Tag Archives: control

Stepping out on faith…

23 Thursday Oct 2014

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Control is something I write about a lot.  Perhaps I write about it so much because I never quite master giving up my desire for control back to God.  I am reminded of the book, Divergent, by Veronica Roth.  In it, the dauntless faction seeks to master its fears through simulations.  In the book there is disagreement about whether fears can ever actually be mastered or whether the work is just recognizing the fear and its cues, and then modifying one’s bodily response to those fears.

If you asked me this week whether I was in the “never mastering fears” camp, the answer would be a resounding yes.  As someone who values control, my life has felt totally out of control this week.  It started with a standby jury summons – every day this week I could not know the fate of my day until 5:00 pm the night beforehand.  So I was already in a state of ambiguity, hoping my childcare arrangement for the day would work.  Then, just as the week was starting, I received a late night pastoral care call night, necessitating a visit in the wee hours of the night.  Two nights later my youngest daughter had one of “those” nights: uncontrollable crying, waking up everyone in the house, and leaving us all weary.  Even as I sit waiting to be called for voir dire, I wonder what will happen today.  Needless to say, this creature of control is being pushed to the limit.

This experience is especially interesting to me as I think about what is happening at St. Margaret’s.  We are approaching our Annual Meeting in December, where we present our budget for 2015.  We do not know what our pledges will be this year yet, especially because some of our older members are quite frail.  So during budget planning, our Vestry had to step out on faith with an estimated budget – in fact, a budget that expects a deficit.  And yet, here we are, stepping into the great unknown, praying that God and the people are with us.

As I plod through my stressfully ambiguous week, I appreciate what kind of ambiguity and risk our Vestry has assumed.  But I especially appreciate their faith, hope, and confidence.  They are inspiring us to embrace generosity – generosity of our time, talent, and treasure.  I am grateful for the powerful witness this week.  They are an inspiration to me and the entire parish.

With these hands…

08 Wednesday Oct 2014

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When I was ordained as a priest, the bishop anointed my hands.  The bishop explained to me that my hands would be used by God for the work of ministry.  At the time, I thought about various ways my hands might be used – for consecrating the Eucharist, for blessing the people, for baptizing the faithful, and for writing sermons and blog posts.  What I had not fully understood was that my hands would become a lifeline of support, care, and love – an extension of Christ’s loving embrace.  Though as an extrovert, I tend to rely on my words for ministry, there would be times when my words could not do the work – only my hands were needed.

The lesson was one that my chaplaincy supervisor had tried to teach me many years before.  I had expressed to my supervisor how I was struggling with some of the non-verbal patients because I felt like I was paralyzed.  By not being able to have a conversation, I felt like I was doing nothing.  In fact, my visits with non-verbal patients tended to be the shortest.  But one particular patient that summer helped me start to break through that fear.  I had been visiting the patient off and on for a couple of weeks, when the nurses asked me to come for another visit.  They were worried that the patient was not far from death.  When I went to the patient’s room, the patient was groggy, but was able to speak a little.  Sooner than I would have liked, the patient’s words were no longer available.  Uncertain what to do next, I offered my hand to the patient.  I was surprised at the force with which the patient grabbed my hand – squeezing so hard that had it been any other situation, I would have pulled away.  But instead, I let the patient cling to my hand with a fierceness of emotion, and we sat there in silence for quite some time.  Somehow, the strength of the grasp filled the room like a shout, and all the words that would have normally bubbled out of my mouth were finally silenced.  Later, after leaving the room, I remember the strange sensation of my hands – as if I were seeing them for the first time.

I was reminded of that powerful lesson earlier this week.  I was pumping while my six-month old was swinging in her swing.  She was fussy, fighting off sleep with wails and writhing.  I had tried soothing her with toys, a pacifier, and coos, but nothing was working.  Finally she reached out her hand toward me, and I grasped it.  I could not pick her up, but I could certainly hold her hand.  As I rubbed the back of her tiny hand, smiling and looking lovingly into her eyes, my daughter slowly calmed down, and managed to give in to sleep.  Though the feel of her hand in mine was totally different from the grasp of an adult, I became keenly aware of my hands once again.  As she drifted off, my thoughts marveled at the many different ways Christ has used my hands over the years.  Both in my vocation as priest and in my vocation as mother, God is constantly using me, literally using my hands, to be a blessing;  and in return, filling me up with joy, renewed vigor, and peace.

