The Sound of Your Greeting

Last night, I had dinner with Musicman. It was the first time (in what seems like a long, long time) where it was just the two of us -- so we talked about the month's plans (there are lots of parties and I get to meet his parents over New Years). And then, we talked about big things that matter. We talked about our concerns for the world in the news we heard that day.

On Wednesday, he's reconnecting with some folks with whom he used to make music. They were a Christian rock band. Um. Anyway, this lead to a conversation about how you put your heart into something and when it connects with others. This band was the last time that he felt that heart connection in his music. They broke up 15 years ago. His emotions are all over the place at the possibility of reconnecting with these old friends who shared such a romance with him. He's overwhelmed by this possibility of being that raw again. I remarked that that's how I feel about a good sermon when I'm so honest that it hurts.

And lo and behold, I seem to be writing that sermon this week. I'm writing about the visitation between Mary and Elizabeth and trying to make sense of it in light of this study that was released this week about happiness. What does this say about church and the things that we share together? Doesn't this mean that all of our emotions are welcome? Isn't that the risk that Mary takes in talking about her womb (which was reserved for the private circle) in the public realm? Shouldn't we be that bold? Won't that pull us closer together?

And most importantly, why is this so hard to write?

Too Much Religion

I know it's Tuesday and most of you will be annoyed that I have a sermon draft today -- but this week looks ahead to many a funeral, and I need this to be done (with the Senior Pastor on vacation especially). I would love insight as I feel that it doesn't wrap up all that well -- though perhaps that's not a big surprise with the story of the binding of Issac (Genesis 22:1-14).

Too much religion. That was the unanimous opinion of my family last weekend. The memorial service for my grandfather was nice – but the minister was a little heavy on the religion. It was too much. Too much religion.

Maybe this was the same thought in the back of Abraham’s mind when he makes his way to Moriah to “offer [his son] as a burnt offering.” Even as he “rose early in the morning” to go to the mountain that God would show him. Even though he was going to worship on top of that mountain, perhaps Abraham thought – somewhere in the back of his mind – this is just a little too much religion.

My family’s complaint was the long-winded preacher’s repeated emphasis on the passion of Jesus. They wanted to celebrate my grandfather’s 79 years of life – not focus on the sacrifice that Jesus may have offered with his life. My aunt said that the point was made, but he didn’t have to keep going on about it. My father protested that the death of Jesus was not the assurance he wanted, not at this moment, if ever. It was all just too much. Too much religion – as I suspect it must have been for Abraham – even if he doesn’t seem to bat an eye.

Our human response is to assume that Abraham is angry and a little indignant. We assume that he’s questioning the accepted Jewish ritual observance of offering a sacrifice to his God – but none of this appears in the Biblical account. But, it’s not there – “no anguish, no heated arguments with Sarah, no teetering on the edge of faith.” Abraham just goes to the top of that mountain with his son following at his heels asking, “where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”

And even with this question, Abraham doesn’t waiver. He assures his son that God will provide that lamb. God will provide, and they walk on together with the certain awareness that God never said this was going to be easy. The stuff of faith is not supposed to be easy. Sarah can laugh at God all she wants, but the God Abraham has come to know has done some pretty amazing things – all the while promising that “God will bless those who bless him, and the one that curses Abraham God will curse.” So, really what could go wrong? Why would Abraham’s faith teeter as he raises that knife to kill his son?

This is a stark and frightening image. Abraham was just listening to the voice of God. He “thought it would be the right thing, in God’s eyes.” But, these are not Abraham’s words. Even though he looks up, we don’t know if Abraham is looking up to see God’s eyes. We only know that when he looks up, he sees a ram.

This idea of it being the right thing in God’s eyes isn’t offered in the Biblical account. It’s transcribed by a Methodist pastor named Pat who shares the story of Anola Dole Reed with her friend over cups of tea. Her friend Rebecca is also a pastor, and they often share cups of tea and talk about the loneliness that often accompanies ministry. Pat confessed to her friend, “He killed her. With a kitchen knife. In front of three of their children. The baby was sleeping.” Rebecca listened to her friend’s story and then dared to ask the question we all wonder when we hear these kinds of stories, “Why?”

That’s when Pat talked about how Anola thought she was doing the right thing, in God’s eyes. This woman who had been murdered by her husband with a kitchen knife while her three children watched, thought she was doing the right thing. Anola was keeping the family together. Pat explained the pastoral challenge of this situation:

“A good woman would be willing to accept personal pain, and think only of the good of the family. You know, ‘Your life is only valuable if it’s given away’ and ‘This is your cross to bear.’ She heard, just like you and I have, that Jesus didn’t turn away from the cup of suffering when God asked him to drink it. [Anola] was trying to be a good Christian, to follow in the footsteps of Jesus.”

