On Terrifying Headlines, or, Crying Myself to Sleep Over Climate Change

The Lord God took the human and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it. ~Genesis 2:15


A little over a week ago, I started seeing an article popping up on FB, shared by numerous friends. It was the most dire headline about climate change I've ever seen:

HUMAN CIVILIZATION WILL CRUMBLE BY 2050 

IF WE DON'T STOP CLIMATE CHANGE NOW, NEW PAPER CLAIMS.*

I didn't read the article right away. I scanned it. The opening paragraphs seemed to support the headline. And there it was again, that old familiar sinking feeling.

This wasn't news to me.

In 2012 I was faced with the proposition of selling my parents' beautiful home at the Jersey shore, located along the inland waterway. I talked to my realtor frankly.

"How can I sell this in good conscience, seeing as I'm pretty sure it's likely to be underwater in 20 years?"

She replied, "All the buyers have access to the same newspapers you do."

I allowed that to be my ethical get-out-of-jail-free card, and sold my parents' house at market rate.

On the day of my closing, Superstorm Sandy made landfall, pretty much, right exactly on top of my parents' house.

I waited for the phone call from my realtor, telling me the buyer wanted out. The house had three feet of water in it. Sounds about right, I thought. Who in their right mind wants it now?

And I returned to an old fantasy of retiring there, and swimming in the bay in my dotage, and walking down to the beach for sunrise, and returning to watch the timbers decay around me.

A phone call came, but it was not the one I was expecting. The buyer wanted to send his contractor to have a look. Was that ok with me?

Sure! I said. I was hundreds of miles away, so I was grateful to at least have some sense of how bad the damage was.

The contractor went in on a Saturday. He called me from the house. The entire first floor had been flooded, of course, and the furnace, hot water heater, and central air unit were all destroyed.

He told me the buyer was still interested, but to keep the house viable, they had to start tearing out walls, gut the first floor bathroom, laundry room, and shower, and place fans all around, immediately, before mold took hold.

Would I be willing to let them do that, while they contemplated their revised offer?

As I hung up the phone, I remembered my realtor's words to me.

"They have access to the same newspapers you do."

And now, they'd had access to the violence and scope of the storm of the new era of accelerated climate change.

When it hit, Sandy was the second most expensive storm in US history, with damages eventually reckoned at about $70 billion.

Now, it is the fourth most expensive hurricane, having been surpassed by Harvey and Maria in 2017.

This is our reality. This is our future. Climate change is now.

But people with enough money are still going to buy homes on the water, because they can afford to.

Even after seeing that damage. Even after paying for it.

According to the new study out of the Breakthrough National Centre for Climate Restoration in Australia, climate change poses an existential threat to humanity if not addressed aggressively, right now. The authors take to task governments that refuse to recognize the national security risks as well as the potential loss of human life involved. They also scold scientists who are, in their view, erring on the side of "least drama."

If ever there was a moment for drama in the service of a call to action, this is probably it.

The second night after I read the paper I couldn't shake a feeling of dread as I got ready to go to sleep. I settled in and turned out the lights. I started to think of my children. I calculated how old they will be in 2050. I wondered whether either of them would have children. (I have always hoped they would. Now I am not so sure.)

I began to cry. This is not the future I want for my children, or anyone's children. I don't want either the people I love or people I've never met to face the nightmare scenario of the places they love underwater, the lives they create wiped away, and the complete disappearance of water and air clean enough to sustain life.

Something in me has shifted. I cannot shake this, cannot put it away in a safe place, cannot pretend everything's going to be ok. I know that action is the only possible response.

Scripture tells me that the earth-- and everything else-- is the creation of an infinitely inventive God, who commissions humans to care for it. Though the classic translation of Genesis 2:15 is that the human was placed in the garden to "till it and keep it," the Hebrew beneath the English translation is far stronger. The word translated "till" has the same root as "servant." The human is being told to serve the earth. And that word translated "keep" is just as often translated "guard" or "protect."

For people in the Jewish and Christian traditions, our mandate is to serve and protect the earth. Of course, indigenous peoples have been telling us this ever since Europeans got off their ships and looked around to see what they could mine, cut, and otherwise seize from the land.

But I digress.

I do most of the things people are supposed to do to try to ease their carbon footprint. I recycle. I carry re-usable tote bags to the grocery store. I drive a hybrid car.

I still fly, though, usually once or twice each year. I eat meat, the production of which is a huge source of carbon emissions. What I recycle includes a lot of plastics. And even though it's a hybrid, I still drive, every single day.

Scientists are telling us that individuals, on our own, cannot effect change on a large enough scale. What we do in our homes at at our jobs will not be enough. Governments have to take action. Policies have to change. In 2016, the earth was the warmest it had been in 120,000 years. The amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere-- the thing that causes climate warming-- is the highest it's been in human history, and higher than it's been for millions of years.

Recycling is good. I won't be giving up my hybrid any time soon. And I'm not giving up on the notion that we can, somehow, turn this ship around.

The most important thing I can do to combat climate change -- that any of us can do-- is to vote.

I'm going to find the candidates at every level-- local, state, federal--who are the most committed to serving and protecting the earth, and I'm going to give them my complete support.

I'm going to find the ones who are committed to putting limits on carbon emissions and fighting back against those who are more interested in lining their pockets than in saving the planet.

I'm going to go to work for them, go door to door for them, show up at their campaign rallies, donate to them, and get people to the polls for them.

And I'm going to vote. I suggest you do, too. Vote, vote, vote.

That's the only thing that can save us now.

* You can find the article by putting the title above into a search engine,

Pride in the Face of Death

Yesterday a wonderful local friend posted something on Facebook that made my blood freeze in my veins--a screenshot of the following statement from a man in Watertown, NY:

Watertown is having

a LGBTQ

celebration. For the

love of God please

let someone go on a 

mass shooting.

The man's name is unusual enough that he was easy to find through the FB search engine. I spent about 10 minutes scrolling down his page, by which time, many LGBTQIA+ folks were already on the scene, trying, alternately, to reason with him, to infuriate him (by posting lots of rainbows and gifs of same gender people kissing one another), and just generally saying, You are a messed up human.

He responded defiantly, invoking Jesus (who, he believes, will show his LGBTQ appreciation through a gay-killing inferno on Judgement Day), and posting meme after meme about how he was waiting for the police to come to his door as a result of the original post (which, to be clear, had been removed by this time-- though, as I said, plenty of folks seem to have taken screenshots of it). 

And, yeah, more information having come out (heh) about the guy, it sounds like he's had a hard-knock life and responded with a lot of anger and at least some light arson. 

But, if I may, the attitude of this man-- that the world would be better if LGBTQ people were massacred-- is pretty much why Pride celebrations exist: in the face of threats of death, at some point, lesbian, gay, bi, trans, queer folks, everyone in that alphabet soup that keeps expanding as people tell their truth... in the face of death threats, we say: but we, too, are entitled to our lives.

So, we have Pride.

The threats aren't always literally about death (though, for some, that is increasingly the case-- most notably our trans sibs, who are murdered at the highest rate of all of us, trans women of color especially).

Sometimes it is the death of the soul that is threatened--when families reject us, and tell us we are no longer welcome.

When churches say, "You are not right-- you sin in a way that is worse than any and every other sin."

