by our brokenness, not just the nonbelievers and traitors of Jesus’ day, but by our brokenness, too. Jesus’s story continues to be our story because the gospels don’t end with the transfiguration or even the crucifixion.

Jesus’s story is our story because he goes through suffering and death yet rises again. His friends betray him, but he comes back to them, allowing them to profess their love and ascertain their faith. Jesus’s story is our story because he sent those first apostles out to make more disciples, and people’s lives have been touched by God throughout our history, giving testimony to the many ways we suffer, fail, and rise again. Jesus’s story is our story because He continues to be revealed to us, showing up as “a lamp shining in a dark place.”

And I don’t like it, but sometimes we have to wait. We have to wait on God’s time. We have to wait while we discern the next best move, and by “best move” I mean move in accord with God’s will, not mine, and most of the time that’s hard to understand or to have a concept of a bigger picture. Sometimes we wait because we’re afraid, and our first response is not one of compassion or respect, let alone love. The voice from the cloud told the apostles to listen to Jesus. Jesus tells them to “Get up and … not be afraid.”

In an interview, civil rights activist and Congressman John Lewis, reflected on his childhood and young adult life. Listening to him talk, it’s hard to believe that his man was at the front of the march on Bloody Sunday in March of 1965. This man who admitted that he probably cried too much and lamented that we don’t tell one another “I love you” enough, led a nonviolent protest straight into the mouth of hell, where it seemed if one wave of violence didn’t kill them, another one waited at the other side of the bridge.

He didn’t wake up one day and decide to protest. He grew up wanting to be a preacher. He grew up asking questions. He grew up with an unshakeable faith and  persistent love. He believed that things could be better, that we could be better people.

He and the many others who joined Dr. King studied nonviolence. They studied Gandhi’s nonviolent efforts and read Thoreau’s civil disobedience. They dramatized situations, taking turns assaulting each other with horrible insults, learning how to fall and protect the head, practicing maintaining eye contact so that they could show that their spirit was not broken. But they would not retaliate with violence. They would resist the urge to strike back and lash out, knowing that something bigger than themselves was at stake. They studied and practiced nonviolence until they were ready to go out and do when discussion, when civil discourse failed. Being ready meant that they were also willing to face death for what they believed.

And he thought he was going to die that Bloody Sunday of March 7th, 1965. More than worrying about his death, he feared for those who were behind him in the march. But he didn’t die. He lived. He lived to see the day when he could meet the children of the man who beat him and meet the police department that had carried out orders to stop them, all of whom were now seeking forgiveness, seeking reconciliation, seeking freedom from a past that haunted them. Lewis met them in peace, with love. As Christians, we know that the story doesn’t end when one good thing happens, when something bad happens, or when we get scared. In fact, we know the story hasn’t ended yet because we’re still waiting for the Son of Man to come again in full glory.

In the meantime, we’ve got work to do. We’ve got to train on God’s Word. We’ve got to study and practice being in relationship with one another in true love and reconciliation. Sometimes we’ve got to wait because we don’t understand fully, and we may not be ready to give up our egos or even our lives for a greater Good. If we keep seeking God’s will and keep looking for God to show up in our lives, chances are we’ll recognize the glimpses of God’s glory when we see it. Our hearts, minds, and lives are the only thing created to capture and reflect God’s glory, so it’s okay to put down the electronics and turn to one another in love. It may just be that God’s waiting for us.

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We Have All We Need

 

Isaiah 58:1-9 | Psalm 112:1-10 | 1 Corinthians 2:1-12 | Matthew 5:13-20


Knowing how different each of our lives are, I still think I can say with much certainty that we all have a lot on our plate right now. Before we even bring our offering to the Lord’s table, we bring all our anxieties and distress with us when we walk through the door. So, please . . . take a deep breath, drawing in the peace of Christ, and exhale, letting the yoke of all your burdens rest beside you or at your feet, yours to pick up when you leave, if you can’t leave them altogether. Breathe in . . . and out in the luxurious security of this place, with one another, in the presence of Christ. Whatever else is on our plate for today, right now we’re given this time and taking these moments to make way for the light of Christ to break into our reality, perhaps even, as our collect says, to set us free from the bondage of our sins. We need this time more than we realize.

