A Sermon Between Shootings

I wrote this sermon for Palm Sunday. The congregation was challenged throughout Lent to approach the disruptive and unexpected things Jesus had done at the table. Before I could preach, the school at Covenant Presbyterian Church was struck by a mass shooting. This sermon was a response to a feeling of communal helplessness. Of hopelessness. Of trying to find a foundation for healing and change.

The next week, the Old National Bank in Louisville (where my congregation is based and two blocks from the Presbyterian Center where I work) was attacked in a mass shooting. I have found the sermon a more necessary and yet more difficult call to return to in the weeks following. I share it in case it speaks to you.

—

Mary Anoints Jesus (NRSVUE)

12 Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. 2 There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those reclining with him. 3 Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’s feet, and wiped them[a] with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. 4 But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, 5 “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” 6 (He said this not because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) 7 Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it[b] so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. 8 You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

Holy God, source of wisdom, source of comfort, source of hope- hold us all as we encounter this scripture together. May our understanding of the word and the sharing of this message bring us closer to you. Amen.

Before taking a moment to orient our passage in the larger story of Jesus’ final days, I want to prepare you for what is to come. I was struck this week by Jesus and his willingness to lay out difficult and perhaps controversial things at the table. While not a table, the pulpit is one place we are often hesitant to hear difficult things from. But there are times when the situation, like the moment of Mary anointing Jesus, warrants the discussion. Now is one of those times.

During this sermon I will discuss some of these difficult things, including gun violence targeted at children. I know for many of us this is hard to talk to about, brings up some complicated and deep feelings, and can even make us feel things in our bodies we don’t understand. Please- check in with yourself, make sure you are breathing, and if you need to take a moment to step out or tune out, I will not be offended. We are in a painful time and while I seek to help you leave here today grounded in some hope, I know the path may be difficult.

One of the challenges of following the whole of Jesus’ life each year is that it can begin to feel unemotional, even detached. We know the story, we know what’s coming, and the people feel like characters long ago and far away. It makes it easy to lean into the moments of good and pull back from the pain. Today’s passage of Jesus being anointed by Mary is one of those moments within the arch of the story that can seem almost pleasant. On its own we see Judas’ character being clarified so that he can truly be written off as a “bad guy.” We see Jesus defending an intimate moment where he is anointed and shown love. We can read into this a defense of righteousness and leave it at that. But this moment comes in a much more complicated point in the story.

Just before this passage, an equally long section of the story lays out the ways in which the authorities have chosen to sentence Jesus to death. This is not secret knowledge that the government tried to kept to themselves, but rather everyone in Jesus’ community knew the authorities were out to kill him. We know this because Jesus is said to have stopped going out in public and instead, he retreats to the wilderness with his disciples, where presumably he can stay safe. But the government knows he will not stay there for long. Not because it’s too hard to survive in the wilderness, but because they know that all righteous people of the Jewish faith will come together for Passover, which begins in just a few days. Those who seek to kill Jesus, to violently end his life, take advantage of knowing where he will be because they know he will do the “right thing.”

It's a sickening thought. To use someone’s faithfulness to target them for violence. And it can be painful to consider because it’s not distant or unique to this story. We have seen ICE calculate raids around important cultural, religious, and familial gatherings. We have seen bombings and shootings of churches occur when the perpetrators knew there would be large groups gathered for bible study. And we have seen repeatedly that people have taken advantage of knowing the specific days and times children will be in school to commit mass, school shootings.

This past week we heard of another incident in which adults and children were killed in their school at Covenant Presbyterian Church. I don’t know about you, but hearing the name of the church school deepened my already strong reaction to hearing the news. While Covenant Presbyterian is from a different branch of the Presbyterian church, it still feels so close. It was not long after the news broke that I learned a colleague’s cousin is the pastor of that congregation and this pastor’s daughter was one of the children killed. There’s a sick sense of gratitude that this is the closest a school shooting has come to my immediate community. And yet it is a reminder that every school is our school. Every child is our child. And that this repeated pain and violence seems to creep closer and closer until it inevitably will hit our own homes. In fact, gun violence is the number one of cause of death for children and teens. The number one cause. This seemingly endless violence is such an enormous burden. It’s a weight, a communal trauma, that can make us all feel absolutely helpless.

