Tag Archives: peace

On the Joy of It Not Being about You…

28 Wednesday Aug 2024

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Photo credit: https://wexnermedical.osu.edu/blog/visit-someone-in-hospital

One of the privileges of the work I do are visitations.  On countless occasions I have visited someone approaching death, someone in the throes of dementia, or someone just bone-weary with illness, and the immediate response when I walk in the door is a huge smile and the lightening of their countenance. 

I am very clear what that reaction is not.  It is not about me:  I have come to understand that the reaction is much more about the collar I wear and associations that collar has with a beloved church community.  It is also not about me bringing God to the room:  God is already there – my presence just sometimes helps people remember that fact.  And the reaction is definitely not about what I bring:  my visit will not physically change the pending death, the continued dementia, or the ongoing suffering – my work is much more about helping the individual find peace and a sense of connection to God in what can feel like a desert.

Despite all the things those smiles and lighter countenances are not, there is still a shared joy in them.  As the parishioner is reminded of God’s grace and love, so am I.  I too take joy in how being a part of a community can make me feel whole.  I too marvel at God’s presence that has gone before me.  I too can receive the peace of Christ in those desert places.  The gift of the visitation is not just for the visited.  The gift is also to the visitor.

I wonder what ways God is inviting you to be that smile and lightened countenance for others.  As schools restart, I see overwhelmed, weary parents, children, and teachers trying to adjust.  As individuals struggle financially, I see the defeated feelings that manifest themselves in hunched body postures and the diminished capacity for hope.  As a caretaker sits through another appointment or misses another engagement, I see a fatigue unlike any other.  To whom is God inviting you, in your daily journey, to be the light of Christ – to be the reminder that God is already there, that a community awaits, and that glimpses of peace can be found?  It is not about you, to be sure.  But you will be blessed as you do the work of blessing too. 

Sabbatical Journey…On Resetting and Love

27 Tuesday Jun 2023

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Idaho Road (reuse with permission)

In case reading about and seeing pictures from our cross-country adventure make you think we are having a perfect trip with perfectly behaving family members, today reminded me how human we really are.  When you are family, you know each other almost too well:  you know what makes family members laugh and what embarrasses them, you know the quirks of each member and you know teasing is a form of love, you know how far you can push someone until they lose their cool.  But because you love each other unconditionally, sometimes you push anyway.  And when you are in each other’s presence 24/7 for ten days, apparently, the tenth day is when the pushing becomes almost inevitable. 

Despite the dazzling green of Idaho’s countryside, the beautiful rivers of Wyoming, and the stunning mountains across three states, and although there were fun road trip games, stories shared, and conversations had, today I also lost my patience and my ability to exhibit mature parenting responses.  Even with some downtime for all of us, I realized I was snapping too much, and my patience was brittle thin.  What I needed was some unconditional love, and so, as I said goodnight to each family member, I asked for a hug.  Despite having just been bickering not ten minutes earlier, each member to a person gave me a hug without protest.  And suddenly the unease that had settled around me melted away.

Too often – with loved ones, with neighbors, with community leaders, and certainly in church – we forget to reset with love.  I know not everyone is comfortable with physical touch, and I know the pandemic made us anxious about physical contact, but sometimes I think a hug might help us all reset some of the tension between us.  In fact, I know some of us have been frustrated or angry for so long that we are not even sure what we were originally frustrated or angry about. 

When I’m feeling frazzled, one of my favorite prayers is from Psalm 46.10, “Be still and know that I am God.”  I love to pray those words repeatedly, each time, dropping the last word in the phrase.   The first time I pray all eight words.  Then I pray just seven, “Be still and know that I am.”  And then six, and so on, until I just pray the word “be.”  If a hug is not available to you today, or if you want to do your own self work on resetting with love, I commend Psalm 46.10.  Between God’s invitation into stillness, and the stillness one finds in hugs, I pray you find some peace this day.

Sermon – Matthew 11.25-30, St. Francis Feast, YC, October 2, 2022

05 Wednesday Oct 2022

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Today we honor the life of St. Francis of Assisi.  Francis is one of the most popular and admired saints of all time.  Most of us know the highlights of his story:  born the son of a wealthy man in 1182; had a conversion experience and devoted his life to Lady Poverty; shaped monastic and lay devotion; was a friend to all God’s creatures – being known to have preached to the birds.

