Sent

She said, "It's terminal, and that's ok.  But I'm not planning on dying tomorrow or anything.  The doctors are guessing I have 9-12 months left. I still have a lot of laughing to do."

That was Saturday. And this morning, I got a call that she had died.

Somedays its no fun being the pastor.

Not when you get one call like that.  And definitely not when that's the third call like that in two weeks, or when you've gotten six other calls like that in the four months that you've been the pastor.  It's no fun when all you can do is weep for the ones who weep, who have no place to go with their anger.  It's no fun when all you can do is wail to God and impishly say, "This is NOT why you brought me here! This is NOT what I signed up for."  And it's even less fun when you hear yourself saying that and know that this is exactly why you were brought here-- or at least part of it. And doubly true that this is exactly what you signed up for.

Because that's the calling.  To stand in the tough places. To boldly point a way and declare that death never ever gets the last word. To be a human face to an intangible God. To say "I'm so sorry" and mean it, even when there is anger seemingly directed at you--but is really more intended for God's hears than yours. To grieve yourself, even while creating a holy space for others to grieve.  To acknowledge loss while at the same time displaying vibrant life.

So you do it.  Because you are the one the living God has put right here.  Not because you are perfect, but because you are sent.

And in the doing, you discover anew that others have been sent too.  Maybe not to be the capital P Pastor, but just as sent to do the pastoring.  They are the ones who see the tear marks on your face, and tell you that they are praying for you. ("Me? Of all things you're praying for me? Pray for world peace or something. I'm ok." You wish you were strong enough to say that. But the only words that will come are "That means more to me than you can ever know.) They are the ones who will stand with you-- not to remind you where you fail to live up to your calling-- but to help you do the job you've been sent to do.

That's the nature of being sent. Because just as you head out to do a job that feels bigger than you, you discover that you were enough on God's radar that someone-- or ones-- were sent to you.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

{In response to the shootings in Conneticut on 12/14}

12.16.12

Advent 3c

Zephaniah 3:14++

            Like the sermons that many churches will hear today, this is not the one I was planning on preaching today.  I was dutifully slogging away with the name-calling John the Baptist and his good news that didn’t feel like good news.   When I woke up in the wee hours of Friday morning, I had several things on my mind:  finish a sermon, make our house spotless so that you would think that’s how we keep our house, and prepare some dishes for you to enjoy as you’re at our house this afternoon.  But by 1 or 2, the whole world felt like a different place.  None of those things that seemed so pressing mattered much in the wake of the news that came out of Connecticut.  28 people lost their lives in a massacre.

            There just aren’t words.  There are no beautiful words that can make any sense out of it, no words that can make it ok.  There are only prayers, the kind that are beyond words, the kind that comes in gasps and broken utterances.  There are only tears that weep boldly for those that have lost—that dare to express a hope that Christ reigns even in the midst of all the things

  Long before the world woke up yesterday morning, I was sitting in front of the fire—with its lights and two stockings.  The dogs were snoring beside me, and as I opened up my computer, trying to figure out what to say, the Vienna Boys choir began singing Silent Night.  It was the perfect picture of a quiet Advent morning.  And it undid me.  Because juxtaposed with that was the headline that showed up on my news feed:  Connecticut school shooting: Witness inside school: 'I've got bodies here'.  And juxtaposed with that  was my virtual Advent candle that was waiting to be lit.  Yesterday’s candle still heralding peace, today’s—the one that we haven’t lit yet here either: joy.

On Tuesdays during Advent, we’re praying through the Advent candles. I shared with the people that were there last Tuesday as we were talking about peace that in 2011, during the second week of Advent, several things happened in the world and in my community.  The 70^th anniversary of Pearl Harbor happened.    There was a bombing in Afghanistan that killed 56 people.  And in Fayetteville, just a few weeks before, there had been a shooting at our mall on Black Friday.  How do you begin to talk about or pray for peace when those things are happening around you?

How do you begin to talk about Joy, when the sound of mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and grandparents weeping can be heard all across our country? 