My guess is that this is something close to how Jesus must have felt. He knew that he was near to death. And not just near in that he was anticipating his own death, but near in his proximity to Lazarus. Lazarus who had just been dead and brought to life. Lazarus who will be targeted for execution by authorities in the paragraph just after this story. In looking at the people around him in Lazarus’ home, Jesus would have seen the impact that death can have on people. He would have fresh memories of the grief Martha and Mary expressed over their brother. He would know that his own death could not be avoided. And he would know that these people who were gathered, this small group that wasn’t the general public arriving for a sermon or a stranger seeking a miracle, he would know these people who were his closest friends and family would soon be burdened with grief and trauma at his own execution. I imagine he must have felt helpless.

But Mary shakes the story up. She brings spikenard, which is a valuable perfume similar to lavender and, like lavender, is also an oil used for healing. Mary, who has gone through grief and feels its impending return, takes the spikenard and anoints Jesus. While Judas takes issue with the lavish expense, the act and smell of that healing oil must have shaken Jesus from his helplessness and inspired him. He says, “You will always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me.” Jesus can see what is ahead for his disciples, he knows that they are about to be burdened with both the great trauma of having their beloved friend killed in front of them and the weight of having to continue his work. There will always be poor, there will always be fights for justice that these disciples must be ready to wage. But Jesus knows all too well that he will soon not be there to guide them, to ground them, to keep them going. They will need to find some way to carry on. To keep up the good fight when it feels like there is no goodness to be found. To speak out and act when they feel helpless.

There are a few different names that people give this feeling. Those who work in healing fields like nurses, therapists, pastors, and others can begin to take on the trauma they hear from others as their own in something known as “compassion fatigue.” In 2006, doctors began documenting symptoms of something they called “activist burnout.” Where those who sought social justice were so pained by the marathon of the work that they experienced: emotional and physical exhaustion, cynicism about the work they felt was so important, and a sense of doubt about the ability of any of it to make a difference. In other words, feeling helpless.

But Jesus’ statement about what is to come, about the burnout and fatigue that his disciples surely would soon encounter, is not isolated. It is said in defense of what Mary is doing. Mary is doing the work of actively preventing those exact feelings by centering this gathering of disciples not only in their love of God, but in generosity and care of one another. Often when we talk about the types of trauma and pain the disciples would have faced or about the pain and helplessness we feel in our own struggles against violence, we offer individualistic solutions. We encourage people to practice self-care. This idea that we need to do our own work in therapy, take time out of our schedules for personal relaxation and joy, and maybe indulge in something that we typically would call a guilty pleasure. And yes, these are important things. But, when we experience communal trauma, when we face helplessness, we cannot go it alone.

Jesus uplifts Mary’s actions as an example of what we can do together to sustain ourselves as a community. We must show generosity to one another. We must offer healing to one another. We must be together with those whom we love to support each other even in, if not especially in, the moments when it feels like we are helpless. Because the antidote to helplessness is community. It is having those who offer help, offer hope, offer support so that we can share stamina and resistance for the long haul.

There are people in our Presbyterian community who are doing incredible work against gun violence. The Guns to Gardens movement has taken the biblical call to turn our swords into plowshares to modern communities. Many Presbyterian churches have partnered with this movement to host “buy back” events, where they offer gift cards in exchange for guns which are then dismantled and turned into community garden tools and art projects that promote peace. In 2022, La Mesa Presbyterian Church in Albuquerque, New Mexico collected and dismantled 240 guns at their event. They are one of many.