Sometimes the threat is directed at our livelihoods... as is the case right now, as the current administration strips these protections from us, one at a time, a relentless assault on our dignity and personhood. For a full and detailed account of all the actions taken against us, I recommend this Twitter thread from Charlotte Clymer. Seeing it all together is sobering, terrifying-- a reminder that our lives, at least for this administration, do not count, do not matter, and are simply something to use to gain points with people filled with hate.

In the end, there's not a lot of difference between the guy in Watertown and a religious leader who tells their congregation that being gay is the worst kind of sin.

So, we have Pride.

We raise flags with rainbows on them-- the rainbow, in the bible, a symbol of a covenant of love and faithfulness. And we wear rainbow t-shirts, and jewelry, and kerchiefs, and baseball caps, because there just aren't enough rainbows in this world.

We have parades in which we show our most vibrant, joy-filled selves to the world.

We have festivals. This year, our local Pride Palooza will feature (among other things such as food, trucks, craft vendors, a kids' area, and a drag show) a table where attendees can get "Mom-hugs." Because, if you're gay, or bi, or trans, or queer, it's not a given that your own mom wants to hug you any more.

And so, we have Pride. We have a place where the message is: You are loved. You are worthy. You are welcome. Come and have some cotton candy and a hug. Come and know you are at home here, at least.

And to those who wonder why we don't have Straight Pride, here's what I say:

When people want to kill you just because of who you are and who you love, I'll come to your Pride event.

Until then, please respect and at least try to understand ours.

Image from Saturday's Binghamton Flag-Raising, borrowed-- with gratitude!-- from Patti Loves Bing.

That Anniversary Just Slipped By

That would be, the anniversary of my coming out to the congregation I serve as their minister.
May 13, 2009. Ten years and ten days ago.

For years I'd marked it.

It was the anniversary of the day I started breathing deeply again.

It was the day I stopped being afraid.

(Even though, my job was far from safe-- the denomination in which I serve had not yet repealed its anti-LGBTQ legalese, the infamous "Amendment B," put on the books, I think, the year I became a Presbyterian... back when I was married to my college sweetheart, a man). 

It was the day I started mentioning her name to people I'd come to love over the previous eighteen months.

("Her name is Sherry," I said, and they said things like, "We're so happy you have someone special in your life." And, "Now we feel even closer to you." And, "When can we meet her?")

I was one of the lucky ones. When I told my session (church board), they barely blinked. They looked at one another and said things like, "This doesn't change anything." And, "You're our pastor." There was no movement to toss me out, though one soul, when it came to a vote (the question of whether I should stay), indicated that I shouldn't receive a salary any longer.

I was incredibly lucky. Most of the people who had theological or scriptural questions about having a gay minister welcomed me into their homes, prayed with me, and told me they loved me.

I suffered more in the anticipation of the event, than I did in its aftermath.

I was, to put it succinctly, blessed. And protected. And cherished. And wanted.

That is not every lesbian minister's story. But it is my story.

And the years since, years of happily serving Jesus together here in our little corner of the church universal, have been remarkably peaceful.

So maybe it's not at all odd that, this year, I completely forgot about it.

Though, my daughter and I have been listening to the Indigo Girls all week, and fangirling over their wonderfulness by text and phone.

I suppose that's a pretty good way to celebrate.

The Wisdom of Rachel Held Evans

On Saturday I was in the midst of my beloved's and my annual jaunt to Tribeca Film Festival, in which we run around Manhattan, eat great food, see my son, and watch at least eight movies in four days. This year's trip also included a morning at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, another at the Whitney Museum of American Art, and a long ramble through Central Park.

It was pretty perfect. It always is.

But on Saturday afternoon, as I checked my phone between seeing a beautiful film called "Driveways" (about unlikely friendships) and a devastating film called "XY Chelsea" (about the trans heroine who exposed U.S. war crimes), I read something that was impossible.

I read that Rachel Held Evans had died.

Rachel was 37. She was what some have called an "exvangelical," someone who came to understand that some essential tenets of the church that gave birth to her faith in Jesus Christ were actually harmful, human-made vehicles keeping some in the position of power and others in oppression.

She left. She grieved. She found faith-in-community anew. She wrote about it, and in doing so, she became a fresh, intelligent, and compassionate voice for those who were learning a new way to follow Jesus.

My first encounter with Rachel's writing was "Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding the Church." It's a memoir chronicling her faith journey through childhood and young adulthood, and her disillusionment with a church that seemed more concerned with law and exclusion and building maintenance than love and feeding Christ's sheep and healing the world. But it also reveals the core of what kept drawing her back: Jesus. Something precious she found in the scriptures. And, structured as the book is around both the two great sacraments (Baptism and Communion) and the additional traditional five markers of the life of faith (Confirmation, Reconciliation, Marriage, Orders/ Ordination, and the Sacrament of the Sick), her crisp and beautiful theological language revels in the power of a life formed by faith.

I wanted more. So I went back to an earlier book "A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How A Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband Master."  At the link, you'll find this description:

Strong-willed and independent, Rachel Held Evans couldn't sew a button on a blouse before she embarked on a radical life experiment--a year of biblical womanhood. Intrigued by the traditionalist resurgence that led many of her friends to abandon their careers to assume traditional gender roles in the home, Evans decides to try it for herself, vowing to take all of the Bible's instructions for women as literally as possible for a year.

Pursuing a different virtue each month, Evans learns the hard way that her quest for biblical womanhood requires more than a "gentle and quiet spirit" (1 Peter 3:4). It means growing out her hair, making her own clothes, covering her head, obeying her husband, rising before dawn, abstaining from gossip, remaining silent in church, and even camping out in the front yard during her period. 

Rachel was trying to prove a point, and man o man, did she ever. She confirmed what she'd suspected, that despite the claims of some that they prioritize scripture above all, evangelical notions of Christian womanhood are, in fact, choosy about which behaviors they require, and--surprise!-- they all involve keeping women in submissive and subservient roles.

Near the end of "Biblical Womanhood," Rachel writes about searching the scriptures:

If you are looking for verses with which to support slavery, you will find them. 
If you are looking for verses with which to abolish slavery, you will find them. 
If you are looking for verses with which to oppress women, you will find them. 
If you are looking for for verses with which to liberate or honor women, you will find them. 
If you are looking for reasons to wage war, you will find them. 
If you are looking for reasons to promote peace, you will find them. 
If you are looking for an out-dated, irrelevant ancient text, you will find it. 
If you are looking for truth, believe me, you will find it. 
This is why there are times when the most instructive question to bring to the text is not "what does it say?", but "what am I looking for?" 
I suspect Jesus knew this when he said, 
"Ask and it will be given to you, seek and you will find, knock and the door will be opened." 
If you want to do violence in this world, you will always find the weapons. 
If you want to heal, you will always find the balm.

Rachel lived a life of faith and intellectual and theological inquiry, and that life was cut short by a disastrous convergence of illness and allergic reaction. Her husband Dan, her two children (ages 3 and 1), her entire family, and a community of like-minded Christians (and even some who were not like-minded) are grieving. Her compassionate, articulate voice encouraged countless "wanderers" from the church-folds of their childhood to find a faith they could live with integrity.

And she did it all as one soaked in the fruits of the Spirit-- love, joy, peace; patience, kindness, generosity; faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

I have been home from my trip for a little less than a day, and I am still as heartsick as when I was crying in the Regal Battery Park lobby.

This is not possible. I don't know how to reckon with it. All I can do is turn to my own faith in the God who brings life from death.