Too much religion. That’s what it sounds like to me. This is the kind of faith that ignores that Sarah or even Ishmael might have had something to say about Abraham’s actions. It is the kind of religion that focuses so tightly on the bindings – whether those are the bindings that held Issac to that wooden altar or the limitations that hold us back to a certain set of beliefs.

This is too much religion. It’s too much when we ignore how our stories and those on the news and those seated beside us don’t become part of how we hear the Biblical account.

Too much religion is what happened to Paul when he wrote his many letters to Rome or Corinth reminding the newly forming Christian communities what it means to practice love. Paul thought that the world was going to end. Any day now, Jesus would come back. His understanding of faith was all about sacrifice – because there was nothing to live for. Jesus was coming back and so these early Christian communities didn’t worry about how to govern themselves or what to sing. The only way for them to understand love was to look forward to the end of what they knew in Jesus’ triumphant return to earth.

But, we have stories. We are not limited in this way. Like Abraham, we look up in search of answers – but when no ram appears – we turn toward each other. This is what it means for us to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. Like Anola, we are trying to be good Christians. We are trying to be faithful – but that doesn’t mean that our lives are full of sacrifice. We want to do the right thing in God’s eyes, but we aren’t seeking tests. After all, it’s summer time. We would rather leave the tests and rules behind us, even if this is a story about Abraham being tested. We’re not counting the crosses we bear to evidence our devout faith.

If this were so, we would have no room for joy. There is plenty of personal pain. But, when there is too much religion, there never seems to be enough room for joy. And in a world full of sacrifice, abuse and tough stories, it seems that there needs to be more room for joy – if only we are brave enough to seek it buried beneath all of the bindings of our shared faith.

The story of Pastor Pat is from Proverbs of Ashes, which you should read. It's one of my favorite books on a very tough subject. I found another great sermon illustration in the chapter on Divine Suffering in She Who Is. It was a tough choice. I hope I made the right one.

Seeking Intimacy

Apparently, Little Mary and I have some of the same goals. She is trying to be more intimate. I refuse to have a roommate -- but I have the same goal. I have been taking risks with what I share with church people and even friends about my own personal life. I've been thinking about this since my colleague often preaches about his family life. Lots of preachers do this. I don't. I don't know why. I'm not sure I'm ready to do that in the pulpit. But, there are certainly small moments I can share things with the people I serve -- like admitting that I'm having a bad day or saying that something bugged me (because it did).

At out Pastor Parish Relations Committee meeting, the committee teased me for how I begin worship. I stole something I really liked from Rev. Ez who invited the community to begin by finding their breath. So, I do this every week. I paused to pray before the meeting began -- and the whole group started exaggerating their breath. I laughed. It was rather wonderful.

This idea of intimacy is particularly interesting given my thoughts about preaching next week on Genesis 12:1-9. To me, this is a story not only about beginnings -- but how we create family. I read this text and instantly thought about what is happening in California and that article that appeared in the New York Times Magazine a few weeks ago. So, I'm thinking about preaching about marriage -- which has become a bad word in my mind.

However, to do this, I have to talk about my own stuff. I will talk about my strange family and how that forms my understanding of marriage. That's not so intimate to me. The part that will be hard not to prevent from creeping into the sermon is my own forlorn anxiety that I will never get to have that family I celebrate in the union of others. This has no business if my sermon. It shouldn't be there. It won't be there. But, it will be hard. I think I will do it anyhow, but it will be hard.

Heaven Opens

I didn't exactly keep it a secret from the members of my congregation that I was not pleased with my sermon this morning. It guess it wasn't exactly horrifying -- but it lacked the poetry that I had hoped for in the completed manuscript that I hope to preach. I guess that's what I wanted: completion. The ideas were there. And yet, the document was not as fluid and poetic as this preacher chick might like.

My sermon focused on the stange wonder that "the heavens were opened" (Matthew 3:16, NRSV). The very idea fascinates me and I'm still trying to figure out what exactly this is about.

One of the themes that I was struggling with in my own justice seeking as I imagined the heavens opening was influenced by the unseasonable 60 degree weather in January. Outside of the ancient worldview, I was perplexed about what weather might mean for this understanding of heaven opening. I hinted at this in my sermon as I referenced an article in our local paper -- but it was not something that I particularly emphasized in my sermon. This was especially true in the first service this morning where I didn't reference the article or really talk about global warming at all. And yet, heaven opened when one quiet woman asked me: "What will happen to the ritual of baptism when there is no longer any water in our world?"