When my chaplaincy supervisor warned me that I would not always be able to talk my way through situations, I resisted at first.  I suppose words are my way of trying to exert some sense of control – in essence, my resistance in acknowledging Who is really in control.  Several years later, I am so grateful for the encouragement to embrace that lesson.  As God reminds me over and over Who is in charge within my vocations, I feel relief more than frustration.  The burden of being in control is lifted.  The failings of my words no longer feel like failings.  And I am profoundly grateful for the gift of hands that have been anointed to do God’s work.

A little help…

18 Wednesday Jun 2014

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As a parent of two young children, I have had to readjust how I do about pretty much everything.  Grocery shopping is one of the trickiest.  My current method is to put my oldest in the shopping cart seat (luckily she is still small enough for that) and to put my youngest on my chest in a baby carrier.  This mostly allows my hands to be free for pushing the cart, getting items off the shelf and onto the belt, keeping up with my shopping list, and generally entertaining two kids while trying to accomplish the task at hand.  It works, but it also feels like trying to manage a tornado.  I am happy if I remember most everything on my list and get the groceries and family home safely.  But I can only imagine what this chaos looks like to outsiders; and truthfully, I have never taken a moment to observe how others see me.

So imagine my surprise this week as I was trying to keep my oldest in the cart and my youngest from crying on my chest while unloading our groceries into the car, when, out of the blue, a young woman appeared and asked me if I would like some help loading our car.  I really have no idea what direction she came from, how long she had watched me scrambling, or what made her approach me.  And I must admit, my first thought was to worry about a stranger seeing the other chaos that is my car trunk.  Dumbfounded by the offer, embarrassed by the knowledge that I must have really looked like I needed help, and humbled by the fact that I really could use some help, I hesitantly allowed her to help me.  Before I knew it, the car was loaded and she was gone.  As I got in the car, my brain was filled with questions.  Had I thanked her sufficiently?  Why didn’t I ask her name?  What was her story?  Why did she offer to help me?

But the question that lingered the most was, “Why was I so hesitant to receive her help?”  I have worked for several nonprofit agencies that help those in need.  I have often given lip service to how my children are not just raised by me, but raised by a village.  I often preach about the value of vulnerability within community.  And yet, my immediate reaction to a stranger offering to help me was to insist that I could do it on my own.

Of course, this is often my struggle with God too.  How often have I gone to God in prayer, and then immediately tried to take control again when I felt like I was sufficiently at peace?  How often have I complained to God about an issue and then refused help from someone who was likely sent by God in the first place?  How often have I been willing to wash others’ feet, but not allowed Jesus to wash mine?  My parking lot experience this week reminded me of how much my pride gets in the way of authentic, vulnerable, beautiful relationship with God and my neighbor.  It takes a tremendous amount of trust to allow that kind of intimacy.  But when I do, I continue to be amazed at the ways that both God and my neighbor really do rise to the occasion.

On worry…

06 Thursday Feb 2014

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Last week I went to visit my OB for a checkup.  We began to talk about delivery dates, as I am having a cesarean section with our second child.  The doctor selected a date that is about one week before what I expected.  I left the office totally panicked.  I would need to totally readjust my plan for wrapping things up in the office, I would need to contact the supply priest and make sure the Sunday before was still available, and I would need to talk to my mother about flying out earlier to come help us with our four-year old – just to name a few things on my panic list.  Of course, about an hour later, I realized how silly my panic was in the grand scheme of things.  The truth is that I could go into labor at any point, and any “plans” I had made would be thrown out anyway.  The idea that one week was sending me into such a panic was only confirmation that I still hold on to some false idea about the level of control I exert over my life.

One of my favorite passages of scripture is from Matthew.  “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear.  Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?  Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.  Are you not of more value than they?  And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? – Matthew 6:25-27  Although I know the truth of this passage about our relationship between trust and God, I find that I am always returning to it, never fully mastering it.  In fact, I am not even sure that I have partially mastered it.