Each morning of the Easter season I have said this prayer from the PCUSA Book of Common Worship, a prayer of thanksgiving for baptism. Today I share it in the hope and wonder of the faith we proclaim... in hope that, for any who might, like me, be reeling with loss, it offers some slight balm for the soul... and in the hope expressed by Rachel in her most recent book, "Inspired":

"The story is not over."

O Lord our God, we give you thanks
for the new life you raise up in us
through the mystery of our baptism--
the sorrow of the heavy cross,
the surprise of the empty tomb,
the love that death could not destroy.

By the power of your Holy Spirit
poured out upon us in baptism,
fill us with the joy of your resurrection,
so that we may be a living sign
of your new heaven and new earth
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Easter Tuesday: Where I've Been

Dear Ones,

For you who have read this blog during Lent, it probably feels as if I've ghosted on you. I did disappear.

I tried to write a post titled: "Friday of Holy Week: What's so "Good" about it?"

But this year, Good Friday came to my congregation in the death-- the wholly unexpected death-- of one of our beloved members and Ruling Elders. It stayed right through Easter Sunday, with another death-- expected, but no less devastating, another beloved member and long-time leader. Pillars, both. Irreplaceable.

In that hour, words failed me.

There are surely words to say about Good Friday as we observe it in the Christian community, words to say about the Passion of Jesus Christ and how it is described in the gospel accounts and how it was understood by the early church.

But I didn't have access to those words last week.

On Easter Sunday I tried to share a message of hope that frankly acknowledged grief:

The grief of Mary Magdalene, not so easily dispelled, even with Jesus standing right in front of her...

Our own grief, the grief not only of my congregation, but also of each individual.... not easily dispelled.

Nor would we want it to be. Grief is the inevitable outcome when we love one another, as Jesus did, to the end. Grief is something to be honored, and lived faithfully, as all seasons of life.

We are in the midst of the season of Easter, the great fifty-day feast of victory for our God. There are "Alleluias" to be sung, loudly and joyfully!

Let that be, I pray, a balm in our grief. Let the words of resurrection ring true in our ears and our hearts. Let it be our constant hope, even as we honor the grief that is with us and in us now.

Thursday of Holy Week: A Not-Working Maundy Thursday

Today was planned as a work day, Maundy Thursday, one of my favorite days in the Christian year.

The alarm was set for 7. Yesterday, following a fairly intense day (good-intense... as being with people you love and care for tends to be), I'd taken an evening walk with my beloved.

It wasn't an exercise-walk. No one got their desired steps in, or got their heart rate to that specific fitness-creating level. Instead, the walk was designed to help me to uncoil, to let my shoulders relax. To let me breathe in the fresh, outdoor air. To let me not, for a while, do what can be the most precious, beautiful work I get to do, but instead, to do the work of coming home to my not-work self.

That possibly sounds like a funny thing for a pastor to say, since the line between work and not-work is a lot more fluid for us. And our work looks, often, like what everyone does all the time-- listening, talking, processing, offering words we hope are helpful.

I love my work.

But I need not-work time, too. And last night, with my beloved, I claimed about 40 minutes of it.

From the 40-minute, not-exercising walk.

We walked slowly, and not far.

We walked on the Washington Street Bridge, which crosses the Susquehanna River right next to its confluence with the Chenango River.

We looked at the sun-- sinking, but not yet setting. Still bright.

We looked at the water, churning from recent heavy rainfall.

We walked into Confluence Park, and decided to stop short of intruding on a very sweet-looking couple down by the water.

And then we walked back to the car.

I slept well. I felt refreshed when I awakened.

For about the first 30 minutes of wakefulness, I felt great.

Then, the stomach bug hit.

And now, hours later, on a couch and not at church, I have missed both services I was going to lead today, one at a beautiful hospice facility, and the other for my beautiful congregation.

The one I'm missing at my congregation is my favorite service of the year. The Lord's Supper and a Tenebrae, service of the lengthening shadows. It takes place in our Fellowship Hall. People are gathered around tables. On each table there is a loaf of bread, a tray of small cups of juice-- for the supper-- and a small candle-holder, holding seven tea-lights-- for the Tenebrae.

By the end of the evening, the assembled faithful will have heard the story of Jesus' last night with his disciples, before his death-- stories of both the meal and of Jesus washing his disciples' feet. They will have broken and shared bread and cup.

They will also have heard the story of Jesus' passion and death, in voices from all four gospels. They will have extinguished the seven votive candles on their table.

By then, the room will have been in darkness.

Then, a low handbell will have tolled twelve times, once for each disciple who deserted Jesus.

The congregation will have prayed the Lord's Prayer-- by heart, because it's dark.

And they will have been dismissed with the words,
"Go in peace. Love one another as Christ has loved us."

And, for the first time in twelve years, I was not there.

I know, intellectually, that this does not make me a disciple who has deserted Jesus. (Although, I'm sure I am, more often than I'd like to admit.)

But I have never had such a sad sick day.

Wednesday of Holy Week: Making It Your MUST

I can't leave my house without making my bed.

I know. At my age, that's not exactly a boast. It's more a confession. 

There are times when I think, "I'm the only one who is going to see this. Why not just leave it?

That's a complete lie. IT WOULD NEVER OCCUR TO ME. I am incapable.

Now, I am not a great housekeeper. Ask anyone who has ever set foot in my house. Lots of piles of magazines and paper and mail. Nothing that ascends to the standards of hoarding, but I am definitely at ease with a certain amount of dishevelment. I'm not sure why making my bed is such a MUST for me. But, I must.

This Lent I believe I've added another MUST to my life: Morning prayer and scripture reading. I also tried to write here, and managed to do that somewhat regularly until last week, when my life as a pastor became predictably busy as Holy Week approached. 

And, any other Lent, I'd be kicking myself about that. I love writing, I love scripture, and I love Jesus. I always hope to contribute my little bit towards something that might be nourishing or helpful. I wanted to do that for Lent.

But this Lent, I recognized that, if something had to go, on a particular day, it could not be morning prayer. 

I'm using the new PCUSA Daily Prayer Book. It's familiar (my old one is falling apart). But it's also new, and, for me, a fresh, rich resource for personal devotions. (Or group; it's set up so that it can be used both ways.)

And, I suppose, it goes back to the old axiom from air travel. If the cabin pressure changes, and the oxygen mask drops in front of you, PUT ON YOUR OWN MASK before trying to help anyone else.

It's counterintuitive, especially for Jesus-y people. We assume we're supposed to help the other guy first.

Growing things.

But you can't put the oxygen mask on the person next to you if you've passed out.

And you can't pour from an empty bucket.

You can't pour from an empty bucket.

You can't pour from an empty bucket.

This Lent, I've started prioritizing making sure my own bucket is full before thinking I'm capable of offering something that will be helpful to someone else.

Prayer and scripture, first thing, go a long, long way to filling me up.

And after a Lent in which I prioritized them, they are now on my MUST list. I can't not do it. 

To be clear, this isn't about moral rectitude. It's about habit-building. 

I finally managed to build this habit that I have long known I needed.

Hoping and praying for you all, that you find that thing that fills your bucket, and find a way to make it your MUST.

Lent Day 30: All Are Welcome

Our story last night, in our last Wednesday service of Lent 2019, was about the tax collector Levi, who followed Jesus, and invited him to a vast banquet, full of other "tax collectors and sinners."

As always, some religious gatekeepers showed up, and wanted to know why.

Why was Jesus eating with sinners?

(The answer is good news for everyone who's a Jesus follower. Because, according to my reading of scripture, "sinner" describes all of us.)

