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?