Writer and pastor, Mark Yaconelli offers “story spaces” in response to traumatic community events. Recently, after a shooting in Columbus, Ohio, he worked with others in the community to help victims to tell their stories to motivate their neighbors to support gun restrictions. These spaces allow for the transformation of some by hearing a story, and of others by having the opportunity to share their own words, feelings, and experiences with their community. In other words, they build spaces of generosity and love.

If the antidote to helplessness is community, if the way through trauma that tears us apart is to heal together- then we can take hope in knowing we are not alone.

We do not have to be the only voice at the table crying out. We do not only have to pray alone in our homes, but we can lament and march with others. We can take our pain, which is absolutely valid and should be felt, and bring it to one another to transform it with healing oil into a way forward.

I admit, I’m not quite there. Maybe you aren’t either. But that’s the beauty of the community Jesus calls us into- someone is ready to do the work. And that means someone else can rest until they’re ready to take up the mantle. And so on and so on as all of us lean on one another. We have been shown in Mary’s anointing of Jesus that in our own gathering we have been anointed and called to both speak out loudly against violence and also be a generous, healing community of care.

May the world hear our cries for peace. May violence come to an end. May we all be upheld by a loving community as we struggle towards God’s peaceable kin-dom.

The Moment Between

I’ve been thinking a lot about this moment we skip over in biblical narratives. The child is born and suddenly we have visitors… for years. But as a parent, those aren’t the moments of feeling most present. And I would hope that presence was part of the gift of bringing God into the world as a baby.

I like to think there was a moment of rest for Mary, of wonder for Joseph at this thing suddenly made real, and that the animals behaved exactly as the accompanying friends they so often are- a comfort.

Took a moment to try to put it to digital paper in the image below.

A Prayerful Reflection for a Big World and a Small Soul

It's in times like these that I feel so astronomically small in the face of a world that is filled with a pain so monstrously large.
Like those videos that proliferate the internet, zooming out from a single strand of DNA into the vastness of the cosmos, I feel crushed by the weight of it all.

Our hearts were not meant to hold this much alone.

And yet, my faith is in a sustaining spirit that is larger than it all, but present in the infinitesimal.

A God that spans beyond my comprehension of galaxies and universes, but sustains every cell, every particle. The Spirit that travels from the stomata of towering trees, through rhythmic breath, into the alveoli of my lungs. A shifting movement that changed the course of many lives, present first in the cries of a tiny child born into oppression.

And so I try, as difficult and futile as it sometimes seems, to remember that we are all tied into this tension. In the sparks between synapses, we are connected to the stars beyond our view. We are sustained by a God that is large enough to hold everything, large enough to become small and accompany every part of creation. Vast enough to carry the weight and minuscule enough to power our individual voices and actions so that we may be peace, justice, and love in our world.

A biggest-small and smallest-big that gently holds all fear and grief, but still shapes a spark of hope.

Ordination Sermon on Psalm 139

I had the honor of preaching for the ordination of Rev. Beth Olker on 11/22/20 in Biscoe, NC. Below is a translation of Psalm 139 that I developed for the service as well as the manuscript of the sermon.

Today’s reading is Psalm 139. Let us listen together.

Of the musician of David- A Psalm of the Holy One.
You examined me and know me.
You, yes you, know my staying down and my rising up.
You discern my purpose from a distance.
My way of living and my lying down,
And the whole of my ways you know deeply.
Because there is not one word on my tongue- no!
            Holy One, you know the whole of it.

Behind me, at the west, and before me, to the east, you have wrapped around me
And set upon me the palm of your hand.
This knowledge is incomprehensible for me,
Inaccessibly high, I cannot manage it.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
And where from your face can I run?
If I ascend to the sky, there you are.
If I lay a bed for myself in the underworld, it’s you.
If I lift up the edges of dawn and settle down at the farthest ends of the sea,
Even there, your hand will lead me
And it will take hold of me, your right hand at the south.
And if I say, “Surely the darkness will crush me.”
Then even the night is light of day around me.
Yes, the darkness will not be darkened because of you,
But, the night becomes light as day.
How alike you and the light of day are.