But the theme last evening was welcome.

All are welcome, so come. Come to this table. (You can find the meditation here.)

The poet Rumi says it so beautifully.

"Come, come,
whoever you are.
wanderer, 
worshiper,
lover of leaving,
come.
It doesn't matter. 
Ours is not a caravan of despair. 
come, 
even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. 
Come, yet again , come , come.”

Enjoy this.

And come.

Lent Day 29: The Parable of the Trees

Again, this season is showing me a passage I've read, but which feels brand new to me. It is Jotham's "Parable of the Trees" from the book of Judges.

Just to give you a quick overview of the book of Judges: It's nasty and violent. It covers an era when, according to the tightly woven narrative, there was no king over God's people, and everyone did what was right in their own sight. Chaos. It starts out marginally ok, and gets worse.

The story unfolds in a spiral pattern:

The people stop worshiping the one true God, and worship, instead, foreign gods, idols, the gods the neighbors are worshiping. 

   Then, God punishes them: they are invaded and slapped down in a decisive way. 

       But finally a "judge" arises-- think, not Judge Judy, but a combination of wise arbitrator, and 
       governor, and military leader. 

            They would be anointed by God. 

                   They would lead the people in a battle against the invaders, and win, and order would be 
                   restored. 

                         Until the next time, when... 

The people stop worshiping the one true God, and it would all begin again...

Except each time it gets a little worse.

The end of Judges is a bloodbath like few recorded in scripture.

In Judges 9, the people of Shechem decide to agree upon Abimelech as king, and Jotham--Abimelech's half-brother-- speaks to the people in objection.

He does so by telling this parable.

When Jotham was told about [Abimelech], he went and stood on the top of Mount Gerizim. He raised his voice and called out, “Listen to me, you leaders of Shechem, so that God may listen to you!

     “Once the trees went out to anoint a king over themselves. 
          So they said to the olive tree, ‘Be our king!’
     “But the olive tree replied to them, ‘Should I stop producing my oil, 
          which is how gods and humans are honored, so that I can go to sway over the trees?’

     “So the trees said to the fig tree, 
          ‘You come and be king over us!’
     “The fig tree replied to them, 
          ‘Should I stop producing my sweetness and my delicious fruit, 
           so that I can go to sway over the trees?’

     “Then the trees said to the vine, 
         ‘You come and be king over us!’
     “But the vine replied to them, 
         ‘Should I stop providing my wine that makes gods and humans happy, 
         so that I can go to sway over the trees?’

     “Finally, all the trees said to the thornbush, 
         ‘You come and be king over us!’
     “And the thornbush replied to the trees, 
          ‘If you’re acting faithfully in anointing me king over you, 
           come and take shelter in my shade; 
           but if not, let fire come out of the thornbush and burn up the cedars of Lebanon.’  
        
                                                                              ~ Judges 9:7-15

Not everyone is qualified to be king.

They may be very good at other things. They may even be geniuses at some things.

But to be king-- or judge, or ANY KIND of leader-- requires a specific set of skills and temperament.

To chose the wrong one, to accept the wrong one, is to court a wildfire that will destroy everything.

Lent Day 28: Sparking Love

There is something about Lent that brings an intensity of purpose to my work, and that is all for the good. I am glad and grateful that the church sets aside this time for us to aspire to a spiritual journey to the cross.

Yesterday's gospel reading did it for me. (John 12:1-8; you can find it here.) It brought the cross near. We witnessed Mary of Bethany anoint Jesus, as a tender act of both extravagant love and gratitude (Jesus had raised her brother from the dead! That calls for something big).

But it was also a prophetic act.

It was an anointing for Jesus' burial, even before he is dead. Jesus recognizes the act for what it is.

I witness in our culture, on a regular basis, real unease with the death of Jesus-- the pain, the blood, the real, human cost of a brutal system that saw all but the official state religion as a threat.

(Sounds familiar, in these days when some seek to make a bizarre, unrecognizable version of "Christianity" the law of the land.)

But Mary nails it (if you could, um, excuse that expression). She recognizes Jesus' death-- even before it has occurred-- as a supreme act of love. As the supreme act of love. And so, she responds in kind, with an act that also recognizes the human Jesus-- the feet that carry him on his journey, this journey to the cross. She responds in kind, in kindness, with extravagant love, love fragrant and pure, love that doesn't count the cost.

What good is religion if, in the end, it doesn't come to love?

These words, then, from today's reading from Hebrews, speak to me:

And let us consider each other carefully for the purpose of sparking love and good deeds.  Don’t stop meeting together with other believers, which some people have gotten into the habit of doing. Instead, encourage each other, especially as you see the day drawing near. ~ Hebrews 10:24-25

Spark love in one another, my beloveds. Spark love, kind acts, and encouragement.

What good is our faith, if it doesn't come to love?

Lent Day 27: Feet

I'm looking right now at a pretty great pedicure I obtained a couple of weeks ago. Especially in the months of the year when our feet are never exposed (unless we go to the gym), I love taking off socks or tights to find: my toenails look lovely.

Not on their own, mind you. But decked out in their aqua gel polish, for today, they look pretty wonderful.

Feet are so awkward. Especially as we age, we can become profoundly uncomfortable with our feet. In fact, feet might be the distillation of all we dread about aging. They might start to twist in funny ways. They might require more attention from doctors. They might even require us to knock it off, in terms of shoes that are purely decorative, and to clothe them in something sensible, that gives actual support to our arches and our backs, for God's sake. (And our feet's sake.)

People are shy about their feet. I'd go as far as to say, people really, really dislike exposing them to anyone, for any reason.

So, here we are in Lent, and looming ahead is a story that is an essential part of our identity, and it has to do with Jesus-- JESUS!-- washing his disciples' feet. And some churches are bold enough to re-enact that. (I haven't even asked.)

But before that, at least in this year (for those of us who follow the Revised Common Lectionary) there is another story, a story about a woman anointing Jesus' feet. Many of us will share that story in worship tomorrow.

The motivating question in the passage seems to be: What do you get the man who has raised your brother from the dead? I mean, what is an appropriate thank you gift?

The brother in question is Lazarus. His sisters Martha and Mary sent for Jesus when Lazarus was sick, but Jesus delayed coming until after Lazarus had died.

He did this deliberately. And he tells us why, exactly, he does that.

He says, “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.”

Now, it may appear that Jesus means that raising Lazarus from the dead will give him glory. And, that is what he means... except, you have to understand what Jesus means, in the gospel of John, by the word "glory."

He means his death. He means, his crucifixion, that moment when he will be raised up on the cross, arms outstretched, and gathering all the world to himself. For Jesus, that is the moment of the Son of Man being glorified.

Each "sign" Jesus performs in John's gospel reveals a facet of Jesus' identity, tells us more of who he is. This sign, raising someone from death to life, completes the picture, reveals Jesus as one who is at one with God, perfectly in tune with God's power for life. This sign will also be a provocation to the local powers-that-be to call for his, Jesus', death.

Jesus knows this. Jesus does this intentionally.

And the family of Lazarus are aware of the danger hovering over all this. But still, they are so grateful-- of course they are! How do thank him?

Do they simply say "Thank you?" I feel confident that has already happened.

Do they throw him a dinner party? Check.

But what else could you do... is there some kind of grand gesture that would get your gratitude across?

Oh, there surely is.