But the story I like most is the story about St. Francis and the Wolf.  According to legend, there was a wolf that was terrorizing the town of Gubbio, killing and eating animals and people.  The villagers tried to fight back, but they too died at the jaws of the wolf.  Francis had pity on the townspeople and went out to meet the wolf.  When Francis found the wolf, he made the sign of the cross, and said, “Come to me, Brother Wolf.  In the name of Christ, I order you not to hurt anyone.”  In response, the wolf calmly laid down at Francis’ feet.  Francis then went on to explain to the wolf how he was terrorizing the people and other animals – all who were made in the image of God.  The wolf and Francis then made a pact that the wolf would no longer harm the townspeople and the townspeople would no longer try to hurt the wolf.  The two traveled into town to explain the pact they had formed.  The people were amazed as Francis and the wolf walked side-by-side into town.  Francis made the people pledge to feed the wolf and the wolf pledge not to harm anyone else.  From that day on, the wolf went door to door for food.  The wolf hurt no one and no one hurt the wolf; even the dogs did not bark at the wolf.[i]

What I love about this story of St. Francis is that the story is about reconciliation and relationship.  At the beginning of the story the town and the wolf are at an impasse – the wolf is hungry and getting attacked; the people are afraid and are lashing out.  What Francis does for both parties is shock them out of the comfortable.  For the wolf, no one has addressed the wolf kindly – they have either shut the wolf out or actively tried to kill him.  For the people, the wolf has not asked for help – he has simply and violently taken what he needed and wanted.  Francis manages to shock the wolf first – not through violence or force, but with the power of love and blessing.  By giving a blessing in the name of God, Francis is then able to implore the wolf to reciprocate with love.  Francis also manages to shock the village – not with a violent victory, but with a humble display of forgiveness and trust.  By walking into town with a tamed wolf at his side, Francis is able to encourage the town embrace, forgive, and care for the wolf.  Francis’ actions remind both parties that unless their relationships are reconciled, unrest and division will be the norm. 

The funny thing about this story is that the story is pretty ridiculous.  I mean, how many of us go around talking to wild animals, blessing them with the sign of the cross, expecting anything other than being attacked?  We will never really know whether the story is true.  But like any good Biblical story, whether the story is true is hardly the point: the point is that the stories point toward “Truth” with a capital “T.”  What this story teaches is peace and reconciliation only happen through meeting others where they are.  We cannot expect great change unless we are willing to get down in the trenches – to go out and meet that destructive wolf face-to-face.  The other thing this story teaches is relationships are at the heart of peace work.  Only when the wolf and the town begin to get to know each other and begin to form a relationship with one another can they move forward. 

This is the way life is under Jesus Christ.  In our gospel lesson today, Jesus says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  Jesus’ words have layered meaning.  The first meaning we all catch is that Jesus offers us rest and refreshment.  Jesus encourages us to come to him, to cast our burdens and cares upon him, and to take rest, to take Sabbath in Christ.  Our souls will find peace in Christ Jesus.  The second meaning is that peace in Christ Jesus is not without work.  Jesus does not say come unto me and relax forever in happy retirement.  Jesus says we will still have to take on a yoke – the burden of disciple living.  Luckily, that burden of being Christ’s disciple will not be burdensome – it will be light.  Finally, not only will Jesus make the workload “light,” as in not heavy.  Jesus will also make us “light” – as in lights that shine into the darkness and refuse to allow the shadow to overwhelm.   We become the light when we work for reconciliation in our relationships with others. 

That is why we do a couple of special things today.  First, we ask for blessing on our animals – that God might help our relationship with our pet be one of blessing and light.  Second, we come to Jesus for Sabbath rest – that God might renew us on this Sabbath day, use the rest to fill us with light, and renew our commitment to be agents of reconciliation, gladly putting on Christ’s yoke.  Amen.

[i] Jack Wintz, “St. Francis and the Taming of the Wolf,” as found at https://www.franciscanmedia.org/franciscan-spirit-blog/st-francis-and-the-taming-of-the-wolf on September 30, 2022. 

Sermon – John 18.33-37, P29, YB, November 21, 2021

01 Wednesday Dec 2021

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When I say the word “king,” the words that usually pop in our minds include:  ruler, power, authoritative, supreme, distant, dictator, or my personal favorite, Elvis.  Kings are a mixed bag for us, since Hickory Neck closed for over a hundred years after supporting one.  Equally messy was the king before the Revolutionary War who had a lot of impact in our lives – King Henry VIII.  If you remember, King Henry was the king who wanted to divorce his wife so that he could remarry.  When the Pope refused the King’s request, King Henry not only divorced his wife anyway, but he also started a revolution that led to the Anglican Church – our mother Church as Episcopalians.  If that is not power, I do not know what is!