It Is Finished

Did I mention that the sermon was actually a response to a card that we added to our pew racks? Someone had asked for a sermon to be preached to answer the "How long?" question about grief. This is what I did -- twice.

It didn't go so well at the Chapel service. I was afraid of that. I was without my mauscript and I wondered around as I tried to get these frigid New Englanders to talk about their pain. You could see it in their eyes -- but no one talked. It's one of those rare moments where I wanted the safety and protection of the pulpit. Alas, it still preached and it resonated somewhere with someones. That's the Holy Spirit, isn't it? Even when it's not just right, the Spirit guides. Thank God.

At the 10 am service, I did it. I preached it. I didn't cry. I got choked up once -- as I clung to my manuscript. I was too emotional to memorize it. I wish I could have but you can't do it all, right? I was so nervous about the poor grandchild complex that this would cause. You know, where these church ladies suddenly feel the need to care for me. No one did. There were so many hugs in the receiving line after worship my arms got tired. It was met with tears and thanksgiving. Someone had finally told the truth. I got that comment a lot. I heard about people's pain that I never knew before. And God said, Amen.

To all that were praying for me this morning: I felt it and thank you. Thank you for listening and reading. Thank you for your wisdom and grace. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

A Rough Draft

I'm nervous about this. I cried while writing it. I'm terrified of preaching it. I'm not sure it works. I'm not sure that it's all I want to say. It's more than I had intended to say. And yet, it feels like gospel truth... But, I'm still have enough fear that I wonder if colleagues would cringe. So, do you?

What do you think of my sermon based on Psalm 137?

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. Elizabeth Kubler Ross chartered unfamiliar territory when she named these five stages of grief. And with these five words, Kubler Ross gave me a vocabulary for what I already knew. When I was seven years old, I hung up my harp. There were no words to sing. Like those that lament in this old song, I was displaced.

I was not exiled from my homeland. Those that first crooned these lyrics were forced out of their home in Jerusalem just after the temple was destroyed in 587 BCE. They had to recreate their lives in the foreign land of Babylon. My foreign land is not a place you can find on a map. I was not forced out of my geographical home. But like the exiled community in Babylon, my entire world was destroyed.

My mother died. For those of you that know grief, the past tense of this statement is irrelevant – just as it was to the exiled community singing this song. Our foreign land is in this non-place between what we knew and what we have created. This is the foreign place of grief where past, present and future converge in ways that don’t make logical sense. And in this place, it is so hard to sing. Nothing sounds like it did before. Somehow everything familiar has changed – like the world before and after September 11, 2001. Indeed, how can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?

We can’t sing the songs we always sang. It seems safer to hang our harps on the willows and just weep for things we can’t possibly understand. Their sorrow is overwhelming. Our pain is too great. And yet, this exiled community in Babylon doesn’t just assume the position on the ground like mourners. They name their sadness. They didn’t shy away from it. They sing about their loss. They lament their lost home.

It seems an easy enough thing to do at this time of year when others talk about family reunions during the holiday season. For me, Christmas was the last time she was healthy. My mother died only a month later. There are no lyrics for my lament – and I won’t offer words for your pain at this time of year.

No one can tell you what grief is until you have been there. Joan Didion discovered this after her husband suddenly died. “Grief,” she said, “turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death.” With her sudden loss, Joan Didion realizes what I already knew. No one can tell you how to feel or what to do. It is your place. It is your exile. It is your experience of loss.

I cannot tell you how to feel or what to do. I won’t tell you that it will all be over soon. Because Joan Didion is right. Grief is not like we imagine it. It hurts more and it lasts a lot longer. For me, it has been twenty years of trying to understand what I don’t know how to explain. I can’t tell you how much it hurts or when it will hurt. I can’t anticipate what will trigger my grief. I only know that it is part of my daily life. It is my exile. It is my experience of displacement.

And because of this, I don’t want to edit it. I don’t want to make it sound like shining ever-present hope because there are days where it hurts too much to bear. There are days where I want my mother back more than anything. And for those days, I need to know that I can express my rage before my God.

I know it sounds horrible and perhaps doesn’t make any theological sense. But, there are days where I need to be able to smash something. I would prefer that it wasn’t the head of baby – but this is the language that is passed down to us. For this exiled community wanting so badly to reclaim their home, the language of the conquerors creeps in. We could edit this part out. Or just ignore it. But would this really ignore this last insult upon a conquered city? When a city was overtaken, the conquerors took the most innocent and defenseless and dashed their heads against rocks. It’s gruesome and violent. It violates our understanding of justice. And yet, there are days when this is just how I feel about my mother’s death.