We’re in a place of being perilously close to losing our way, losing our heading of what is true and real.

I share with you a question I was asked on MLK Day. Speaking to a small but beautifully diverse gathering, I was asked sincerely: after all that has happened and is happening, can we be a united people? Sitting here, together, with all our different views, the answer is easy: Of course! We’re all children of God, and we come to the table as one Body in Christ.

But who are we when we’re not gathered on Sunday morning?

The news and media represents all of us as what I call “a hot mess.” Everyone is slapped with a label whether we like it or not, and we navigate our community as part of the majority or minority, the left or the right, the us or the them. A rare news or media outlet will create the safe place of a small group where we can be who we are. Tuesday night at the human trafficking panel, I caught a glimpse of who we are. With care and respect, we delved into a difficult topic. As beloved children of God recognized their woundedness, especially having been harmed by others, they were not helpless victims but strong survivors. Saturated with the Spirit that empowers them to carry on as love warriors, loving of a power greater than themselves and loving of themselves, these women sprinkled their salt generously on those of us present. We couldn’t help but be enriched and hopeful that lives will continue to be touched by grace and saved from harm. However damaged or broken the body might be, the dimmest flicker of light could be tended and kindled to grow ever brighter. At no point did anyone say they did the hard work alone, even though they had to make hard choices for themselves. Their truths sent out ripples of righteousness to all of us gathered.

Beloved child of God we are, but we are also part of a much larger family. We are each of us unique, bestowed with particular gifts and talents, skills and experiences. Unless we have reached a certain point in our life, chances are we’re not sitting still, hiding our light under a bushel.

What are we doing for ourselves and others?

Many of the women who have escaped trafficking or drug abuse find that even getting their life back on track with a steady job, safe home, and healthy kids isn’t as satisfying as reaching back into the darkness to help another escape the pits of destruction. Many today reading the news find that they cannot remain immobile and silent while their neighbors are afraid. That light bearing the brightness of a city on a hill bears the Light of the Body of Christ not to be dampered by the bushels of fear, anger, and indifference the world might try to construct.

Some days we are just trying to breathe under the weight of everything we bear; we’re just trying to survive. Eventually, though, like a candle under a glass jar, the isolation of our self-focus deprives us of the oxygen that fuels our light. Like a single tear dropped into a tub, the saltiness is lost. Even if we’re the most introverted of introverts, we need relationship. We need a friend, a mentor, a teacher. We need the Word, a prayer, and Jesus. We need to listen and be heard. We need to see and be seen.

In our relationships, we have the opportunity to untie some of the complicated knots of deception and injustice, to untangle ourselves from the bondage of sin, of turning away from God, by doing what Jesus tells us to do: to Love. Love God so much we can’t help but love ourselves, and that love is so overwhelming and rich, we can’t keep it all to ourselves but have to share it with others. That doesn’t mean we dance around singing Broadway songs, kissing everyone we meet. It does mean we question our motivations behind our decisions. Is where I spend my money perpetuating justice or enforcing injustice? What am I doing to help release the prisoner trapped either in mind, body, or spirit? Who do I know who is hungry? What am I doing to help feed their hunger? Who needs shelter from whatever storms they are facing? Who is naked and vulnerable? In my wealth and responsibility, what does Jesus command me to do? How can I best love my neighbor?

“Why are you helping me?” someone asked me last week.

“Because you’re a child of God,” I replied, our eyes connecting so he could measure my truth, my heart and soul laid bare.

What are we doing? At our best we are sending out ripples of righteousness not for our sake, not in empty selfish prayers and false piety but for the glory of God, without whom all our works are but dust.

Where do we go from here?

One could say we’re all headed to our death. All living things die as part of our natural order, but we are also a spiritual being. As we move forward in time it seems we make decisions that are either headed toward destruction or restoration, toward isolation or community, toward inadequacy or fulfillment. We move toward death or toward eternal life, to the grave or to the heavenly banquet.

What does it take to move beyond our fear of death long enough to taste true Love, true freedom?