Today, the Church celebrates Christ the King Sunday.  You would think on such a day, we would be hearing a text that glorifies Jesus, or that marks Jesus’ victory – such as the triumphal Palm Sunday lesson or an Easter or Ascension text.  Instead, we get the story of Jesus on trial with Pilate.  Jesus does not really look victorious in this passage – he has been humiliated, beaten, and is now being mocked by Pilate.  This is not exactly the image of Christ we may have had for Christ the King Sunday.  In fact, between Jesus and Pilate, Pilate plays the more stereotypical role of king.  Pilate uses power and authority for selfish ends with no concern for building community.  He hoards power and lords his power over people even to the point of destroying them, on a cross or otherwise.  Meanwhile, Jesus empowers others and uses his authority to wash the feet of those he leads.  He spends his life on them, and he gives his life to bring life.  Pilate’s rule brings about terror, even in the midst of calm.  Meanwhile, Jesus’ rule brings peace, even in the midst of terror.  Pilate’s followers imitate him by using violence to conquer and divide people by race, ethnicity, and nations.  Jesus’ followers put away the sword in order to invite and unify people.  Pilate’s authority originates from the will of Caesar and is always tenuous.  Meanwhile, Jesus’ authority originates from doing the will of God, and is eternal.[i]

So, if Jesus as a king is so different from any kings that we know, and our relationships with kings is tenuous at best, why do we celebrate Christ as King?  Christ the King Sunday is not that ancient of a concept in Church history.  In 1925, in the face of growing nationalism and secularism following World War I, Pope Pius XI established the feast of Christ the King.  The feast was meant to be a way of declaring where allegiances should be – not to a country, but to God.  Our allegiance should be to Jesus – our only ruler and power.  In a time of national pride, the Church boldly proclaimed, “We have no king but Jesus.”  Proclaiming Jesus as King is a fascinating reappropriation of the title “King.”  When the Church invites us to proclaim Christ as King, not only does the Church ask us to put Christ above any earthly ruler, the Church also asks us to redefine the concept of a king.  Jesus is a king who lays down his life for the sake of others; who endures humiliation and death for the salvation of people; who humbly cares for the poor, oppressed, imprisoned, and suffering.  This image does not sound anything like Henry VIII or even modern day presidents; and yet, this is what we proclaim today. 

So what does proclaiming Christ as King really look like today?  If Christ is King, then we are Christ’s people.  Those who have been baptized into Christ Jesus are, as the psalmist says, the people of his pasture and the sheep of his hand.  “Christ has made of us a people with his kingship.  And that kingship is unique, unlike any earthly kingship that is bound by geographic borders…  All are welcome, especially the chronically unwelcome ones.”[ii]  When we say that we are Christ’s people, we do not imply that we elected Jesus or that we hired Jesus as CEO.  We belong to Christ as his subjects – sharing the Eucharistic meal, sharing our lives, serving Christ as one, and resting our hopes in Christ.  Being the people of Christ impacts how we treat one another in this place, how we treat others outside of this place, and how we treat ourselves.    

At the end of another Church year, having lived through another cycle of hearing the stories of Jesus’ life, of being taught again through his miracles and parables, we come together to proclaim the truth of Christ’s kingship.  After another year of living our own lives – burying our loved ones, baptizing our children, celebrating marriage, mourning broken relationships, welcoming new families and ministries, struggling and thriving, surviving a pandemic – we bring all of our own experiences to the climax of this day as well.  We lay down all of this past year at the feet of the crucified, enthroned Christ, and we give thanks.[iii]  We are blessed to be a people ruled by a king who rules with love and mercy.  Being so blessed, we extend that kingly love and mercy to each other, to our neighbors, and to ourselves.  Amen. 

[i] Jaime Clark-Soles, as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching_print.aspx?commentary_id=1490 on November 23, 2012. 

[ii] Mary W. Anderson, “Royal Treatment,” Christian Century, vol. 120, no. 23, November 15, 2003, 18.

[iii] Anderson, 18.