And even if that weren’t the case, how to you begin to go there with a congregation who has lost so many of its loved ones within the last year?  In the horrible words of the headlines, “We’ve got bodies here”.  The sense of loss in this congregation is strong. The names you’ve named for me have become a litany of grief—because those that you’ve lost haven’t just been people that you casually worshipped with.  They’ve been dear friends.  They are the people that you still almost see when you take your regular pews—the ones who were such a fixture of the church that you can’t imagine how life in the church can go on without them.   And not only is the church in mourning, but many of you as individuals have faced great loss this year.  You’ve gotten devastating news that has rattled everything you thought you knew.  You’ve been touched by the very frailty of life.

How indeed do any of us begin to talk about joy when the grief is just so great?  Do you simply light a candle in hopes that the sentiment given to that candle will one day be true?  Do you read scriptures that feel just a little bit too glib to be helpful right now?  Or do you sit with the things that break your heart?  There’s a verse in the book Jeremiah, that’s later quoted in Matthew, that says, “This is what the LORD says: "A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because her children are no more."  And maybe that’s where we are right now.  I’ve never done this before, and I have no idea how it will work or what will come of it.  But I’m going to stop preaching for a few minutes—and leave some space.  And maybe this is the time to name some of those things that are just too heavy—whether you want to name them outloud or silently.  But maybe this is the place to name the places where you are broken hearted, to name the ones that you miss, to cry out to the Lord.   So I invite you to do that, to shape a word or two into a prayer—to lift it gently to this holy space.

We long for the Lord to redeem our broken places—to comfort us, to hold us tight, to promise that we won’t be left alone to defend ourselves from the world.  And we admit that sometimes it’s hard to hold on to our joy.  Sometimes, it feels like it’s gone from us all together.

I had an experience in my former church that I swore I’d write about sometime.  We had oil-filled advent candles—which were great.  They lit without a problem.  Except the pink joy candle.  Every year, for four years, we had to fight with the pink candle to get it to light…the church folks laughed and we had some good natured, but awkward moments trying to light the candle of joy. 

I’ve kind of begun to see that as a metaphor—sometimes Joy is the thing that’s hardest to get started in us.  We can do love and peace, and on most days hope—but it feels like joy takes a bit more work for us.   It takes a lot of work to ignite joy within ourselves.

But here’s the thing that I didn’t tell you.  The pink joy candle was not only contrary at the beginning of the service.  It was also contrary when we tried to put it out.  It was like one of those trick birthday candles that you thought was out, but would slowly come back to life.   And maybe that’s as much a metaphor as the fact that it was hard to light—it’s just as hard to make it go completely out, once you’ve gotten it lit.  Maybe that’s something important.  Because maybe we know that we aren’t the ones who make joy.  We don’t make it at the holidays, or at the times when we need it most, or any other time.  But there is something that lives deep in us that tells us that we bear witness to a joy that shall soothe all the tears, that the Holy God of Israel is working to redeem all the broken places.

Our weeping last for a night, but doesn’t joy come in the morning? It comes, when we open our eyelashes that have become stuck together with tears—when we peak out and see that the Lord isn’t finished. It comes, when we have wailed to the Lord—and a voice whispers back to us from the silence “Do you know how much I love you?  Do you know that I won’t leave you—not ever?”  Joy comes when we’ve been emptied out by the world, and our neighbor scoots a little closer to give us a hug and make us smile.  Joy comes when all we’ve known is the night terrors—the silence that last for hours, the questions that speak louder than anything—when we feel a presence that will. Not. Let. Us. Go.

I wrote something several years ago after I went to pray with a woman who was going into surgery—a woman whose life was shattered by violence.  But it seems to fit today—after the events of the week—after what has surely been a hard year for this congregation.

It's darkest before the dawn, or so they say.

Before even the surgical waiting room has been opened, or anyone is ready to wait.

Before she has been taken back.

Before the visitor's desk is staffed, or the parking deck, for that matter.

Before the cafeteria has opened.

Before the nurses are fully awake.

Before the rules are thoroughly enforced.

Before the sun (or son) has started tinting the world a lovely shade of pink.

It's darkest then.

But it's there, in the before, that God feels closest.

Because the light of love is waiting to break in.

And for the ones, waiting and watching,

the great divide between heaven and earth seems a little thinner.