I was reminded of what it feels like to let go in a very physical way when I was at Disneyland just over a week ago. In the 8 hours I was there–from 4pm until midnight–we rode as many rides as we could. Of course not all rides are equal. The caterpillar ride through Alice’s Wonderland differs greatly from the Indiana Jones Adventure ride complete with oncoming boulder I thought I must dodge physically. (I couldn’t get any lower in my seat!) It was on Space Mountain that I felt certain in the twist, turns, and utter darkness that I would die. At one of the crests, I relaxed my death-grip and let my heart leap and expand. In that moment of darkness with pinpricks of light like galaxy stars, I let my eyes be wide open and smiled with peace and sheer joy . . . before being yanked into a valley and slung around another curve, surely going faster than the 35mph the stats say it goes.

As I watched a video being circulated from the New York Times of people at the top of a 10 Meter dive tower, I wondered how different it was for them. They weren’t strapped in a moving vehicle. They climbed the tower stairs and walked to the edge, some more bravely than others. Nearly all the people shown backed away first. Would we willingly take a dangerous plunge? Would we go weak at the knees, or give ourselves a pep talk? Would we give up, declare it an impossibility, and ease ourselves back down the steps we ascended, or would we listen to the encouragement of a friend? Could we dive into the deep end, completely vulnerable, breaking through our irrational yet resounding fear? “I’ll go first,” more than one person said to their companion.

In this high-speed, one-way life of ours, we die many deaths; we take many risks. The Good News, dear Christians, is that we have all that we need to be a people united if we choose to keep moving toward God. We have all that we need to be free, to love fiercely. We have the gift of each other to help us in areas where we are weak, others who are honest, sincere, and righteous. God gave us discerning hearts to know the truth, that we could follow the light and love of Christ and keep moving toward eternal life. This isn’t idealistic spiritual talk; this is our true north. Following the Light, giving glory to God, we’ll not lose our way.

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On Glory

Acts 16:16-34 | Psalm 97 | Revelation 22:12-14,16-17,20-21 | John 17:20-26

Wednesday morning chapel is now one of the highlights of my week during the school year. Looking out into the sea of about 60 bright eyed children and the dedicated, nurturing teachers, I hope that what I say in the few moments of my homily will plant a seed of God’s whole and everlasting love in them. I hope they have something to take away with them because I won’t always be there to remind them that they are beloved children of God, and I know that they are growing up in a world of pain and suffering.

Isn’t that typical of a good mother? To want to protect her children?

And there are lots of children to be protected.

The little second-grade boy who, while we were standing in the lunch line, told me his mom was in jail, and the boy behind him who told me he was about to get out of DHS.

The 13-year-old girl who tried to commit suicide.

The 17-year-old transgendered child kicked out of the house.

The 25-year-old busted for meth, though he’s been using since he was 14.

The 35-year-old refugee whose spouse died, leaving him with the toddler and no home.

The 45-year-old single mom who went in for a routine mammogram and ended up with a same-day biopsy.

The 59-year-old who learns about her biological parents and siblings for the first time.

The 64-year-old who hears the confession and remorse of her molester who is dying and thinks she is someone else.

The 80-something-year-old who loses mobility, not just outside the home but within the house, too.

And the 98-year-old who grimaces with pain and fear of the unknown.

These—all of these—are children, precious babies who are in the midst of suffering. Mamas who care want to eliminate the pain.

How many of you have heard or said, “Honey, if I could take away your pain, I would”? How many of you have actually crossed hell and high water to do so, or at least to try?

Glennon Doyle Melton spoke at Trinity Cathedral a couple of weeks ago, wrapping up the Insights lecture series. She’s acclaimed for writing her truth on her blog Momastery.com.

In her writing, she shares the truth she knows as a wife, mother, recovering addict, and lover of Jesus, and people have discovered that her speaking matches her writing. The cathedral was literally full of giddy women, excited to hear her in person. She shared her stories and how they intersected with other women’s stories, usually meeting at that important point of vulnerability.

One woman told her what a failure she thought herself as a mother because her son was in the throws of addiction, of pain. Glennon, in the crazy-wise way she has, basically said to the woman, “Oh, honey, I hear you. I heard you say you’re a failure. So what is it that you think a mother does? What’s your job description?”