Sermon – Matthew 25.31-46, P29, YA, November 22, 2020

17 Thursday Dec 2020

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Once upon a time, “there was a cobbler who lived alone in his shop with one window that looked out on the street.  His wife and children had all died and he asked God, “Holy One why have you so long delayed your coming?  I have almost given up hope in seeing you.  Please come to my humble shop this day and show me your face.”

Outside on the street the cold winter brought snow.  Through his window he saw a beggar who shivered in the cold.  The cobbler invited the beggar into the shop to warm him and offer a meager meal from his shrinking larder.  The beggar thanked him and left.

As the day passed, a few customers came with repairs they needed for their shoes and harnesses.  A young boy sought shelter from the cold and snow.  The child’s feet were wrapped in old dirty rags and stuffed with paper.  Into the shop he invited the boy.  After making him some warm milk and a sandwich from the little food he had he went to his closet and found a pair of shoes that [had] belonged to his son.  He fit the shoes to the boy.  Grateful, the boy left with a promise to return to visit him.

It was approaching dusk and the cobbler despaired of a visit from the Lord.  A woman with her young babe appeared in front of the window.  She was dressed in a thin piece of cloth and she looked as if she might freeze to death.  The cobbler invited her into his shop.  Wary of the old man, she hesitated at the door, but feeling the warmth within she stepped across the threshold.  The cobbler made her some tea and went to his closet to find a heavy woolen cloak that [had] belonged to his wife.  Giving her the cloak the woman thanked him and after he shared the rest of his larder with her, she left with the child.

The sun descended and left the cobbler bereft.  “Why didn’t you come and visit me today,” the cobbler asked?  There was a voice that spoke to him in his humble shop:  “But I did come to you.  When you invited in the beggar, the boy, and the mother and her child, I was there with you.  In each of their faces you looked into my eyes.”[i]

I don’t know about you, but the last eight months have been exhausting.  Every week I look at the lessons and newspaper and hope for some good news – some glimpse of the face of Jesus.  But every week, the news somehow seems worse.  This week has been no different, with suffering hitting us at both the macro and micro levels.  Our country is in an existential crisis about the Presidential election.  Although many commentators seem to think things will work out, at question is the very foundation of democracy – elections where the votes of the people matter and where the peaceful, respectful exchange of power can happen.  We have managed to successfully do this for over two hundred years, and somehow, this year we cannot seem to hold to our founding principles.  Meanwhile, on the micro level, we are approaching a national holiday of Thanksgiving – a holiday characterized by the gathering of peoples around a table, not unlike our own Eucharistic feast.  And yet, flights are being cancelled, car keys are being put down, and painful calls of cancellation are being made.  Once again, this pandemic is crushing our rituals, forcing us to stay apart from one another.

So, when I picked up the Biblical texts for today, remembering this is Christ the King Sunday, I could not have been more relieved.  I am ready for the shepherd of Ezekiel who seeks out the lost, binds up the wounded, and feeds us on the good pasture – all while destroying the fat sheep and feeding them justice!  I am ready for the Psalmist’s invitation to bow down before the Lord our Maker – the king above all gods, the one in whose hands are the caverns of the earth, the heights of the hills, the sea, and the dry lands!  I want to hear the beauty of the song, King of Glory, King of Peace.  I want a god who will take all of this away – the strife, fighting, suffering, weariness, and make everything better.  I want to see Christ the King!

But nothing is ever easy with Jesus.  When we call out for Jesus, Jesus tells us in the gospel today that he is already here – here with us when we feed the hungry, sate the thirsty, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, and visit the sick and imprisoned.  To our wearied selves, who just want a victorious king to fix things, our king reminds us today that relief is not found in power grabs and punishments.  As the founder of The Catholic Worker, Peter Maurin, once explained, the social policy Jesus gives us for the renewal of the world is works of mercy.[ii] 

Our lives right now are upended.  Even doing the literal work of the cobbler from that story may not seem possible in these times of social distancing.  But the good news we hear today is peace will not come from powerful, political overpowering.  Peace and relief in these times will come from loving the vulnerable, tending the weak, serving those suffering more deeply than we can imagine.  Like the cobbler in his grief, we may not be able to see those in need in this pandemic.  But they are there, with us, every day.  And it is there, we will see the face of Jesus.  There, God will soothe our pain.  There, the Holy Spirit will mend our weariness.  There is our peace.  Thanks be to God. 