Because we need God just a little more,

and we're a little less guarded and a little more vulnerable.

It's darkest before the dawn.

But not really.

Because in that great darkness a voice gently whispers in my ear,

"I am the light of the world.  And the darkness has never, will never, put the light out."

Weeping lasts for a night, but Joy always comes in the morning.  That is the very real presence of Christ in our midst. 

God rest you, troubled gentle ones—let nothing you dismay.

For I bring you tidings of comfort and joy. 

Before the World Wakes Up

We (DH and I) both woke up at an ungodly hour this morning--spontaneously and with no  hope of going back to sleep.  So we did what any normal people would do on a Saturday morning.  We bundled up and braved the 28 degree morning of our mountain town and went for a walk.  It was beautiful and dark and starry-- a marvelous, holy mystery of a morning.  We walked around our town--this new home of ours-- just watching the world wake up. We breathed deeply the brisk air, and took the time to notice things that we'd always been too busy to see: Flowers that, despite the cold, were standing tall and proud.  A seemingly useless set of stairs that went to nowhere-- except perhaps a delightful cottage that we couldn't see.  We talked and daydreamed and watched our dogs smell-- despite the hour, we were more awake than it seemed like we'd been in months.  We even stumbled on a geocache, which reminded us how much we've missed doing that.

And I realized this is what I've been missing.  We've settled in a new town, a new job and a new house, and we are marvelously in love with all of them, but something has been missing.  It's been a madhouse of busyness as we've gotten settled and had company and, and, and...  and I've missed having a chance to wander around with eyes open in holy wonder.

I've missed sabbath keeping-- not that I've ever done a stellar job of being a sabbath keeper.  But it has always, always been a deep longing of my soul.  And that's especially true as I'm now serving a much larger (ie much busier) church,  and despite the need for extroverted tendencies, I'm still a solitude loving introvert.   On a whim, I picked up MaryAnn McKibben Dana's Sabbath in the Suburbs, and have been savoring it one delicious bite at a time. Perhaps I love it so much because she struggles with creating a sabbath practice as much as any busy person, and unlike many of the other books on the subject seem to, her practice of sabbath does not take place in a vaccuum.  She has three small children and serves as a pastor, and the world refuses to slow down for her.  Yet, she creates a real sabbath practice, at turns by doing things "sabbathly" or by having sabbath moments when the world won't stop long enough to have a whole day of sabbath.

Today will be at least partly a work day for me-- a day of catching up from two days of sickness.  But before any of that, there was a thin place of reawakening holy wonder.  Before the world woke up, there was sabbath-- a chance to be fully presesnt with those I love in a place I love.  As I sit working by the fire, my day is different.  I am different.

Turns out there was nothing "ungodly" about the hour...

Shower the People

{Thoughts in a series as I transition from one congregation to the next}

When I think back on this time of in-between, I wonder what I will remember. Will the stress of moving be what I hold on to? Will I cling to the good-byes and the hellos? Will I remember all the conversations with not one, but two churches, that had to happen in order to go? Will I remember all the anxious prayers and the "thank you, thank you, thank you" prayers that have gone up from me?

Maybe.  But what I hope I remember from this time is just how much love I've experienced.  The church I'm saying goodbye to has poured its love out on me, from the moment I announced my departure.  It's given me a chance to reflect and appreciate all the times we have shared together and to remember the ways I've both loved and been loved.  There have been tears (lots of tears) and hugs and goodbye dinners and "are you sure you won't stay?" conversations.  There's a goodbye party planned.  And if I ever doubted, these people are helping me remember that I mattered to them.  Of course it's not about that, but it's nice to know all the same.

But this church isn't the only source of love.  The church to which I am going is also making my mind spin with how much they love me-- and most of them haven't even yet met me. And maybe it isn't even that they love me, but thats how they treat their pastors--with love for the light of Christ those pastors bear. I've been blown away by the gestures of kindness and caring that I've already experienced, and I haven't even arrived yet.  One family has offered us a cottage to stay in while the manse repairs are completed.  One lady asked us for a wishlist so that church folks might contribute to the small items necessary for the move. Another lady always asks about our pets and tells me how she is looking after the plants we already brought up there.  The manse restoration project has turned out to be quite a labor of love, which has become an "all hands on deck" event.  And 28 people piled in cars and the church bus and drove an hour and a half to come see me as I was received at the Presbytery meeting.  Folks don't just go to Presbytery meetings because they are fun...