It’s not enough to hang up my harp. It’s not enough to lament. I want justice. And in the words of this ancient song, I can find words to voice my outrage. These words release that anger so that no harm can be done to myself or others. Maybe this psalm teaches us to say things that we would never actually do but invites us to release our fury.

Perhaps that’s a stretch for you. Perhaps your foreign place has no space for that kind of violence. But again, I can’t tell you how to feel. I can only tell you about my exile in my foreign land – where I need to be able to release the rage that I felt for the receptionist at Breast Care Center only a few weeks ago. I was informed by this woman that because I was only 28, I was not eligible for a mammogram. It may as well have been baby heads smashing into the phone as I told her that my mother died of this disease at 33 and I did not intend to meet the same fate. She offered a polite excuse. And I slammed the phone into the cradle. Hot tears rushed down my face as I picked up the phone to make an impossible call to my mother. This is my exile.

I may not be crouched on the ground weeping by the river every day – but there are still days that I need to hang up my harp. In my exile, I still look back and wonder what life would have been like if she had lived. I still yearn for her wisdom and miss her when the rest of family has gathered. But, like the exiled community in Babylon, I have created a new home in this foreign place. I have tried to make sense of what I can’t possibly understand and I have relied on the embrace of God through it all. And in this embrace, I can find the hope to sing.

I like that about this time of year. When our holy calendar ends, we begin again to tell the old, old story. In the darkest month of the year, we call upon the wisdom of the prophets to imagine the impossibility of realizing all of our hopes. This is a song I can sing.

In tune with the prophets, I can sing about my longing. And yet, just as I know that grief is not what we expect, I know that the incarnation of God is not what was expected. The prophets expected a warrior or a king – just as I thought I would be healed of my loss. Just as the exiled community in Babylon longed for restoration of their home. It is not what we expected – and yet, God comes. And God is with us in this too. When we want to hang up our harps and when we can’t find the words to sing, God is with us. God is with us.

Increase Our Faith

A sermon for World Communion Sunday based on Luke 17:5-10 (NRSV). In honor of Indigenous Peoples Day, I used the story of The First Corn from the Penobscot Nation of Maine. You can read the whole story here.

“The people increased until they were numerous.” This is what it means to increase. To acquire. To hoard. To multiply stuff. Or in this story from the Penobscot Nation, to multiply people. And yet, this story is not about the number of people in this particular tribe expanding throughout Maine.

This story is about the Great Teacher and how he meets a boy and a girl who get married and have kids. Lots of them – until they were numerous. However, happiness doesn’t last long. Famine strikes and children are starving. No one is happy – and the husband notices strange behavior in his wife. She only seems happy when she is in water. Wanting nothing but happiness for his wife, he asks the Great Teacher for advice. And what does he tell him? This loving husband must kill his wife.

Doesn’t exactly sound like the slave in the Gospel Lesson does it? Here is a guy that is accused of being “useless” or “unprofitable,” or in this translation, “worthless.” No word of thanks is offered to this slave after he has plowed the fields and tended the sheep. No praise. No invitation to put his feet up and enjoy the feast. Nope. Like the apostles, we wouldn’t say “come here at once and take a place at the table.” We would ask him to set the table and serve us.

And Jesus knows this. He knows our downfalls because he’s been there. Jesus knows what it is like to be human. So, he begins this parable with a question where the obvious answer is no. Like it or not, we would answer no. Even though we would hope for a different ending, we would ask to be served.

After all, we all relish in someone else taking good care of us. Even though we would rather think that we would answer yes to Jesus’ question, we would say no. We would not invite this slave to sit at the table with us. And aren’t we just as worthless?

Well, no. That’s not how we think of ourselves. In fact, we don’t even think of slaves this way. We are not first-century Christians who considered slavery to be “against nature” while still upholding that it was not “morally wrong.” We celebrate the Underground Railroad. We are proud of our abolitionist Congregational mothers and fathers. For us, it is difficult to imagine anyone could be denied of “all dignity.” They are just as loved. They are children of God. So, no, we are not worthless and neither are they. But in the first century, slaves did what they were ordered to do – and they were still worthless.

I wonder if this is how the husband felt. I wonder if he felt worthless after the Great Teacher told him to kill his wife. Did he feel worthless on his way home? How did he feel when his wife assured him that this is what he must do? So, he follows her instructions and kills her. Just like the slave, he does what he is told. He does “only what [he] ought to have done.” I know. You hoped for a different ending, didn’t you? But, our story is not so different.