And the woman says, “Well, to protect my child, to keep him from getting hurt.”

“Mmm-hmmm, and what are your hopes for your child?” Glennon asks.

“That he grows into a strong, resilient, confident man,” the mother says.

“And how do we become strong and resilient?” Glennon asks.

The dawn of realization can be awesomely beautiful and painfully brutal, like life itself, which is why Glennon coined the term brutiful. The brutiful truth, they tearfully acknowledged, is that we go through suffering and emerge stronger than we were before, resilient in an enduring sort of way, and confident of our place in this brutiful life.

Maybe a more realistic job description for mothers is to love and sustain life, life that is given to us. All life originates in God, and we are given the care of life in this world. We just have to make it through the suffering parts. Just.

God knows we need help.

So the Son of God comes and lives among us. Jesus goes to the sick and the suffering or they come to him, and he heals them. Their pain is taken away. It seems miraculous and magical and transactional, but really it’s transformational. When it happens so quickly, it’s hard to distinguish, except that for the healed persons, their life is forever changed in a way only they and God know. They’ve not just been physically healed by God; they’ve been restored to wholeness, their full glory.

Do we even know what that means?

Glory?

Because it caused me pause.

I had to stop and realize that I didn’t really know what Jesus meant when he said to God that he wanted us to be with him, to see his glory, the glory given to him because God loved him before the foundation of the world. It sounds great. It resonates within me but doesn’t register consciously in my brain.

So I looked at different definitions of “glory” and how we use it in our liturgy (because we use it a lot). We have our doxology: “Glory to God in the highest,” we sing. We partner glory and honor because it can mean high regard and esteem, and we do hold God in the highest regard, so we use glory because it’s the best we can do with our finite language.

But what about this glory that’s given to Jesus by God? The glory restored in those who are healed? Wouldn’t you know that I opened my e-mail Friday morning to the daily message from the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, and in the little preview line on my phone, their word for the day in bold was GLORY.

I gasped out loud because I had seriously been wondering about glory. (Y’all, when we seriously wonder in the presence of God, we need to keep our eyes and ears open because we’re going to run smack dab into it.) Brother Curtis told me—because I know he was just speaking to me (let alone the thousands others who read these things)—

“Glory, or to be glorified, is to teem with God’s light and life and love. It’s to draw from the deepest waters of life, how the psalmist prays: ‘For you are the well of life, and in your light we see light.’ The Gospel writers speak of glory as if someone were simply luminous, irradiated with God’s light and life and love.”

That’s the understanding of glory that resonates within me so deeply that it strikes the chord of Truth and sends chills up my spine.

Jesus, Son of God, perfectly shone forth in glory, though he was disguised to those who did not believe. It looks like he healed by flicking a switch, but it was the power of recognition that transformed lives. Letting ourselves see Jesus in full glory and doing the even harder thing of recognizing the glory within us changes things. That glory of light and life and love is already in us, being as we are, created in God’s image, but our glory gets buried under layers upon layers of stuff we accumulate throughout life. To let that light and life and love break through is going to hurt, and often it’s going to hurt badly.

Our God knows this too, and I imagine God saying, “Son, go and show my children—your brothers and sisters—go show them Truth. You go and live out your life revealing our glory, and there are those who will recognize us. You’re going to go through the suffering of them all, for them all, to show them the way back to me. You’re going to die, but you’ll go back to them after three days to show them Life and Love and Light fully revealed. You’re going to be among them in your fullness of Glory, and you’re going to tell them that you will be with them forever. And then you’re going to return to Me, and we will abide and welcome all the children as they come to us.”

Jesus knew this to be true and lives out his brutiful life even through death.

Now we are in the season where Jesus has ascended and is gone again, even though he said he’d be with us always, and it doesn’t seem to make much sense.

But Jesus said those things about being one with the Father and with us. He said that thing about giving us the glory that he had been given. He said that thing about love being most important, and he did that thing about redeeming all suffering.

So what are we left to do?

Maybe instead of thinking about being a perfect mom or dad, friend or relative, husband or wife… Maybe instead we should ask ourselves:

What is my role as a child of God?

What is my responsibility to the One who gives me life and light and love?