When you created my body, my emotions,
You wrapped me in the womb of my mother.
I will give thanks on account of you,
Because I am reverently and uniquely made.
Your creations are beyond understanding,
And my whole being knows that exceedingly well.

My power was not hidden on account of you
when I was fashioned in that hiding place
and interwoven with colors in the deepest of earth.
My being saw your vision and upon your book,
has been written the whole of the days you have created for me,
when there was still not yet one of them.
And to me, how valued are your purposes, God.
How vast the heights of them!
If I count them, they are more numerous than sand.
When I awake, I am still with you.

Would that you would kill the god others claim,
the wicked, and the people of blood– turn away from me!
Those who speak against you,
who in purposeful devices take up your name in emptiness,
are your enemies.
Is it not those that hate you, Holy One, that I hate?
And those that rise up against you, that I detest?
In consuming hatred, I hate them.
They have become enemies to me.

Examine me, God,
And know my conscience.
Test me and know my disquieting thoughts.
And see if there is any manner of pain in me,
And guide me on the way of eternity.

Holy Wisdom, Holy Word.
Thanks Be to God.

Good afternoon friends, family, and partners in ministry who have gathered together in person and online to celebrate God’s call to Beth Olker. One of the privileges of the person being ordained is the opportunity to pick scripture passages that are meaningful to your call and to ask your friends to preach on them. When Beth sent me passages that had guided her, they were filled with reminders of God’s love and our call to enact that love. It is not surprising knowing Beth and her ministry that this was the case. As I read through these passages, Psalm 139 stood out as one which speaks particularly to ordination today.

You see, the psalms are all about relationships. They’re the biblical equivalent of finding someone’s middle school notebook full of deep poems trying to sort out what it means to be human. Within the psalms we find ecstatic joy, the most painful of griefs, and under it all the knowledge that we were created to be in relationship with God. We celebrate one of these relationships today, ordaining Beth to serve God and God’s church. We acknowledge that we see in her that she has been uniquely formed for this role. But, in the Presbyterian Church, we also acknowledge that ordination is just one of many calls to serve God. In fact, we affirm that since God has created each of us uniquely, we all have our own gifts to bring in service to our communities, congregations, and God’s creation.

 The psalmist gives thanks for these unique gifts. They write of their gratitude for the deep reverence and care that God has taken in creating each and every one, each and everything. For the psalmist, creation is not a disconnected bit of happenstance, but rather an act embedded with utmost attention. In forming each of our beings, God has carefully crafted who we are and given us all a unique call. But, being so unique can have its challenges. If we take a moment, I suspect we can all think of a time in which our uniqueness left us feeling as though we didn’t belong. Times when we looked around and all we saw were people who were different than us or who didn’t seem to understand us or who made us feel alone. As the psalmist describes the whole and complete sense of being known by God, many of us feel the pang of this desire. We want so badly to be known, to belong, to see our identity reflected and honored around us.

Sociologists have a theory for the way this need impacts our behavior. It is called the Social Identity Theory. It operates in three ways. The first is through Categorization­– the idea that we understand our world by categorizing like things together, including placing people into groups based off of their commonalities. The second part of Social Identity Theory is Social Identification- or the moments in which we say, “Yes! I am like these people. I belong here.” And finally, the third part is Social Comparison. Once we have found our people and we celebrate who they are, we find ourselves trying to maintain our self-esteem by comparing our group to others and deciding that we are better than them.

The need for belonging that is the foundation for Social Identity Theory, plays out in Psalm 139. Most of the psalm is about the author recognizing their uniqueness and finding a deep sense of belonging in their relationship to God, a relationship that celebrates being fully and wholly known. And then something shifts. Perhaps you noticed this when we read the passage earlier. Something strange seems to take place between verses 17 and 19. We hear:

And to me, how valued are your purposes, God.
How vast the heights of them!
If I count them, they are more numerous than sand.
When I awake, I am still with you.