“Increase our faith!” Multiply our belief! Amplify our trust! More! More! We cry. Like the apostles, we rely on Jesus to transform our faith like a magic spell. But, that’s not how it works. Because faith isn’t just belief. Faith is something else. “An on-again-off-again rather than once-and-for-all. Faith is not being sure where you are going, but going anyway. A journey without maps.” At least, that’s the way Frederick Buechner explains it. Faith is the people that you meet along the way and the stories you tell. It’s the “social glue that binds one person to another.”

It’s not magic. Jesus can’t make the glue for us. We have to do more. We have to do more than we ought to have done. Not because we are worthless, but because we imagine a different ending. We believe that each child of God is loved. So, we must figure out how to increase our glue.

Today, we increase our glue with an invitation to “Come at once and take your place at the table.” Today, with bread and cup, we increase our glue in this sacred space where God comes to take a place at our table and celebrate “the relationship that the meal establish[s] among the diners.” This is our glue that reaches across oceans, boundaries, nations, enemy lines and even cultures. This is what binds us together.

But how do we increase our glue beyond this table? How do we share what happens to us in this sacred space? Are we waiting like the husband for the Great Teacher to explain what we don’t understand?

Because he does. The Great Teacher explains to the husband that his wife has become the first corn. Just as she had said, the Great Teacher explains that “her power should be felt over the whole world and that all should love her.”

It’s not magic. But could this be our power? Could these words from another culture help us discover something of ourselves?

Maybe. Maybe these could teach us to tell our own stories. To take and eat and share what we have seen. To take and drink and increase our glue as we discover what binds one person to another. It’s not magic. But, it might increase our faith.

Cut from the Sermon

I didn't want to lose this entirely because it was a fairly big moment for me this week. As obvious as it seems, I realized it's something I don't think about in my preparation and perhaps I should think about it more. Maybe it's true for you too. Anyhow, like it or not, this was cut from my sermon. Maybe it will go back in. God knows.

Several weeks ago, I was honored in the presence of all who sat at table with me. And though we did spend a significant amount of time eating and drinking, it was a preaching conference for young women clergy that brought us together. Each of us – serving God as women under the age of 40 – felt honor to be in that presence. We share something unique. Something a little bit different. {missing transition here}

During this sacred time together, we got to preach twice. And the feedback we offered each other covered four areas: biblical interpretation, theological interpretation, language and embodiment. Like the Pharisees, we watched closely. We listened closely to hear these four things. And as I watched and listened, I heard something surprising in myself. For someone that relishes in theology, I don’t preach theology.

I was taught in seminary to write a thesis statement indicating what my sermon would be about. I could never do it – because I never knew. The writing process in the end would tell me. Or maybe it wouldn’t be until weeks after I preached my sermon that I realized that that was a sermon about atonement. Or salvation. Or even grace.

Today, Tomorrow and the Next Day

Here is my sermon from this pas Sunday (which I finally edited to reflect what I actually preached). The Scritpure lesson is from Luke 13:31-35. There is a reference that is distinctive to the church. We are embarking on a Lenten journey through the NRCAT's resource Way of Torture, Way of the Cross. I have adapted it, but it's been very fruitful and profound. This is the conversation that I refer to in the sermon.

It was only ten days ago that a few of us gathered in this chancel to begin our Lenten journey. Ten days ago, we remembered that we were dust. Ashes marked our foreheads to remind us that we were created from dust. And one day, we will return to dust.


Like many of you, I did not grow up with memories of Ash Wednesday. And yet, I find these strange words to be so comforting. You were created from the dust of the earth, and to dust you shall return, the minister says as she marks your forehead with an ashen cross. I was dust. And like you, I will return to being dust. And we will always be part of God's living, breathing creation. No matter if we are dust or if we will be dust, God loves us. God created us from dust and God will lovingly mingle us with the dust of our ancestors in death.

And I need the dust. I need the dust of the earth to remind me that we are all connected. Perhaps it’s a longing that comes from calling New York City home. As much as I cherish New York, it is a place without earth. The earth is hidden underneath. Buried underneath the steel, pavement, streetlights and architecture. There is no earth to touch. To touch and remember our connection to God’s creation. To touch and remember our connection to each other. But then again, that’s the frustrating part about the city. In the city, it’s hard to make that connection.

It’s why I left New York. In all of my wanderings about the city, it was a rare event to bump into someone I knew. Most New Yorkers cherish this. There is a certain pride in the ability to travel from school to work to church to the supermarket without making a single connection. Without knowing a single person. Without having a single exchange with another human being. Instead, you make a decision to make that connection. You make a choice to go to the deli to get a cup of coffee, but really to talk to the man behind the counter about politics. Or you smile at the only other person in the subway car that is reading the Bible.