Our responsibility might look more like a challenge, for we are to grow into our God-given glory and show God’s glory to the world as best we can. We already have the glory dwelling within us. It’s our work—even through suffering and death—to grow into that glory.

We do this through grace and steadfast faith, hope, and love and whatever other gifts we are given. We study the Scripture and the lives of those in our tradition that teach us how to grow toward God. We spend our entire lives as children reaching toward our beloved parent. If we choose to grow into God’s glory, we can’t help but radiate with glory, revealing it to the world around us. We might even realize that every bit of everything is all One in God.

Recognizing our glory and seeing God’s glory in others, even if they don’t see it themselves, changes us, changes our worldview.

We come closer to seeing ourselves and those around us as I imagine God sees us,

with whole and everlasting love. So when I look out at the sea of faces, be they the children in chapel or yours here today, I know I don’t have to protect you or give any of you what’s not mine to give. My responsibility and privilege is to love you, be with you, and to share in the hope of our wholeness in God in every way I can. God’s already given you the glory, already planted that seed.

I see it in you.

I hope you see it, too.

 

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My Rule

It’s not a rule; it’s a way to measure how I’m doing in life.

I tell myself this so that I don’t panic with all the responsibility or rebel against the “requirements.” Knowing beforehand that I will be imperfect at this is being gracious with myself. Thomas Merton prayed something to this effect: we hope that the desire to please God does, in fact, please God. I believe this wholeheartedly, and I also believe that holding myself accountable is the responsible thing to do good for me. My resistance to post this, to hold it out in the light instead of tucked away in my journal speaks to how truthful this is, what power it can unleash.

I must be feeling brave today. Here goes…

For care of self

Daily: journal/read/write; eat well; sleep; honor healthy boundaries/limits

Weekly: exercise; spend quality time with husband; reflect on what I’m reading in a journal

Seasonally: take a personal retreat; clear clutter in at least one area of my life/home; reflect on new material to read/listen to

For Relationships with Others

Daily: pray; show love; smile; focus on the one I’m with without distraction

Weekly: give individual attention (preferably 30 min) to my family members; enjoy a game night/family activity; serve through outreach ministry

Seasonally: spend a weekend/time with friends/family

For Relationship with Creation

Daily: recycle; keep thermostats at reasonable temperatures; walk when possible; turn lights out (& lights off by 10pm); use washable items (especially water bottles) as much as possible

Weekly: tend a flower bed or place in the yard/garden; if eating at a restaurant, eat someplace environmentally and food-friendly

Seasonally: hike/camp/enjoy the natural environment

For Relationship with God

Daily: pray the Morning Office or participate in the Holy Eucharist; meditate/contemplate 20 minutes

Weekly: practice lectio divina with the lectionary; worship corporately

Seasonally: monthly spiritual direction; spiritual retreat; confession

This is not set in stone, and it will change with time. If the first step is the hardest, I’m on my way, but I’m sure taking the next gazillion steps will require perseverance and love, too.

I told my husband that I will share my rule with him tonight so he can be on board (he’s already been completely supportive with my self-care goals lately). He can’t wait to hear it, he says.

“Want to know my rule?” he asked.

On the phone? Really? I thought. “Sure,” I said out loud.

“It’s easy. Four words.”

I try to guess it before he says anything. He’s always making dramatic pauses. I’m thinking about love and family.

“Don’t be a d*ck,” he says. “It’s simple.” I can tell he’s smiling.

I laugh, because this is perfect for him. I told him I was going to include it in this post, and he said I should make sure to credit Will Wheaton. Thanks, Will, for sharing your Law.

Here’s to the next steps in our lives!

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let me smile

I do not ask to bare my teeth to you

In kindness.

Lips dry and cracked or

Glossed in rosey hue,

I frame my greeting in sentiment

Pure and true.

Without a word

I hear your ache and loss,

Your fear.

Do you dare respond with such vulnerability,

Heart wide open?

Does it help if

I also feel your dreams and joys and

See the light in you,

however dim and disguised?

Please.

Let me smile.

Accept this token given freely, not even my own.

This grace.

God’s love.