And then:

Would that you would kill the god others claim,
the wicked, and the people of blood– turn away from me!

Many scholars divide the psalm at this point. They see a part one and a part two. The first being a psalm of gratitude for creation and God’s greatness. The second part, a genuine petition to God. A shift in tone from the earlier sense of awe and wonder, but nevertheless a very real request that God act, and act violently, against those the psalmist calls God’s enemies. But notice, this is not God speaking. God does not call these people enemies. In fact, it is almost as though the psalmist is trying to defend their position– to explain to God and justify why it is okay that they hate these people and wish violence upon them. The psalmist says:

 Is it not those that hate you, Holy One, that I hate?
And those that rise up against you, that I detest?

 Social Identity Theory gives us a new way to look at this moment. We have accompanied the psalmist into their deepest need for belonging. We have seen the power in finding relationship with God. And then we see the moment of doubt. The moment of fear and unsettling. Of being confronted by those that are different and finding one’s self falling into the old habit of seeking security by painting others as enemies. The psalmist says they are “consumed” by this hatred. Each of the moments they had seen God before, in their waking up and laying down, are now overtaken by a desire for violence, with the feeling that life would just be easier if God would get rid of these other people who are so different and make things so difficult.

But, the psalmist pauses before they go any farther. The psalmist breathes:

In consuming hatred, I hate them.
They have become enemies to me.
/////////
Examine me, God,
And know my conscience.
Test me and know my disquieting thoughts.
And see if there is any manner of pain in me,
And guide me on the way of eternity.

 This psalm is a call for all of us to pause, to ask God to examine us. To go back and remind ourselves that all things are reverently and uniquely created by God. To remember that the vastness of God’s creation is beyond our understanding and yet, we know all things are called into God’s purpose. The psalmist realizes the challenges identified in the third step of Social Comparison, the problem of deciding that the groups with which we identify are the only groups with which God will side. Instead, the psalmist asks for God to set them on a different way, to guide them on a new path that reflects God’s plan for the kindom God is bringing into being. One of the other scriptures that Beth sent to me was Micah 6:8 and it lays out a clear description of what that path may be. It says:

 And what does the LORD require of you,
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God?

 This is the wisdom the psalmist seeks. The antidote to our innate desire to see diversity as divisiveness. The call into relationship not in spite of differences, but in celebration of them. To do justice by being in relationship with our communities and doing what is right by them. To love kindness in our interpersonal relationships by seeing the unique call that God has set out specifically for them because of all that they bring and all of who they are. And to walk humbly in our relationship with God, knowing that we will falter and at times be consumed by a hatred and pain that we know isn’t right. But if we are in relationship with God, we may find ourselves examined and reminded of our call. We may find ourselves given the chance to see through God’s eyes, to look at one another with awe and reverence for each carefully created part of our identities. To see the ways in which God is using all of us to bring about a kindom on earth as it is in heaven. And to find in ourselves the audacity to push against our instinct to find belonging by excluding others and instead find belonging as God’s creation together. As God’s children called to serve one another.

Today we celebrate Beth’s ordination. We celebrate the relationship she has been called into as a minister of word and sacrament. And we celebrate that we believe in a God that has called all of us for we are uniquely and reverently made.

May it be so. 

Reflection on September 5, 2020 in Louisville.

Initially shared on social media the morning of September 5th, I felt it important not to lose these thoughts to the disappearing, ever-shifting newsfeed.

It is important for people outside of Louisville to hear this:

I live near downtown. We are far enough that tear gas did not waft into our neighborhood but close enough that the sounds of helicopters and rubber bullets could be heard in the early days of the protests.

As police have taken a less active stand against protestors, there has been nothing but peace. There have been music, cookouts, the planting of a beautiful garden, and occasionally folks walking down the street we live on with signs, chants, and a car horn. I’ve never seen a political sign, except maybe in support of local candidate Charles Booker who has been doing a ton of work at the park. It is clear that this is about community and care for all of the community’s members.