My only saving grace has been becoming a parent.  I have often joked that God knew what God was doing when God made me a parent.  Perhaps God knew that the only way I would really start to believe that I could trust God was to throw someone in my life whom I have very little control over – a microcosm of the larger world.  That point has been resurfacing several times for me lately.  When school is cancelled because of snow, I have no way of attacking my work in the same way that I would if she were in school.  When the roads become too dangerous for driving on my day off with my daughter (i.e., “errand day”), those groceries that we just cannot live without suddenly become groceries we can live without.  Just today, another school weather-related cancellation day, as I was scrambling around trying to figure out how to busy my daughter while getting a little work done, my daughter asked if she could make Valentine’s Day cards for her classmates.  My immediate thought was, “No, I don’t have time to sit with you and do that.”  But I took a breath and considered her proposal.  One, we would be able to do something together that we would not normally do.  Two, the task would certainly entertain my daughter, which is pretty much golden on a snow day.  Three, making homemade Valentine’s is super cute, and something I never would have made time for otherwise.  So, I exhaled in defeat, and we both gathered the necessary supplies.  And it turns out that making homemade Valentine’s is pretty fun, and can even be a creative outlet for stress reduction.

So today, I am thankful for the God who puts people in my life to force me to be a better person of faith.  I am grateful for God’s awesome and powerful creation, who has certainly taught me a few lessons this winter about the fruitlessness of worry.  And I am blessed by the God who reminds me in small and large ways that I cannot, “worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own.  Today’s trouble is enough for today.” – Matthew 6.34

On laughter…

16 Thursday Jan 2014

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I am pretty well known among people for my laugh.  I suppose the best way to describe it is loud, boisterous, or hearty.  People have told me that they know I am in a room or can find me in the room simply based on my laugh.  I have often found that somehow my laugh makes others laugh or smile, even if they are not sure why I am laughing.  I have also found people totally immersed in a neighboring conversation stop altogether just to see what is so funny.  In truth, I think what makes my laugh so amusing to others is that it comes out of a relatively small-statured person; so the combination of erupting laughter from such an unlikely candidate bring an amusement of its own.

I was reminded of the phenomenon this week.  It had been a long week, with late evening commitments, and a particularly full plate at work.  Needless to say, I was tired and not feeling particularly in a boisterous mood.  But as I worked alongside a parishioner making sandwiches for our hungry neighbors, the parishioner shared a funny story with me.  Of course, my laughter, with a mind of its own, erupted in the room.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the volunteers near us were a bit startled, and then amused by my laughter.  I could see the predictable smiles spreading across their faces, as they too became a part of the joy of my laughter.

The reminder about the phenomenon of my laugh was especially helpful during this somewhat stressful week.  Because my laughter is so boisterous and so uninhibited, it often escapes without me controlling it.  Had I thought whether or not I was in the mood for laughing or focusing on something other than my stress, I probably would have shut down the laugh altogether.  But that is the gift of my laugh.  Sometimes, even when I do not feel like laughing, the laugh emerges anyway.  And when I pay attention to the amusement of others, I can choose to be amused too – amused at taking myself too seriously, amused at my own self-absorption, amused at how much I have forgotten the bigger picture.

In that way, I have begun to wonder this week if my laughter is one of those gifts from God.  When I listen to my laugh, or pay attention to the effect of my laugh on others, I can see that my laugh is this little gift from God that seems to say, “Lighten up!  Whatever is going on right now, I [God] am in the midst of it, so why not try giving it back to me.”  I needed that particular reminder this week, and as always, I am grateful for the ways that God grabs my attention.  So perhaps this weekend, a round of stand-up comedy or a funny movie is order, so that I can revel a lot more in God’s grace and mercy and stop taking myself so seriously.

Homily – Matthew 6.25-33, TG, YC November 28, 2013

05 Thursday Dec 2013

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Our gospel lesson today is one of my favorites.  Jesus’ instructions not to worry are a soothing ointment for the constant itch of worry in my life.  His words calm my nerves and remind me of the need for perspective.  I can almost imagine Jesus as a yoga instructor, calmly affirming a room of people who are trying to take in deep breaths and to relax their tight muscles.  As I think about the heavenly Father who knows my every need, I am given a sense of perspective and calm that I can rarely muster on my own.  Because I am a person prone to worry, this passage truly is one of my favorite passages from scripture.

That being said, this passage is also one of my least favorite passages.  We tend to think of ourselves as having a certain amount of responsibility in this life – a responsibility to use the talents God has given us to care for ourselves, and even to care for others.  But who among us has not had times when that was just not possible – either from being laid off or furloughed from work, not being able to find a job in unemployment, or having an injury that has made our work impossible.  Besides, what does Jesus expect us to do?  Just go about life, expecting everything to be handed to us – clothing, food, and drink?  The proposition seems naïve and ultimately frustrating.