Lent Day 26: God Is Love

But now thus says the Lord,
    the One who created you, O Jacob,
    the One who formed you, O Israel:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
    I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
    and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
    and the flame shall not consume you.  ~ Isaiah 43:1-2

When you are fearful

when you feel alone

when you wonder "what's next?"

or

"why?"

When you are wondering who you are

or whose you are

When the waters swirl closer,

churning, threatening

When the smoke begins to choke,

and your vision is obscured

Rest in your Maker

Lean on the everlasting arms

Do not fear,

for you are held by the One named Love

Lent Day 25: Psalms of Lament

The nuns, singing psalms.

I've been telling whoever will listen that I think "Call the Midwife" is one of the loveliest depictions of Christian faith I've seen on TV or in movies. Now, granted, that's probably connected to my childhood romance with the idea of becoming a nun-- a Poor Clare, inspired to do so after reading a memoir by a member of that order. But it's also because the faith of the nuns-- and some of the lay midwives--is what motivates them to help the poor women of London; it's what informs their startlingly progressive feminist advocacy. for women and their children. And, often, an episode includes a scene of their singing psalms in the chapel that just about brings me to tears.

I'm singing the psalms myself these days, first thing in the morning. I've been using the new Presbyterian Book of Common Worship Daily Prayer book during Lent. It includes (as did the old one) eight different "psalm tones" for chanting (as well as helpful markings on the psalms themselves). These are simple to learn, and each is to be used with a particular kind of psalm:

1. [That Word We Don't Say In Lent]
2. Praise
3. Lordship
4. Salvation History
5. God's Law
6. Trust
7. Penitential
8. Lament

Every psalm is marked with suggested psalm tones (though you could actually use any tones with any psalm). But the psalms are, of course, paired with the tones that reflect the psalm content.

The psalm this morning was Psalm 126, and I turned to it and found it was marked "Tone 8." Lament.

That's not right, I thought. This is a psalm of praise, or maybe salvation history.

When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion,
    we were like those who dream.
Then our mouth was filled with laughter,
    and our tongue with shouts of joy;
then it was said among the nations,
    “The Lord has done great things for them.”
The Lord has done great things for us,
    and we rejoiced.
                                      ~ Psalm 126:1-3

Clearly, this is s psalm remembering a moment in the history of God's people that gives evidence of God's goodness.

"The Lord has done great things for us, and we rejoiced!"

But I sung the psalm using Tone 8 anyway, just to see what happened.

What happened, was the rest of the psalm:

Restore our fortunes, O Lord,
    like the watercourses in the Negeb.
May those who sow in tears
    reap with shouts of joy.
Those who go out weeping,
    bearing the seed for sowing,
shall come home with shouts of joy,
    carrying their sheaves.
                                       ~ Psalm 126:4-6

A psalm I've read, and of which I've sung numerous other settings (including, of course, "Bringing in the Sheaves"!), turns out to be a cleverly concealed appeal to God for rescue. It's a psalm of lament, only, instead of the lament beginning and the praise ending, the praise is offered up front.

And then we sing, "Restore our fortunes, O Lord," and we sing it in a minor key.

We are sowing our fields with tears, O God... might we reap with shouts of joy?

We are weeping-- weeping, when we go about our tasks, our washing, our cooking, our planting...

But we trust-- even now, we trust-- that we will return in joy.

Lent Days 23-24: Oil

This morning I read a story I did not remember, from the life and work of the prophet Elisha.
(2 Kings 4:1-7, you can find it here.)

An unnamed widow goes to the prophet-- they seem to know one another, because her late husband belonged to "the company of prophets" (a union? a Bible Study? I must find out more...).

She tells Elisha that someone she is indebted to has come to take her two children-- sons-- as slaves, as repayment of her debts.

Elisha asks the most wonderful question: "What shall I do for you?"

It's so easy to assume we know what people need; it's respectful and kind to simply ask.

He adds, "What do you have in your house?", i.e., what have I got to work with?

She has only some oil.

Oil in scripture:

"Lampkoliwna," Oil lamp, Poland. 

It is used for anointing prophets, priests, and kings.

It lights the lamps that allow for sight in the night.

It is used in cooking, in baking-- oil for cakes, oil for bread, for sustenance.

And then there's that psalm that speaks of people living together in peace and unity:

How very good and pleasant it is
    when kindred live together in unity!
It is like the precious oil on the head,
    running down upon the beard,
on the beard of Aaron,
    running down over the collar of his robes.  ~Psalm 133:1-2

Oil is valuable. Everyone needs it.

Elisha is about to perform a miracle of abundance.

He tells her to get as many vessels-- containers, jars, find them, borrow them, bring them all in, and shut the door, shutting herself in with her sons, and fill them all with oil.

And she does. She pours and pours. "They (the children) kept bringing vessels to her and she kept pouring."

In the end, her vessel, her original source of oil, does not run out.

This unnamed woman, through the intervention of the prophet, has enough oil for all the anointing and blessing, for all the cakes and bread, for all the lamps that will flicker comfort and vision in the night, for all the oil that will speak to her neighbors of everything that is good, and needed, and holy.

She has just become an oil merchant.

Her sons are safe.

I see her, this very same night as the night of the miracle, the night of her first day as an oil merchant. She tucks the coins-- heavy, a bagful, all that's left over after paying her debt-- beneath the matt where she sleeps.

Then she takes a lamp filled with oil, a lamp glowing and bringing light to her home, and sits with her sons, and sings them to sleep.

Lent Days 21-22: Sabbath

Today's reading from the Hebrew Scriptures is from Leviticus. Leviticus has a bad rep among progressives, because it is a book that has been badly misused by Christians who want to condemn and exclude LGBTQIA+ folks from the blessed community. So now, the very name of the book 'Leviticus" elicits a "NOPE" response in many of us, and that is too bad.

Much (most?) of Leviticus is about worship, about special days of holy rest, and about Sabbath.

The passage appointed for this morning, Leviticus 23:26-41 (you can find it here) concerns the establishment of two major Jewish observances/ celebrations, the Day of Atonement (think: at-one-ment!) and the Festival of Booths, or Sukkoth.

But the parts of the passage that spoke to me were about the Sabbath-keeping involved in those days and weeks. Over and over in the passage I read,

"... and you shall do no work that day" (verses 28, 31);

"It shall be a sabbath of complete rest..." (Verse 32);

"you shall not work at your occupations" (verses 35, 36);

"a complete rest on the first day [of Sukkoth]; a complete rest on the eighth day" (verse 39).

Jews are better at Sabbath than Christians. They work at it, they make it a priority, they weave it concretely into both faith and practice, and, as a result, they shine as an example that I really think we should more closely emulate.

The theology underlying Sabbath is one Christians share with Jews; we take Sabbath to remind us that God is God, and we are not; to remind us that even our holiest stories say that God took Sabbath after the work of creation; and also to remind us that we are not slaves who belong to other humans, but people wholly owned by God. (Of course, the legacy of slavery is very real and devastating, both for Jews and for African Americans.  In no way do I seek to minimize that.)

I had been pretty bad at taking a Sabbath until my partner, Sherry, decided she would start taking a day off (in addition to Sunday) from her work as a small-business-owner. This is a little tricky for her, a little more expensive than just working herself on that day (and not paying one of her terrific co-workers). But she came to the conclusion she needed it, and so she took the day I've always said was my sabbath, Friday.

Sabbath acquisition.

As a result, I started taking Friday more seriously as a day off, too.