[i] Leo Tolstoy, “Martin the Cobbler,” as retold by Bob Stuhlmann in “Goat Cheese And Starfish: For November 23, 2014,” posted on November 18, 2014, as found at http://storiesfromapriestlylife.wordpress.com/2014/11/18/goat-cheese-and-starfish-for-november-232014/ on November 20, 2020.

[ii] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew:  Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 212.

On God’s Humming…

05 Wednesday Aug 2020

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On vacation last week, my family and I visited a “safari park” – basically a drive-through petting zoo where you can roll down your window and feed the animals.  I confess, I was not looking forward to this part of our vacation adventures.  In general, animals make me a little nervous.  They are usually bigger than me, and I find them to be unpredictable and capable of causing harm, intentionally or not.  So, the idea of one of those, sometimes very large, animals poking its head in my safe space terrified me.  But I bit my tongue and took one for the team as we drove into the park.

It turned out most of the family had a good time on the safari, especially as we got further into the park.  But the anxiety in my gut never relaxed.  For a solid 30-45 minutes, I was on edge, trying to put on my “everything’s fine” face for the kids.  It was not until we made our way to the walking zoo section of the park and were feeding a giraffe that the tension in my body slowly eased.  The giraffe’s head was huge, but his eating was calm and collected.  And after all the lettuce was gone, he just hung out – not looking for more food.  My daughter, who is obsessed with giraffes, held a full nonverbal conversation with the giraffe, and even I found my muscles slowly relaxing as I gazed into his calm, soothing eyes.

Later, as we were reading about giraffes, I learned giraffes make a soothing humming-type noise inaudible to the human ear but meant to help them stay connected to their young and fellow giraffes.  Even though I did not hear the noise, I am convinced the giraffe must have been humming for us that day – sensing our anxiety, and longing to offer us a calming peace.

As we journey through this time of pandemic life, I am increasingly aware of the low (and sometimes high) level of anxiety within which we are all operating.  Over time, that anxiety wears on you – whether you find yourself snapping at someone, bursting into tears unexpectedly, or distancing from emotional connections.  In this time of ongoing anxiety, I have been thinking we all need a soothing sound that can help us let go of the tensions in our shoulders, relax the muscles in our jaw, and release the tightness in our chest.  For some of us that happens through yoga, through a phone call to a friend, or through watching a funny movie.  Lately, I have been wondering if God is not providing that soundless, soothing hum we have not acknowledged.  Perhaps God is placing people, animals, or encounters (even virtual ones) in our path that can help us let go of some of our anxiety, take a deep breath of the Spirit’s calming peace, and allow us to refocus on our faith – a faith which can feel adrift in the sea of closed church buildings, social distancing, and self-quarantines. My prayer for you is you hear God’s humming this week as we turn the page on another pandemic week.

Homily – Luke 2.8-20, Blue Christmas, December 21, 2018

02 Wednesday Jan 2019

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One of the Christmas songs we do not sing tonight is “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”  Up until this year, I was mostly familiar with the first verse, which says, “Peace on the earth, good will to men,” and “The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing.”  Those words have always felt more like an aspiration than my reality.  I do not know about you, but the holidays are rarely a time of stillness and peace for me.

But this year, I stumbled on a verse of this song that is not in our hymnal.  The verse says, “And you, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow; look now, for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing; oh, rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing!”

One of the challenges about Christmas is that we can sometimes lose our place.  When we listen to the old carols, we either hear songs of peaceful silence or we hear songs of beautiful, glorious praise.  The same is true of our secular experiences of Christmas.  We are filled with retouched nostalgic memories, with songs that tell us we should be rockin’ around Christmas trees, or cozying up with loved ones.  But sometimes Christmas is none of those things.  Instead Christmas is a time when the gap between our reality and the projection of all the things we should be feeling grows ever wider.

I think that is why I was captivated by this extra verse of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”  “And you, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow; look now, for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing; oh, rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing!”  Suddenly, the otherworldliness of the angels are there for us too.  Whether life feels like a crushing load, whether your daily toil is bringing you down, or whether you are just weary, the song invites us rest by the weary road – because the angels have a song for us too.

I used to serve at a church where Christmas was the pinnacle of events.  Families would wear evening gowns and tuxedos to church, they would send their servants to reserve rows of seats, and the coat rack was full of fur coats.  Christmas was another soiree in their perfectly formed lives, and church was host of their glamorous party.  But what always amused me about that experience was the contrast between their polished, perfect lives, and the rustic, imperfect story of the angels and shepherds.  I wondered if they understood the ironic contrast of their experience and scripture’s experience.  What did they know of being crushed beneath life’s load, the toil of taking painful, slow steps, and the weary road?