Yet, even these two churches are not responsible for all the love I'm feeling.  My friends and family and sweet husband are filled with words of "I'm proud of you" and "I'm so happy for you", even as they give me space to grieve the transition while  knowing that I'm simultaneously excited for the destination.

I wouldn't choose to spend much time in between.  But if I have to be in this place, then I'm really grateful for the love.

Maybe James Taylor has it right:  "Shower the people you love with love, show them the way that you feel. Things are gonna work out fine, if you only will..."

Craigslist Galore! (Or a theology of "stuff")

{Thoughts in a series as I'm transitioning from one congregation to another}

My husband loves the show "Hoarders".  It makes me want to run for the nearest shower to get the feeling of the creepy crawlies off of me. I keep saying, "How can anyone let it get so bad?"

And we're not anything like that, but wow...does stuff ever accumulate!  We've lived in one house for four years and have amassed more "stuff" than I would've ever imagined.  When we moved in, we looked at all the room we had and said to ourselves, "We'll never fill that up!"  But of course, we have. Now we have to deal with it-- either schlep it to the new place, or trash it, or sell it.

I choose selling it.  I've put all sorts of things on craigslist-- things that were just cluttering up our lives-- things that, at some point, we must've believed were important.  My husband had 11 complete seasons of "South Park" (which is probably 11 more than anyone needs!) We had tacky "newly marrieds" furniture that we stuck in a dark nook.  I had a huge bag of yarn--which doesn't even include the good stuff that I'm keeping.   It's such a strange thing, but I'm getting a great sense of satisfaction out of selling these things that have just been lurking in our house.  Sure, it's great having extra cash (though perhaps we sold our refrigerator a week too early, but eh...) but it's more than that.  It's a feeling of liberation.  I like knowing that I'm not going to be unpacking stuff I don't care about in our new home.  It feels like a chance to unbury ourselves and start over, with only the important things.

Happiness isn't in stuff.  It's in watching your doggies snore peacefully on the couch.  It's in taking the journey of a lifetime with the one you love the most. It's in learning to make peace with your surroundings and believing that your life might just be better simplified.  For everything else, there's craigslist.

A Liturgy of Tears

{Thoughts as I'm transitioning from one congregation to the next}

The office--no longer "my" office-- is almost completely packed up.  Anyone who would peek inside would think me ready to go.  The bulletin no longer bears my name, but says only "Members of the congregation: ministers". There's no longer much proof that I was here--that I loved people in these walls, that I married and buried and baptized their loved ones.  It's quiet, maybe too quiet for my taste.  The only sound is the sound of my tears gently falling on the farewell liturgy I'm trying to finish.

But the joyful liturgy of transition I had in mind just won't come.  It's not ready to be written.
For now, there are only tears.   Holy tears.

Tears for the ones I love, and for the ones I haven't loved enough.
Tears for the opportunies we've found, and for the ones we've been too scared to realize.
Tears for the great memories made, and for the ones that aren't so lovely.
Tears for the amazing work of the Holy Spirit in our midst, and for the times we felt like a valley of dry bones.
Tears for a bright and lovely future as we go separate ways, and for a holy rememberance of the past.
Tears for all the broken hearts, and for the ways they've been bandaged up.
Tears for all the things done, and for the ones I wasn't brave enough or strong enough to do.
Tears for my next love, and tears for my first.

Tears, always, because I've loved, and learned what it is to be loved.
Tears of joy and grief and love and hope and trust--these are my offering of tears.  They're all I have right now.  And right now, they are enough.

Until now, I haven't noticed how powerful the words are.  But today, maybe I understand a little bit.
Maybe some of the biggest words in all of scripture are these:  Jesus wept.

And maybe it's the ability to weep with and for, and not the "Reverend" in front of my name, that makes me a pastor.

Just a few more reasons to run...

Because these are a better view that the four walls of the house any day...