Or as it is for my friend Krista, you take the bus. Krista and I met in the earth of Appalachia. We spent a summer together getting dirty for Jesus. That was the name of the program that we used. Get dirty for Jesus. It’s a silly name, but both Krista and I came to understand in those few months living in an area that America has forgotten that we needed the dirt to find a connection. We needed to be willing to get dirty. We need the dust, even though it’s easier to make that connection in the mountains.

But, both Krista and I moved back to the city. I moved to New York and Krista moved to Jerusalem. And the “city may be the hardest place of all to recognize the presence and activity of God.” So, Krista takes the bus while she serves as a missionary in a foreign city that seems far from my realm of experience. In Jerusalem, the same city that Jesus weeps for in this strange gospel story, Krista takes the bus.

In her email last week, Krista explained the harsh reality of a flying checkpoint, where suddenly the bus taking her back home is swerved off to the side of the road and a soldier in a green khaki uniform boards the bus, carrying a very large gun. She explained how “everyone pulled out their light blue Jerusalem IDs and added them to the stack that [the soldier] was now carrying down the aisle” while Krista “slithered [her] dark blue navy passport- [her] little get out of jail free ID- out of its black holder.” The soldier didn’t give her a second glance before he disappeared off the bus with a “dozen Jerusalem IDs and one of the unlucky passengers whose ID was green, indicating that he is from the West Bank.”

Today, tomorrow and the next day, these flying checkpoints will continue to happen. And even though, I can’t quite imagine this moment of Krista sitting on the bus, her email shares her thoughts, as Krista explains:

I wondered how the man sitting in the next seat must think of me- me with my blonde hair, my new backpack, my headphones, and my passport that gets waved away at flying checkpoints… Is he angry? Frustrated? Or is he just tired?

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills prophets and stones those who are sent to it,” Jesus laments. Jesus weeps for this city before he has even arrived there. He is still on his way. He is still on the journey toward this city where nothing insignificant happens. Everything that happens there has profound meaning.

It is where we will end our Lenten journey. Jesus will enter this city again on a path of palm branches. This city “will turn out to be the city which refuses him – in spite of an initial, enthusiastic welcome.” But, we are still on the journey. We are still in the midst of Lent. We have not made it there yet. We can look forward to what will come – for at least in the gospel story – we know what lies ahead. We know what will come. We know what this city will bring. But, we are not there yet.

That pause is difficult. We would prefer to look ahead. After all, we are Easter people. As Barbara Johnson says, we are Easter people living in a Good Friday world. A Good Friday world where flying checkpoints happen. A Good Friday would where human connections are hard to make. A Good Friday world that makes us feel “impotent.” That was the word that I heard echoed through our first Lenten conversation on Wednesday afternoon. We feel powerless, as we look around our world. We feel we cannot do anything.

And like Jesus, we lament. We weep for the possibility that this city “might have had and might still have.” But, it’s not turning out that way. We lament that things are not as we would hope. Some of us are angry. Some of us are frustrated and some of us are just tired. And so, like Jesus, we weep. Not just for the city, New York, Jerusalem, or even Portland, but for our Good Friday world – where too many things seem to have gone wrong.

So, we name the foxes that have caused the trouble we see. And we wonder, against hope, where the prophets are. We wonder why they can’t be heard and why we feel that we cannot do enough. After all, we are Easter people. We look forward to what will come because we are filled with the hope of Easter. We look forward to the spring for we know that it will surely come after the wintery mix.

But, we are still on the journey. We are not there yet. We are still on our way. Today, tomorrow and the next day, will we weep? Today, tomorrow and the next day, will we lament the unrealized possibilities? Are the foxes too powerful? Are the prophets too silent?

No. No, not if we truly listen to the weeping Christ. The weeping Christ who embraces this ancient city that even in our Good Friday world of today still seems broken. The weeping Christ who gathers all that seems to have gone wrong under wings, like a hen gathers her brood. Even in the midst of his tears, Jesus doesn’t allow the fox or silent prophets to make him angry, frustrated or just tired.

“I must be on my way,” he says despite his tears. This is not how it will end. Easter has not yet come. But, it will. It will. This we know for sure. And no fox can stop it, even if it is usually foxes that win. Not this time.

Not even when we feel powerless and impotent. It’s hard to believe because an embrace doesn’t seem to have enough power. A hen gathering her children under wings seems like a bad opponent for the fox. Surely, the fox will win. But no, friends, not this time.