Not until many years later did I realize that the weariness of life can infect anyone.  Those in tuxedos and evening gowns were struggling with broken marriages, estranged family members, and the grief of death as much as someone gathered in a candlelit historic chapel.  Those whose servants went to reserve a seat in church were just as lonely, unfulfilled, and afraid as those who are servants.  Those whose fur coats lined the coat racks were experiencing a sense of failure, a lack of fulfillment, and a longing for meaning as much as someone slipping quietly into a service like tonight.  Weariness affects the donkey who carries a pregnant Mary; the shepherds who keep watch all night; the innkeeper who feels pulled in many directions with no vacancies to accommodate need; with Josephs who are on a path they did not choose, but who feel obligated to be faithful; and with Marys who say yes and hold hope, even though the dread of impending suffering is almost palpable.[i]

You see the angels came not to a perfect world, to a perfect people, delivering perfectly good news.  The angles came to a weary world, with weary people, delivering good news that would not dismiss our weariness, but relieve our weariness.  That is why I love this service so much.  I love our Blue Christmas service because Christmas is all about a wearied people, with a crushing load, with painful steps, welcoming a savior who gives us hope that we will not be weary forever, that God will walk our weary roads alongside us.

On this night, I share this blessing for all of us:  “May the world slow down enough this season for you to catch a glimpse of a star in the sky and a light on the horizon.  May the earth pause enough for you to catch the faint sound of a baby’s cry on the wind and the song of the angels through the trees.  May the slow time of Christmas night bring joy to you, and hope, and light, and more than anything else, rest to your waiting spirit.  All you, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow; look now, for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing; oh, rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing!”[ii]  Amen.

[i] Melissa Bills, “All This Weary World,” December 18, 2018, as found at https://youngclergywomen.org/all-this-weary-world/ on December 18, 2018.

[ii] Bills.

Homily – Advent L&C, A1, YC, December 2, 2018

05 Wednesday Dec 2018

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This school year, our younger daughter’s preschool offers a weekly yoga class.  She has shown me all sorts of fun poses, but my favorite part is the yoga breathing she is learning.  The first time she showed me, I was so excited.  I have wanted to give my children the gift of cleansing breathing since they were born.  That same breathing had gotten me through each pregnancy in my prenatal yoga classes.  I knew how restorative that kind of breathing could be.  But I was not sure the practice would stick – I mean, how many mellow, breath-controlled preschoolers do you know?  So, imagine my surprise a few weeks ago, when my daughter was in the midst of an epic ramp up and all of a sudden, she stopped and said, “Wait!”  I froze, and watched her close her eyes, take in a deep breath, and slowly let the breath out.  “Do you want to do another one?” I tentatively asked, afraid to spoil the magical moment.  She closed her eyes again, drew in a slow breath, and let the breath back out.  She opened her eyes and smiled at me.  Temper tantrum and tension gone, a renewed, calmed child remained.

I do not know about you, but I find myself longing for the deep calming breaths that Advent can offer us too.  Normally, we as a country take a sacred moment at Thanksgiving, gathering with loved ones, sharing a meal, saying prayers of Thanksgiving.  But we only get the one day – sometimes only a half-day.  Because the retail industry wants us to forget about Thanksgiving, and jump right into Christmas shopping.  They lure us in with sales and deals, and they know we either need to occupy all those loved ones who came into town – or we need to escape them, and so we hit the pavement, get bombarded with Christmas tunes, see trees and towns already decorated, and our minds start to cloud with a huge, percolating to-do list.

But this year, with Thanksgiving earlier in November, we got an extra week – an extra Sunday that was not Advent 1, an extra week before we even entered December, and an extra week to breathe before the chaos really begins.  Our secular calendar seems to finally be in sync with our liturgical calendar – the calendar that tells us to use this season of Advent as a time, not of preparing the hearth, distributing the gifts, and attending the parties, but instead, preparing our hearts, distributing acts of grace, and attending the path leading to the Christ Child.  The secular calendar seems to be inviting us to do the same thing the liturgical calendar invites us to do – to take a breath, to ground ourselves, to breathe in some peace.