But even harder than a basic frustration with Jesus is the underlying message of what Jesus is saying:  that through our behavior of worrying, we are implying that we have ultimate control over life, and that God plays little, or at least a superficial, role in our lives.  The presumption of worry is the presumption that we have the ability to fully control what happens and then fix things when they go awry.  Our worrying is a way of saying to God, “I do not trust you to handle things in my life.  I am not willing to give up that control to you.”  One question from Jesus summarizes this conflict for us, “Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?”  Jesus really knows how to get to the heart of the matter, and when he does, his words feel like a stab to the heart.

Truthfully, there really could not be a better lesson for us today on Thanksgiving Day.  I imagine every one of us has had a worry about this day in the past week or more.  Talk about worrying about what you will eat!  We stress about what food to serve, how to accommodate our gluten-free friends in the menu, what items can be prepared in advance, how to get the moistest turkey, and whether we have made enough for those gathered.  Some of us have worried about what outfit to wear, knowing there will be countless photos trying to capture the happiness of this day.  And what to drink?  I know parties where the host has purchased copious amounts of wine, despite delegating wine to guests, for fear that there will not be enough to cover the gathering.  And those worries do not even cover the other worries of the day – how to fit in Eucharist while the turkey is still cooking, whom to sit near our cranky aunt, and what kind of arguments might erupt between family members.  For those hosting meals, many of us barely have a chance to catch our breath after the meal before the clean-up process begins.

But that is the beauty of this lesson today:  like our eternal battle between worry and control, this special day also has the potential for lost focus.  Our country, with all its flaws, gives us a day that is almost sacred in nature – a day set aside for gratitude and thanksgiving; a day when we can pause, and remember the abundant blessings of our lives and the incredible gift of this life.  And if we are at all considering what we are grateful for, our minds inevitably end up with God – the one from whom all blessings flow.  The simple act of thanksgiving melts away tensions, and turns our worry-hardened hearts to hearts overflowing with gratitude.  When we really think about all that we have to be grateful for, the list gets longer and longer – even if we are not even in much of a mood to celebrate.

I was wondering, then, how we might incorporate the lessons we learn today from the gospel and from Thanksgiving Day into a rule of life beyond this day.  Then I remembered the last line of the gospel, “But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”  We have been singing these very words since September, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness.  And all these things shall be added unto you.  Alleluia.”  I have been singing these words every Sunday, and I took until today, with today’s gospel and today’s celebration to finally connect the dots.  The answer is not to throw up our hands, naively trusting God to put food on the table.  The answer is changing our pursuit – not pursuing the things that we think we want and need, but instead pursing the kingdom of God.  The rest is just gravy.  Amen.

Sermon – Luke 9.51-62, P8, YC, June 30, 2013

03 Wednesday Jul 2013

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This week, most of us will celebrate the fourth of July in some fashion or another.  Though the holiday is filled with words like independence, patriotism, liberty, and fireworks, mostly we are celebrating a sense of “home.”  Our celebration of the Fourth is really a celebration of the place that millions of us commonly call home.  Our songs celebrate this theme:  “God bless America, our home sweet home”; or “and the home of the brave.”  This is a day that we celebrate our home with a sense of pride, of belonging, and of identity.  Like any home, our country has faults and drawbacks, but our country is our home, and nothing else can replace the sense of comfort that home can bring.

Perhaps what we forget in our celebrations is that our “home” did not always feel that way.  Centuries ago, when the original settlers came to this country, the country felt nothing like home.  In fact, those settlers left what they knew as home, with all the comforts home offered, and came to this foreign place.  This was a place of newness and discomfort.  Nothing was familiar, and in fact much of what the settlers experienced was downright scary or dangerous.  Though settlers came here to establish a new home, that home-like feeling took a very long time to create.

Here at St. Margaret’s we have made a similar transition in the last fifty years.  I was just reading the rough draft of our fifty-year history this week, and I was thinking about the contrast of those early years with our experience of St. Margaret’s now.  Fifty years ago, St. Margaret’s was merely a group of people gathering.  We had no building, no clear identity, and certainly no sense of the familiar.  In fact, the story goes that when we would gather for Sunday worship in the American Legion Hall, the smell of smoke and beer lingered from Saturday night events at the Hall.  When people left their church homes to join St. Margaret’s, I am pretty sure smoke and beer on a Sunday morning was not exactly what they were dreaming of for their new home.