Perhaps it seems naïve. Perhaps it seems like it is not enough. Surely, an embrace cannot overcome the world that we see around us. But, I think it can. In fact, I am certain that it can. I heard it on Wednesday afternoon in Davidson Lounge. I heard it as I listened to the conversation that began with the question: What is Torture? We read three Biblical passages together, and asked some tough questions. It was the last question that I did not think we would ever get to. But, it was the question that spurred the most conversation. How do we respond? If we believe these things to be true, how do we respond?

Indeed, we must be on our way. Today, tomorrow and the next day, we will look forward because we are filled with the hope of Easter. And like Krista, we will find a way to get on the bus. And because we are Easter people, we must not lose sight of our hope. In the end of her email, Krista names this hope.

I look forward to the day when I can ride a bus and just look out the window, watching for the gradual changes in the seasons, instead of being assaulted by the political realities that are always simmering just below the surface. I look forward to a time when buses will be a tool for transportation and connection rather than further division.

In our Good Friday world, there are too many divisions. But, remember friends, the fox will not win. And we will lament. We will weep. We might find ourselves angry, frustrated or just tired. But now, get on board. Get on your bus – whatever bus you might ride. Today, tomorrow and the next day, ride your bus.

Take One

This is my first attempt at starting my sermon on Luke 13:31-35 for Sunday. I have abandoned it, but I'm using my blog as storage. I know. That's not what a blog is. But, I do it sometimes.

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Are we there yet? You may have heard this nagging cry from the backseat of the car. Or the question might have come from the passenger seat in disbelief that once again, you could not stop to ask for directions. Or maybe this question echoes in your head after you have safely parked the car in the garage. It’s the question that you ask yourself when you arise in the morning. And the question that tucks you in at night. Are you there yet? Are we there yet?

Today, tomorrow and the next day, we are still traveling. Never more certain what we are seeking or what our travels might reveal, we know that we must be on our way. We must move on. Scurry about. Get going. Doesn’t it feel that way? Like we are perpetually on this journey? Doesn’t it feel like our travels are endless?

This is how Lent always arrives for me. It gives me pause and makes me wonder: Are we there yet? It nags at me like I once whined from the back of my parents’ car. It feels like we have been on this journey for far too long. But, we are still waiting for something to click. We are still waiting for that moment when suddenly everything will make sense. That moment we will know that everything is as it should be. It seems like an impossible moment, but one that we believe will come. No matter how stubborn this belief might be. No matter how often we are tempted to give up, we believe that somehow our faith will explain the horrors and pains that we see around us.

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Can this sermon really end up being about theodicy? Am I ready to preach about that even for myself?

Growing Toward

This is my sermon from Sunday (the one where I sang) based on Jeremiah 17:5-10 and Luke 6:17-26. I wasn't going to post it, but I have developed a slight ego from all of the affirmations I have received from my congregation this week. One of the members of the Search Committee cried (I learned yesterday). There were emails and notes under my door. It's hard not to feel overwhelmingly affirmed. Anyhow, I am sharing it with you.


It was in pieces on the ground. No longer OK. It’s fresh wood was pale pink against the muddy ground. A jumble of bits where there once stood a relic. This is how you find things in the forest. It had snapped in half below the last living branch. A branch that had big filmy greens leaves last spring. That had buds fat with promise all winter.Is it dead now? Will its roots go on living into the spring and summer longing for food from leaves that will never unfold? Where trees are concerned the exact time of death is hard to figure. Perhaps it is the point where they can’t grow back.

As I soon as Julie Zickefoose had said that last sentence and the radio show continued on NPR’s All Things Considered, I said aloud “Huh.” Perhaps it is the point where they can’t grow back. Huh.

The prophet Jeremiah describes a tree “planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit.” It’s a metaphor. And it’s a really pretty one if… well, if you don’t feel like the shrub. That’s the beginning of the metaphor. A shrub in the desert. The poetry is not as eloquent, and perhaps rightly so. The shrub is withered and without water. Who needs poetry to describe something so bleak?

Well, maybe it doesn’t need to be poetry. But, there need to be words that describe how we feel. Whether in poetry or lyrics, we need words for those times when we feel like we are just pieces on the ground; no longer OK.

When we are no longer OK, we need words to calm. Words to soothe. Words to bless those parts of us that feel like broken pieces on the ground. We don’t need to be nagged about how to be happy. We don’t need instructions about how to make things better. We don’t need to be reminded about how miserable we might be. Instead, we need words that name the “assurance that [these words] are God’s word to us and that God’s word is not empty.”