That is why we start Advent today with Lessons and Carols.  Lessons and Carols is a service different from other Sundays.  We do not introduce the lessons in the same way.  We hear more music.  We squeeze in moments of silence.  We do not receive the holy meal.  The church offers us this totally different service as a way of saying this season is totally different.  And then, the service walks us through all the ways this season is different.  This season is not just baby Jesus in a manger.  This season is remembering Adam and Eve’s sinfulness, remembering the promises God makes over and over to redeem God’s people, remembering the amazing, terrifying moment when a baby in a womb was the worst and best thing to ever happen, and then to remember that in the child we are anticipating, the kingdom of God comes near.  In order to even consider that grand, sweeping narrative, we have to let go of some things – let go of how we always do things so that we can be graced with the way God is doing things.

That is my hope for you this Advent season.  That you might take a cue from the extra week you just received from the secular calendar and use that week as your grounding for a calmer, more intentional, more life-giving, breathing season.  Breathe in the presence of our God, and breathe out the self-doubt, self-criticism, and self-pity.  Breathe in the coming of the Christ Child, and breathe out the busyness, consumerism, and forced good cheer.  Breathe in the calming, unifying Holy Spirit, and breathe out the sins, disrespect, hurtfulness of yesterday.  You might open your eyes and realize the gift of Advent is way better than any gift you will get this Christmas.  Amen.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-14, CE, YB, December 24, 2017

10 Wednesday Jan 2018

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Sometimes arriving at the manger on Christmas Eve feels a bit like just barely sliding into home plate.  When little ones are around, you have scurried about, making sure their tights and bowties are on, while trying to squeeze in one last family picture while everyone still looks nice.  By now, you have probably served or been served a meal, purchased and wrapped gifts, prepped or cooked food for tomorrow, sent out cards, decorated the house, and run countless errands.  And none of that includes the four hundred things that will be done in the next twenty-four hours.  Arriving here and semi-put together is a minor victory, with the promise of a peaceful, beautiful hour of worship, before preparing for the chaos to resume tomorrow.

The unfortunate thing is that the story of tonight is not all that much less chaotic.  Though we sing songs like Silent Night or Away in a Manger, or though we exchange cards with pastoral, peaceful settings, nothing about that night is silent.  And I am pretty sure the little Lord Jesus makes lots of cries.  The chaos of the holy family is not unlike the chaos in which we sometimes find ourselves.  Remembering how scandalous Mary’s pregnancy and relationship with Joseph are, the chaos continues as Emperor Augustus sends out a decree that forces a very pregnant, uncomfortable Mary away from her hometown to the crowded city of Bethlehem.  Before they can secure housing, Mary goes into labor.  Not only is she dealing with the drama of delivering a child for the first time ever, she is delivering without so much as the comfort of a home.  And then, just as they are trying to figure out nursing, and soothing, and the fear and wonder of parenting, along come some rowdy, likely filthy, shepherds, who have also not had a silent night.  In fact, they have heard the terrifying chorus of the heavenly host and been told a most preposterous story – so much so, they gather up their livestock and come to see.

With all the chaos of our own lives, and with all the mayhem of that holy night, why do we do it?  Why do we come to church at all?  Maybe we come to church on this night specifically because on this night, more than perhaps any night ever, we find the wonderful revelation that God can take the messy chaos of life and make our mess holy.  You see, as much as we love tonight’s beautiful story, what happens this night is beyond the chaos of registrations, no vacancies, angelic revelations, and messy encounters with strangers.  In order to understand the enormity of what is happening tonight, we broaden our scope.  Tonight’s event – the nativity of our Lord –  is the culmination of a much larger story.  The story started when there was no earth or humankind, when God formed the earth from the formless void.  When we first sinned against God and were cast out of the garden, to when we kept sinning and God flooded the world, to our deliverance from the hands of pharaoh and our arrival in the promised land, to our sinful desires for a king that led to the eventual confiscation of our land.  We are a people who have been oppressed so many times and rescued so many times we can barely count.  And in that rollercoaster of a relationship with our God, as we failed time and again, God, who never gives up and never cedes love, does something unheard of:  takes on human flesh, comes to us in the form of a vulnerable child, with the plan of redeeming us forever and granting us eternal life.