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Purple for Preparation

For those unfamiliar with the Anglican tradition, the Church calendar is a circle, a cycle, and it has certain colors for every season.  Naturally, there’s a lovely children’s song to teach the season and the meaning for each.

“Purple for preparation.  White for celebration.  Green is for the growing time.  Red is for Pentecost!”

The four weeks of Advent precede Christmas and its twelve days.  Advent is a time of preparing and waiting.  In that time we ponder the Mystery, the Light, Mary, and the other lessons accompanying the season.

In one of my rare solitary moments, I considered what it is that I need to be prepared for, beyond the religious norm.  What I discover, of course, is that my needs parallel with the lessons.

What needs to be done?  What am I required to do as a member of society?  I have to be counted.  I have to pay taxes.  I have to make sure the family is cared and provided for.  My husband and I do this together, the day-to-day, part-of-society requisites.  We have to follow the rules, even if it results in frustration from waiting in lines or finding businesses to be closed due to holiday hours.  We try again.  We do what has to be done.

What is needed of me?  The children need a more compassionate mother (especially this morning).  They need time and attention, which are hard to provide when one is tired and energy levels are low.  Others need the same of me; truthfully, they deserve the same.  Kindness.  I need this of myself, too.

And what might be required from me in this life?  Am I prepared to fulfill my purpose?  I believe that if I’m still alive, I have work to do for the greater Good.  I still don’t know what that work is, but I sense clues.  Ultimately, every moment is an opportunity to change the world for the better.  This is what makes me an optimist, I suppose.  Take the complacency, anger, animosity, even hatred and replace it with awareness and compassion.  It aligns nicely.

The advice given Mary and Joseph works for me, too.  “Do not be afraid.”  Do the work.  Be present to, for, and with others and myself.  Trust the Mystery and live the Magic.  Goodness is here, in every moment, but I have to be prepared if I want to see it.  I have to be prepared to experience it.  I have to be prepared to be surprised, which ironically I am every time I experience true Grace, Light, and Love.

May we all be so blessed.

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What Mary Knew

Of the four children smacking their cocoa-sweet lips and held captive by The Polar Express, one has a birthday this week, two days before Christmas.  Ten years ago I was 40 weeks pregnant, great with child.  But it wasn’t my first.  I had my support in place.  Preparations had been made.  I knew what to expect, more or less.

In this fourth week of Advent, I love that we light a pink candle to honor Mary.  I love remembering that she surrendered to something greater than herself, that she humbled herself to be a servant.  She didn’t know . . . she couldn’t know what was in store.

Every time I picture Mary or try to work with any kind of visualization or exercise of lectio divina, I have a sense of what Mary might have known.

Surrender.

What was happening was beyond her control.  It wasn’t just about Mary the innocent young woman suddenly expecting child.  As with every mother bearing child, from the moment the baby is conceived and grows, the mother can only do her best to keep healthy.  The formation of the child is left to genetics and the miracle of life.  A mother-to-be can seek the wisdom and comfort of other women to learn all that she can, but when it comes time to birth, there is no bringing forth of life without letting go of one’s identity.  Virgin Mary to Holy Mother of Jesus.  Can you imagine what Mary experienced alone in that stable?  Do you think she found in herself the capacity to pity poor Joseph standing helplessly by?  Could there have been a woman from the Inn who had mercy?  Such details are left unaccounted.

Next thing we know is that there’s a baby in a manger.  Mary has a child, a dependent.  This child’s existence depends upon her care and attention.  She knows this.  With her surrender, though, she knows this child she cares for is not hers alone.  She cares for this precious child not only as her own but as one of God’s . . . as God.  Did she know this?

Could she truly sense this from the beginning?  Could she know the heartache that would come?

From the very beginning, this would be beyond her comprehension.  She might never fully understand.  She could only do her best to do what was required of her in every moment.  She would live fully into each moment, keeping her heart as open as possible to live into the will of God.  This would be the best she could do.  It’s the best any of us can do.

Oh, that I have the humility to live into every moment with awareness and true surrender.  May I raise my children so that they will grow into the beings they are meant to be, not what or how I want them to be.  May I have the strength to be a mother of strength, love, and acceptance.

My children are blessings to me.  I am surrounded by abundance, and I understand this mother role . . . more or less.

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