Now Fridays are days when we rise a little later, when we cook most of our meals (but certainly also enjoy an evening out, too). Fridays are days when we might run errands or we might decide to watch every episode of a compelling Netflix series. They are days when we practice self-care-- haircuts, a monthly massage. Walks at the park or around the neighborhood.

We don't always do everything together on Fridays-- last week I had lunch and a movie with my friend L., and it was fabulous! But the rhythm of Sabbath is something we have developed together, which has made it easier to stick to.

Every so often, Sher has to work on Friday. After about a fifteen months of taking Sabbath seriously, those are hard days for me. My instinct is to work, too-- finish the sermon, get a head start on the bulletin for next week. My Sabbath is tied to her Sabbath. But my hope is to get better at taking it consistently, even when Sher is not available to share the day with me.

For a long time I've had MaryAnn McKibben Dana's book, "Sabbath in the Suburbs: A Family's Experiment With Holy Time," on my to-read list. Dana conducted a year-long immersion in practicing Sabbath with her husband and three children, and wrote about it. She was spurred on to doing this by a life that was crazy busy, as in, “Life felt like a 500-piece jigsaw puzzle with 600 pieces.” They found a way. I want to deepen my own Sabbath-keeping by seeking a way to practice it, even when I do not have my partner to share it with me.

How about you? How are you at taking Sabbath seriously? Maybe we (who have not already done so) should read MaryAnn's book together?

Lent Day 20: Faith

We walk by faith, and not by sight.  
~ 2 Corinthians 5:7

Sometimes, these feel like the most encouraging words in scripture.

Sometimes, they feel like the least helpful.

We all know people for whom faith looks easy (from the outside). And we all know people who are open about their struggles with faith. I know that wanting to have faith can help, but not always. I have always been grateful for the words of Barbara Brown Taylor who said something like, "When I can't say certain words of the creed on a Sunday morning, I'm glad that I'm surrounded by others who can." Community can lift and amplify faith; but it can also make us feel isolated when we are struggling.

I don't have any magic answers, except I do love the psalms and find that, the more I am immersed in them, the more grounded I feel. (See my favorite Calvin quote.)  Since we can almost always find a psalm that articulates where we are emotionally, even when we are absolutely desolate of any sense of God (see Psalm 88), they can provide a comfort that is not only grounded in millennia of people struggling to live out an authentic faith in God, but is also vividly authentic.

Here, a few somewhat scattered thoughts on that word, faith.

Some other words for faith:

Belief

Assurance

Fidelity

Trust

Conviction


Some things faith is not:

Certainty

Proof

Math


Some things that may encourage faith:

Music

Community

Connection

Friends

Kindness

Scripture

The behavior of other people of faith


Some things that may erode faith:

Isolation

Observing hypocrisy

Experiencing cruelty

Scripture

The behavior of other people of faith


As the verse says, sight is not faith. Bells and whistles screaming "God is here! God is real!" is almost nobody's experience of faith. Rising again, praying again ("O God, open my lips, and my mouth will declare your praise," Psalm 51:15) and hoping, again, is as good a plan as any.

Bless you. Grace and peace to you today.

Lent Day 20: Heaven

Scripture (2 Corinthians 4:16-5:5) can be found here.

So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.  For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 
                                                                                                                        ~ 2 Corinthians 4:16-5:1

I don't talk about heaven much, and I don't preach about it on a regular basis. I am most likely to speak from the pulpit about heaven during a memorial service or funeral, because I believe at that moment, the loved ones of the deceased need to hear words of hope that include that promise. But I don't preach about it most Sundays because I believe the people, on the whole, need words of hope and encouragement that are about the here and now, which, after all, is what Jesus meant by the "kingdom" or "reign" of heaven. He was talking about God's inbreaking and transforming presence for us, now, in this life. The heaven that is here already, but not entirely, not yet.

But today I read this passage in 2 Corinthians, so let's talk about heaven! Paul is using these words of encouragement, not for a grieving congregation, but for a fighting congregation, in the midst of power struggles, and, particularly, in the midst of rejecting him. And here, in the middle of addressing those concerns, he moves into a long and very beautiful description of the way in which the promise of heaven can encourage those who are suffering-- whether physically or mentally. He does not want his people to lose heart, in the midst of a world that can be so ugly, so harsh, and so devastating. Even in physical decline, even when faced with illness or the challenges that can come with aging, he asks the people to consider it a preparation for that moment when it will all be transformed into a glory he can't even quite describe.

This is not it, he insists. This pain. This sorrow. This is not it. And if you do not see the joy and transformation in this life, he holds up God's promises that we surely will see it in the next.

This image comforts me so. The soldiers have their limbs again, and whole and perfect brains. The children no longer have the wounds of war. The infirm are hale, and walk upright. Everyone has their original knees and hips!

I don't mean to be glib, or silly. Physical suffering in this life is no joke. I read last night about a ten year old boy, named Seven Bridges, who took his own life because he was mercilessly teased by school bullies about having a colostomy bag. The suffering that child endured makes me weep. And my hope is in the Lord who promises he is not only whole, but in the arms of a loving Father-Mother God who has removed all that pain and even the memory of it.

I don't know that that would be a comfort to his parents, though.  Even believing what I do, I don't know that I would be comforted by it, if that were my child.

We have these promises, and they are beautiful and they can be a source of strength under certain conditions.

But I don't want us to give up on this world. Right now a dream of peace among nations; justice and equity/equality for every person; peace among peoples of differing complexions, ways of worshiping God, ways of loving; a world in which there are no hungry or homeless people; a world in which the air is clean and the water is pure and human beings are the priority, and not profits.... right now this dream seems so very far away.

But I don't want us to give up on it. I can't. I won't. I won't give up on this world, no matter how beautiful the promise of what is next may be.

Lent Day 19: Yeast

And again he said, “To what should I compare the kingdom of God? It is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.”  ~ Luke 13:20-21

Yeast.

My first experience with it was in college: I bought something called the Tassajara Bread Book, and taught myself how to bake bread. This was in an era when I was buying books about holistic health practices and imagining my life to be taking a kind of hippy-ish turn. Earthy, crunchy granola girl. Goals.

I was a junior in college, in a six-person suite, and my friend Jean was witness to my efforts. I'd grown up in a household in which my mother was self-described as being "NOT a baker." She sent me to her friend, Cecily's house at Christmastime, to learn how to bake cookies. She never made cakes or cupcakes; why should we, when there was Minos bakery in Atlantic City? The one thing I remember my mother baking was an apple pie, that was hot and fresh one day when I got home from school. But bread? Never. Not in a million years. You could buy bread anywhere.

But there I was, 19 years old and learning how yeast "proofs," or gets activated. It needs fluids and food to bring it alive-- like anyone, I guess. So, I provided, as the book instructed, lukewarm water and honey, and mixed in the tablespoonsful of yeast and watched as it spread, and bubbled, and declared: I'm ready.

Same baking book, thirtysomething years later. 

What followed was work, a kind of work I still love. Measuring and stirring, sure. But what makes bread is the kneading, and kneading is a whole-body experience. You do it with your hands, and elbows, and shoulders, and back, and hips. You put your whole self into kneading, and it is an exquisite workout. Kneading is what gives the bread its texture. Kneading helps the bread to rise by ensuring lots of air is also mixed in with what by the end of the 15 minutes (prescribed by the book) must be a thousand layers of dough folded in upon itself, again and again.