So as we Americans prepare to collectively celebrate our home, and as we at St. Margaret’s, in our fiftieth year of ministry, continue to celebrate our home, we find Jesus saying some pretty funny things about home in our gospel lesson today.  When someone along the road says to Jesus, “I will follow you wherever you go,” Jesus says to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.”  Then, when Jesus calls others to follow him, and they first ask for some basic things, like burying their father or saying goodbye to their loved ones, Jesus refuses.  In other words, Jesus basically tells anyone considering following him that they will lose all sense of home – not only the literal place to lay one’s head, but also all the comforts and familiarity of home.  Following Jesus is a calling into a homelessness of sorts.  Jesus’ calling into homelessness is pretty scary.  Following Jesus means giving up control and trusting that all will be well, which is a lot to ask, considering Jesus has already told them that all will not be well.  Their new “home” will be a place of suffering, persecution, pain, and homelessness.  Jesus’ new home sounds a lot like the home those founding ancestors of our country and those founding members of St. Margaret’s faced years ago.

To be honest, I am not sure I would have been able to follow Jesus as those men and women did so many years ago.  I am sure you already know this about me, but I am a pretty big fan of control – or at least the illusion of control.  I do not like the feeling of things being out of my control.  So when Jesus asks me to let go of control – of a sense of home and familiarity – I am not sure I would have said yes.

The good news is that I do not think Jesus is actually asking us to cede control to him.  Jesus is not really offering the choice of either us being in control or him being in control.  As we well know, Jesus did not head to Jerusalem with the mission of taking control or charge.  Instead, he set his path to Jerusalem to throw himself fully and completely into our out-of-control lives and to come out on the other side.  That is the promise of this Gospel – “not that we can be in control, or even that God is in control, but rather that God in Jesus joins us in our out-of-controlness, holds onto us, and brings us to the other side.”[i]  This is the homelessness Jesus is really inviting us into – this commitment to giving up the illusion of control, to take some risks, and to throw ourselves into this turbulent life and world, trusting that God joins us in the adventure, holds us through the ups and downs, and brings us in time to the other side.  When Jesus offers his hand out to others to journey with him into homelessness, this is the underlining promise – that he is with us in the journey into homelessness and out-of-controlness.

On my mission trip to Burma, we had a day when we were supposed to go see working Elephants in the forest.  We loaded up our truck, crammed in way too close, as usual, and began the bumpy journey.  But an hour into our ride, our truck had some mechanical issues.  We pulled into to what seemed to be a local mechanic, although our version of a mechanic shop and the Burmese version of a mechanic shop are very different.  Sensing that this stop would take a while, our tour guide suggested our team take a walk.  The seven of us followed, happy for a distraction.  During our walk, we came upon a rice paddy, and could see workers out in the field.  Although the team was content to observe from a distance, our guide recommended crossing the dikes to get a closer view.  We found his offer shocking.  We worried about trespassing, encountering swarms of disease-carrying mosquitoes, or falling off the dikes, which looked quite tenuous.  Most of the team looked at the sturdy ground on which we were standing and decided that we should not test the swampy paddy.  When our tour guide realized most of us were not following him, he came back to the place where he jumped to the first dike.  First, he pleaded with the group as a whole.  Then, he called me by name.  “Jennifer, please come with me.  It’s okay.  You can trust me.”  I looked into his dark brown eyes, and saw a sparkle of adventure and joy.  I looked back at the dirty – but dry – road wistfully.  Then I turned back toward our guide and his outstretched hand.  His smile conveyed a sense of confidence and encouragement that warmed my heart, and I found myself jumping across the water to the dike.

We all know that sense of crossing into Jesus’ homelessness.  Certainly our country this week has at many times felt out of control.  Though we call this place home, we have been bitterly divided about Supreme Court decisions and Congressional bills this week.  Those decisions have left us wondering what sort of home we are creating now.  The same could be said for St. Margaret’s.  Though many of us know this place as home, our home seems to be ever changing.  There are new ways of operating, new projects underway, and new invitations.  There is an ambiguity about who we will be and how we will change.  But the promise in all of this, especially in the emerging sense of homelessness in our country and in our church, is that God is right here with us.  God continually promises to be on this crazy ride with us.  That reassurance by God today fills us with hope, and a renewed sense of courage and joy as we journey forward.  Today, as we look into Jesus’ sparkling eyes, he calls us by name, and says, “Come on.  Let’s go be homeless!”  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Out of Control,” as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=2614 on June 28, 2013.