Maybe we come to church tonight because tonight is about God’s unending, undying, unfailing, uncompromising love for us.  Despite centuries of chaos, disobedience, and failures, God shows up tonight in a mighty way.  Despite the chaos of the times and of this night, God shows up among the outcast.  Despite the chaos of our own times, in our seeming inability to tend to those most outcast, God comes once more to redeem us.  We come to church tonight because we long to grasp the enormity of God’s love for us, the extents to which God will go for us, and the hope which only God can give to us.

But the news is even better than that.  I do not believe the beauty of tonight is in trying to find a holy moment, where God’s love speaks to us in an otherwise chaotic life.  In fact, you might not find that moment tonight because despite the fact that you were physically able to get here, your mind may still be somewhere else.  The good news is that is okay.  The deep, lasting peace of this night is not found in a single church service (though I must say, the service certainly helps).  The deep, lasting peace we are looking for comes from the reality that we do not find God’s love and peace in spite of the chaos of life.  Tonight teaches us that God hallows the chaos of life.

Based on our standards, God should have placed this precious child – the God incarnate – in the wealthiest, most well-guarded palace, where a person of great wealth could have given the baby everything the baby needed.  A person of power could have protected the child, brought honor to the child, raised the child up to assume the power of a Messiah.  If we had something so precious, we certainly would have worked to find the best of what we have to protect that preciousness.  And yet, God takes on flesh in an unmarried, inconsequential woman of little means.  God takes on flesh amidst the common people, being born in the lowliest of estates.  God takes on flesh and announces the news not to kings and rulers, but to shepherds – those disregarded by society as being of little import.  From the very beginning, the extraordinary thing God does is done in the midst of the ordinary – worse yet, among the marginalized and outcast.

God takes the mess of life:  our divisions, our stratifications by class, gender, and race, our subjugation of the poor, our inability to refrain from sin, our messes and chaos – and God makes our mess holy.  God sanctifies our chaos, reminding us that in the midst of chaos, God is present.   In the midst of chaos, God is doing a new thing through us.  In the midst of chaos, God is love and makes us agents of love.  I cannot promise that the chaos will not try to overtake you when you walk out the church door tonight.  But just like you will find small glimpses tonight of the overwhelming love God has for you, you can find God present in the chaos of life too.  God is continually breaking through, birthing in you Christ’s light and love, using you to make room in the world for the Christ child, using you to announce good news of great joy for all people.  If that doesn’t break though the chaos, I don’t know what will!  Amen.

On Seeing Colors…

08 Wednesday Nov 2017

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IMG_7493For those of you who read here regularly or know me personally, you know that fall is my favorite season.  Though I know many people love the flowers and the vibrancy of greens in spring, I find the turning of leaves in fall much more beautiful.  There is something poignantly graceful about a tree making a vibrant show of color before losing everything and going bare for the winter.  Whether it’s an entire tree that is vividly yellow, orange, or red, or whether it’s stumbling across a particularly beautiful fallen leaf, I find my breath being taken away time and again in the fall.

Fall just finally began to show in force this past week where I live.  The colors could not have come sooner.  In a time filled with anger, hatred, and violence, I have found myself struggling to see beauty around me.  Instead of the vibrant red of love, I have seen the ugly color of abuse and subjugation.  Instead of flaming orange of peace, I have seen the frightening colors of war and gun violence.  Instead of the brilliant yellow of respect and dignity, I have seen demoralizing color of sexism and racism.  In such times, I have longed to stumble on a stray leaf of hope.

As my mind has reeled with yet another mass shooting in Texas, more women coming forward to protest assault and harassment, and legislation that seems to value personal gain over the relief of the suffering of the poor, I have been wondering if fall would come at all.  And then I realized, perhaps the leaves of hope I have been looking for are everyday people who come into my path and show me vibrant signs of hope.  I see hope in a neighboring pastor who told me about the prayer tent he set up in a nearby neighborhood after a shooting that occurred the night before.  Children were overjoyed to see his presence as they got off the school bus the next day.  I see hope in the yoga teacher who, sensing a need in our community, approached our church to see if we could provide space for a sliding-fee yoga class for people of all income levels.  I see hope in children who teach me a profound sense of empathy instead of the reverse.

This week, I invite you to take a look around you in God’s creation to see the signs of hope and love that God is giving you to revive your spirit.  And I also invite you to take a look around you at the people who are offering you signs of hope and love this week – even in the small gestures of kindness, generosity, and love.  I suspect you will be overwhelmed by the beauty you see, and hopefully inspired to unfurl your own beautiful colors of love, peace, respect, and dignity.