The work the yeast does is to help the bread to rise. By the time I was finished with my four fragrant honey-whole-wheat loaves, it was three in the morning and Jean and I were both delirious, me giddy with baking and the prospect of sitting down to cut into a loaf; and Jean, with French reflexive verbs.

"I've had a vision," Jean said. "The verbs are little ferrymen."

And we sat together, laughing, dipping hot bread in honey, and ate.

Jesus tells this tiny parable, only 24 words in the Greek (35 in English), and, as in so much of Luke, a woman features as the main actor in the miniature story. In the original Greek she "hides" the yeast/ leavening in the flour, until it all is leavened. Maybe "hides" because ancient people weren't so comfortable with leavening. It freaked them out. It was alive in an unpredictable way, and so it actually, for most people, symbolized something insidious, something uncontrollable, that could make mischief or even mayhem.

But Jesus doesn't use it that way.

Because now, bread is possible-- bread, the staff and stuff of life; bread, the word we use to indicate all sustenance; bread, the very least that every human being has a right to have, because no one in a civilized society should be denied it.

That, Jesus says, is what the reign of God is like.

Something unexpected, done by someone unexpected, makes something good.

Not only good, needed.

Not only needed, loved.

Not only good, needed, loved: but a source of life itself.

Lent Day 18: The Burning Question, and My Answer

I feel like I've never read Psalm 39 before now.  I know I have, but it feels brand new to me.

It's a little drama unfolding.

I said, ‘I will keep watch over my ways, 
   so that I offend not with my tongue.
‘I will guard my mouth with a muzzle, 
   while the wicked are in my sight.’
So I held my tongue and said nothing; 
   I kept silent but to no avail.   ~Ps. 39:1-3

I'll be good.

I'll be quiet.

I'll watch this damned mouth of mine. (Especially in front of those no good so-and-sos.)

I'll put it in a muzzle, like an unruly animal who can't be trusted not to bite.

But I did, and then look what happened.

My distress increased, my heart grew hot within me; 
   while I mused, the fire was kindled
      and I spoke out with my tongue:
‘Lord, let me know my end and the number of my days, 
   that I may know how short my time is.
‘You have made my days but a handsbreadth,
      and my lifetime is as nothing in your sight; 
   truly, even those who stand upright are but a breath.
‘We walk about like a shadow
      and in vain we are in turmoil; 
   we heap up riches and cannot tell who will gather them.  ~Ps. 39:4-7

I take back what I said-- the part about the "little" drama.

This is actually The Big Drama. The Existential Question. The psalmist can't hold it in any longer.

What is this life?

How long have I got?

Just let me know.

I know my life is not forever, and frankly, it's feeling like it's going to be pretty damned short. A handsbreadth. A little puff of... what? Can you (You) even see it?

Your good people, God-- yes, I'll be bold and say, I'm one-- we are but a breath.

We walk around like shadows, and don't know whether anything we do will amount to anything at all.

Who will benefit from my life? Will anyone?

On this morning on which the grief of those around the world and those in this country feels heavy on my heart, I'm going to speak to the psalmist.

I'm going to speak to anyone who is wondering whether their life matters.

Your life matters.

You are precious.

You may be in pain this morning. I am so sorry. I know there are people in your life who want to help and hold you in your pain.

You may be a victim of violence or a victim of your brain's particular neurological makeup.

I am sorry. I know what you are going through is excruciating.

I implore you to seek help from someone you trust.

I beg you to do the hardest thing you can possibly do: reach out through your pain to another.

Let yourself be held through this. Let yourself be loved through this.

You are precious.

You matter. You are irreplaceable. You are loved.

You are loved, and not just by me.

You are held in a web of love that may be invisible or imperceivable to you.

I believe with all my heart it is there.

You are loved.

If you feel hopeless today, if you are sad you woke up this morning, if you are having thoughts or making plans about self-harm, no matter what time it is, no matter how bad you feel, you can call this number.

Call 1-800-273-8255.

You are precious.

Your life matters.

Lent Day 17: March 25: A Woman's Body

Today is March 25: according to the church calendar, it is the feast of the Annunciation of the angel Gabriel to Mary.

The gospel of Luke paints a rosy picture (Luke 1:26-38; you can find it here.)

An angel comes and greets Mary, who must have been a young girl (somewhere between 13 and 16). "Rejoice, favored one! The Lord is with you!" And when Mary doesn't exactly immediately rejoice, because, divine messengers are, apparently, terrifying, the angel adds, "Do not be afraid."

I'll stop there for a moment. I can't imagine she could have been anything but terrified by the news that followed: that God was going to cause a miraculous pregnancy in her, and that the child would be some kind of exalted, divine figure.

"...Son of the Most High."

"... the throne of David."

"...ruler over the house of Jacob forever."

No matter how you look at it, Mary is in a terrible position.

She is engaged to be married, and in this culture that is a contract every bit as serious as the wedding itself.

Given the laws that are on the books at this time, there is a threat, not just of disgrace, but of death by stoning.

There are cultures in our world today where that is still true; death by stoning, or by fire, or simply by your father or brother shooting or strangling you for disgracing the family by having sex where/ when you weren't allowed to.

(Because, what is the likelihood anyone will believe this story?)

My mom's beloved little statue of Mary.

On this feast of the annunciation, color me skeptical-- not of the virgin birth, necessarily. I am confident God could and can achieve whatever outcomes God wants. But of this story, in which the only emotion betrayed by Mary is a gentle wondering, "how is this possible?" followed by a calm "I am the Lord's servant. Let it be with me just as you have said."

Color me skeptical, because men have long policed and claimed ownership over women's bodies, and that's still a thing.

I guess I read this story in this way: It's a memory colored (just like all our memories) by what happened after that.... here, a fiance who, apparently, did believe her, or, at least, still wanted to be married to her... followed by the life of Jesus, her child, followed by his terrible death, which these scriptures tell us she witnessed, followed by the resurrection, during which time she was among his followers.

This is a memory filled in with the bright and shiny hues of life bursting forth from death.

Today, I want to remember that scared girl. I want to honor whatever it took for her to live through whatever kind of day this was, and the day after that, and every day for the next, long nine months. The looks on her parents' faces. The look on Joseph's. The women leaning together at the well, whispering when she came for water.

I want to remember and honor her, not as the calm, self-sacrificing Mother of God, but as a terrified teenager, wondering how in the world she would get through this.
.

Lent Day 16: Hiding in Plain Sight

It's amazing, what's right in front of you, all the time, and yet, you don't see it.

Let me re-phrase that:

It's amazing, what's right in front of me, all the time, and yet, I don't see it.

This is particularly true for me in terms of the objects, decor, and general place-ness of things. Some things strike me powerfully; those I notice. Example: I adore the ceiling of Union Presbyterian Church, the church I serve as pastor. It is the perfect "nave," in that it truly looks as if someone had taken an old sailing ship and inverted it for the purposes of creating a sanctuary ceiling. I noticed it the first time I stood in the sanctuary, fresh out of seminary, as the gathered Presbytery heard my statement of faith and examined me for ordination. That was more than 15 years ago. It still gives me joy each and every time I look at it.

But it took me until two years ago to realize that the reredos in the church I serve forms a cross. I had simply never noticed. (To be fair, I sit and stand with my back to it every Sunday, so I haven't had the opportunity.... oh, never mind. I an not particularly visually observant. I am more tuned in to how things feel, and how they make me feel. I can tell you our sanctuary feels to me exactly like what its name implies: a place that is at once holy and safe. Sanctuary.