That’s where Jesus brought them. Down from the mountain. Down among the people, the disciples followed Jesus to stop on a level place. And then, he looked up at them and begins this sermon of uneven assurances.

Blessed are you who are poor, Jesus begins. Blessed are you who are hungry, weeping, despised and rejected.

And woe to everyone else. Woe to the rich, the full, the laughing and the socially accepted.

Though sometimes hard to hear, these are Jesus’ words of assurance from a level place. These are not lofty ideas spoken above the people. Instead, these words of assurance are offered while everyone is on the same level. No richer. No poorer. Everyone is on the same plane, even Jesus who looks up to begin his sermon.

He looks up to the gathered people longing to hear words that soothe. Words that calm. Words that bless. He looks up at these people who “were poorly adjusted to things as they were. They were suffering under the conditions of their lives. Many were disinherited, insecure, hungry and oppressed.” They were pieces on the ground. No longer OK.

And he blesses them. He names their insecurity and hunger. But it is not just by standing on a level place and naming the reality of the parts that are no longer OK that makes these words an assurance. Jesus goes a step further and names what will come.

It’s like the song that has been echoing in my head all week – a familiar gospel hymn, though the words have often changed in the struggle for justice and freedom. Maybe you recognize the lyrics from our Call to Worship:

[singing]
We shall not/We shall not be moved
We shall not/We shall not be moved
Like a tree planted by the water
We shall not be moved.

On the picket line, in freedom marches or mass meetings, these lyrics were sung to celebrate the risk of what might come if their hopes were realized. They were poorly adjusted to things as they were. No longer OK, they sang. They sang these lyrics looking toward something better.

[singing]
We shall not/We shall not be moved
We shall not/We shall not be moved
Like a tree planted by the water
We shall not be moved.

Did you hear Jeremiah’s metaphor? Actually, these words don’t even belong to Jeremiah. It was a song long before Jeremiah borrowed the metaphor. It’s found in the first hymnal our sisters and brothers sang from. And we’ve been singing this psalm ever since.

Like a tree planted by the water. Knowing that most of the time we feel like shrubs, Jeremiah borrows this metaphor to remind us to trust. When we are poorly adjusted to things as they are. When we are no longer OK, Jeremiah reminds us of a tree planted by the water. A tree that does “not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit.”

Even when we feel disinherited, insecure, hungry and oppressed, the tree reminds us to trust. When things are no longer OK, to trust that somehow God is present in this. When we are pieces on the ground, to trust that our faith will somehow get us through.

And I hear you. I know what you are thinking. What happens when trusting seems impossible? What happens when we can’t remember the power that these lyrics once held for our sisters, our uncles, our grandparents or ourselves? What happens when we can’t remember that longing – that longing that we have been singing about since the Psalms were recorded – that longing for something better? What happens when we stop singing?

[singing]
We shall not/We shall not be moved
We shall not/We shall not be moved
Like a tree planted by the water
We shall not be moved

Can we trust that we will remember the lyrics? Can we trust that the song will continue? Or is there something deeper? Something beneath the surface. Something like what I heard on NPR when a commentator dared to ask the question: Will [the] roots [of a tree] go on living into the spring and summer longing for food from leaves that will never unfold?

This tree on the edge of Julie Zickfoose’s property had big filmy greens leaves and had buds fat with promise waiting to bloom. But, now there are pieces on the ground. Now, it’s just a jumble of bits. No longer OK. At least, that’s what it looks like. That’s what we can see. But, even this commentator reminds us that

Where trees are concerned the exact time of death is hard to figure. Perhaps it is the point where they can’t grow back.

Sometimes we must look a little deeper. Sometimes we must go back to the roots. Sometimes we must remember. Perhaps we can learn from the tree. Tree roots “grow where the resources of life are available.” That’s it. “They do not grow toward anything.” This ruins the beautiful Jeremiah’s poetry of a tree “sending out its roots by the stream.” Scientifically, the roots won’t grow toward water. They grow because they are in water. They grow where they are planted.

And this, this is where we have become planted. This is where we will grow. Even when we can’t find the right words to explain what this place is to a neighbor in aisle 14 at Hannaford, it’s in our roots. It’s where we are planted. Sure, we might still be poorly adjusted to things as they are. We might still be disinherited and insecure. But, we are not at the point where we can’t grow back.

We can see beneath the surface. We can see the roots. And as we welcome new members into our root structure, let’s trust God’s words of assurance. And let’s remember to keep singing ancient psalms about we have found and what will come.

[singing]
We shall not/We shall not be moved
We shall not/We shall not be moved
Like a tree planted by the water
We shall not be moved