For the past 16 days I've been reading/ praying the Lenten offerings for Morning Prayer in the Presbyterian Church (USA) Book of Common Worship. And each day I've read the opening sentences of scripture. And this one didn't "strike" me until today... though I've seen it, and, allegedly, read it each day:

Show me your way, O Lord,
that I may follow in your truth.
Teach me to revere your name,
and my whole heart will praise you.    
~Psalm 86:11-12 

(Tr.: Evangelical Lutheran Church in America)

The prayers I'm praying each day are chosen for Lent, a time when Christians are called back, when God asks of us (and Jesus asks of us) to turn back to God. I think the assumption that we've turned away is a reasonable one: That's the nature of the human. While there's a very strong phrase for it, made popular by CalvinISTS, the general gist of it is original sin.

I wasn't always a fan. I really resisted the notion that, because an ancient set of the zillionth great-grandparents of all humanity disobeyed God, that we all inherited the same tendency. (Jews don't read the story that way, by the way.... and scripture supports their interpretation more than it does ours: God is said to visit the sins of the parents on the "third and fourth generation," but the blessings of righteousness on the thousandth generation. See Exodus 20:5-6; Exodus 4:6-7; Deuteronomy 5:9-10; Jeremiah 32:18)

It took one month of becoming a mother to my firstborn to disabuse me of that notion. Not because of my child--he was perfect, in every way. But I was not. My brokenness and selfishness brought me up short, and helped me to reconsider my position, and to understand that there was some wisdom there.

This is the nature of the human.

So, these two verses seem to me the absolutely perfect eye-opener for a Christian, not just in Lent, but every day.

I think we ought to let it, literally, be the thing that opens our eyes, and make it the first thing we see, the first thing we pray, the first thing we read, mark, and inwardly digest for the day ahead.

Show us your way, O God, that we may follow the truth.

Teach us to revere your name, that our whole heart might praise you.

And we will praise you, not only with our heart, but with our lives.

Amen.

Lent Day 14-15: Done

I couldn't do it yesterday. I kept thinking, "Later!" And then, I finished my newsletter articles at 10:45 pm, after a wonderful and challenging meeting that was all about our congregation's financial health... and I was done.

Done!

Not even the energy for an episode of my new TV crush, "This Is Us." (I know. I'm three years behind. This is how I do TV. I never catch up.)

... Let alone the energy to bring myself into the presence of scripture with the intention of writing something intelligible (or even... ok).

But it's ok. It really is.

... for you, God, have been my help,
    and in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy.
My soul clings to you;
    your right hand holds me fast.   ~ 63:7-8

In those moments when we are done, we can be done. In those moments when the tank is utterly empty, and is running on what is only the wistful memory of fumes, God our Helper steps in...

[Side note: I know I want this to be more spiritual reflection than bible study, but.... I yam what I yam, as Popeye said... The word for "help," or "helper" in Hebrew is ezer. This is the same word that is used in the second Genesis creation story, the one in which God seeks to make a "helper" for the lonely human. That helper is the woman, and then, for the first time, woman and man are differentiated. But the word "helper" is used in scripture, almost exclusively, for God. God is our first, and, of course, greatest, helper. Womankind, behold the royal nature of what it means to be a "helper." It is a God-infused and noble role. There is no sound biblical argument that it implies otherwise.]

I can find it so hard to rest in the care of my Helper. I don't believe I am alone in that. Last night I hung on, on the computer, because my newsletter stuff was already 6 (gulp!) days late, and that's just wrong. And in a fit of-- well, of knowing that next week looks much the same, I got a start on the Wednesday midweek bulletin.

You know how it goes. We get into a mindset that it all depends on us. (I mean, some stuff does. I'm the only one who can write my newsletter article.)

When does that start? When do we get the message that we are responsible for All of It, and buy into it? Even as a pastor of a church, that is a false understanding of what it means to serve in my role. There are always other companions in this work, and I'm at my healthiest when I realize it.

A couple of years ago I caught "Big Little Lies," the HBO series based on the great Liane Moriarty novel. There's a high-powered, but somewhat frustrated-with-her-life character, Madeline Martha McKenzie, and she has a daughter, a 6 or 7-year-old named Chloe. Chloe is obsessed with music-- all kinds, she's a musical omnivore-- and she's also obsessed with finding the right music for every situation. In particular, she seems to be responsible-- she seems to have assumed responsibility-- for curating her mother's moods.

Darby Camp as Chloe McKenzie in "Big Little Lies." 

I recognized myself in Chloe. I was that daughter to my mother. It's a role that inevitably leads to stress, and then a fissure, and then a rupture, if the child is going to develop in healthy way. At some point, she will need to put her own emotional needs before her mother's.

I was responsible, at a fairly young age, for All of It.

No longer.

I am responsible for myself, and to be God's person in a world where God's love is badly needed. I am responsible in particular and intense ways to my beloveds, from my partner and children to my friends and congregants. But I am also responsible for letting God hold it all with me. I am responsible for remembering that I am not God, and for living and acting accordingly.

This means, for one thing, taking Sabbath.

Which, as it happens, I am about to do, right now.

I am responsible for remembering that God is my helper-- the most powerful, the most loving, the most understanding, the most tender knower of my faults and sins-- and for letting God in.

God's powerful right hand holds me, holds me fast.

Even.... especially.... when I am done.

Lent Day 13: What to Do During the Night Watches

My soul is satisfied as with a rich feast,
    and my mouth praises you with joyful lips
when I think of you on my bed,
    and meditate on you in the watches of the night... Psalm 63:5-6

In this little excerpt from Psalm 63, the composer is talking about how very satisfied they are-- the very same  one who was longing, thirsting, fainting for God in the first verse--by the mere act of thinking about God while in bed. "meditating on [God] in the night watches."

I love this psalm, but it rarely takes me more than five minutes to fall asleep. And no matter how very hard I try to "meditate on God" in bed, I just can't seem to stay awake long enough to do it.

The psalmist could, though. And there's an interesting anthropological reason for that.

Years ago I read a story in the New York Times Magazine about sleep patterns and how they have changed over the centuries. The big change came when use of electric lighting became commonplace. Prior to that, the vast majority of people the world over slept and rose according to the natural light available. Shorter sleep periods in the summer months, when sunlight is available for more hours each day, and a longer night of sleep in the winter, when the sun makes a much briefer appearance.

Here's the thing. When researchers tried to replicate this-- when they had subjects work and be wakeful according to the daylight hours available, and sleep when the daylight had ended, they found that the natural sleep cycle had people in bed for 10-12 hours per night, but not asleep that entire time. People would naturally sleep for four hours or so, then have a period of middle-of-the-night wakefulness. This lasted between two and four hours, after which the subjects would sleep again until morning.

Researchers learned that people adapted to this pattern in various ways. Some people used the wakeful hours of the night to work through problems that worried them during the day. Some people used the time to catch up on reading. Some people found the time to be an excellent opportunity for intimacy with their romantic partners.

But the vast majority of the subjects--nearly all-- reported higher levels of alertness during the day, better concentration, and greater efficiency in accomplishing tasks at home and at work.

Our psalmist used this time during the "watches of the night" for meditating upon God. This gave them immense satisfaction; they compare it to a rich feast (the Hebrew actually reads, "My soul is satisfied as with marrow and fatness"). The most delicious and most satisfying food is what the psalmist uses to describe the ineffable joy of thinking about God in the middle of the night.

Wishing you a time of good rest, sweet dreams, and the company of the one who keeps watch over you.