Today there are a large number of white men gathering to go downtown to “counter protest.” They are wearing tactical gear and many are carrying large guns. They are using language that indicates they will rely on “stand your ground” laws and have openly supported the murders of two protestors in Kenosha, WI by Jacob Rittenhouse. I can only assume this means their guns are loaded and they intend to point them at human beings and shoot. They have said “cul-de-sacs” are in danger, which shows they aren’t that concerned about protecting my neighborhood because there’s not a one in sight. It’s a not-thinly-veiled code for white neighborhoods. They are carrying giant Trump flags.

Let me state this clearly: I am a white person. I live and work in the places they claim to be protecting. I do not want them here. They aren’t protecting me. If they claim to be doing so, it is a lie.

I pray nothing happens, but I fear for the safety of the community that has been built at Jefferson and 6th. Based on the videos captured at the gathering rally of this group, they are primed and enthusiastic to shoot someone. Whatever happens will be absolutely premeditated.

May it not come to pass.

Hug those you love.

Condemn violence.

White supremacy is terrorism.

A Lesson from Starlings

I remember as a child sitting in the car and seeing the trees bustling like they were filled with something struggling to emerge. I was informed that the tree was full of starlings and that starlings were pests. It’s true in many ways. Starlings are an invasive species, that is they are not native to this country and in their rapid population growth can impact other native species. This is not so great. But starlings are here to stay and, in spite of their troublesome qualities, they exhibit one of my favorite natural occurrences in the world: murmurations.

If you’ve never seen a murmuration, I encourage you to stop and google it. There are heaps of videos and images of murmurations in action that I cannot being to describe accurately in the words to come. Murmurations occur when a flock of starlings gather together and fly through the sky as one body. They form a cloud-like structure that moves in curved lines. In places where the density of birds becomes higher, there are darker lines that appear. Murmurations are living, breathing, shifting, amorphous art.

I came to love them while living in Northeast Iowa. The stretches of farmland highway were the perfect setting to catch murmurations at play. It didn’t hurt that when I first began to see them with some frequency I was studying the intersections of theatre and installation art. Much of my work had begun to take shape around charcoal drawings filled with lines that begged for movement and making spaces where these works could come to life in human and media forms. Murmurations were very, very much my aesthetic and continue to be.

There is no greater proof of my love for murmurations than my husband’s birthday gift to me this year. He surprised me with a print of a murmuration to keep in my office. It hit me right in the feels. I was touched by his memory of my love for these starling flocks in motion, but I was also struck by the intent of me taking it to my office. Admittedly, there is some sadness there. It is difficult to realize how many hours we spend away from those we love most in order to do our work in the world. I am grateful that my job gives me flexibility and supports my family, not to mention that I am deeply passionate about the work I get to do. I know this is not true for all and it is a privilege I do not take for granted. The real essence of why this murmuration touches me so as an office presence is that it contributes something I need. A reminder of my spouse’s generosity, yes. A token of beauty to admire and root me in my creative past, yes. But there’s something about murmurations themselves.

Occasionally, I get lost in wikipedia holes. I look up one interesting fact that is related to something I read or heard and next thing I know I have anecdotes about Joaquin Pheonix that I share out of nowhere. (This is real. This happened yesterday.) Recently, we saw a small murmuration in the Kroger parking lot. I pointed it out to my son, whose newfound revelation that things can be in the sky made for a beautiful moment. When I got home, I did some digging into what makes murmurations work. I learned that there are two traits that scientists have been able to identify in their study of these starlings. First: Starlings in murmurations are finely attuned to the movements of just the seven birds closest to them. In a cloud of hundreds, even hundreds of thousands of birds, just seven are kept in view. Second: Despite this focus on seven birds, starlings can move simultaneously with birds dozens of steps away. Scientists cannot identify how the birds know, but theories are that something has been ingrained into them (through DNA, evolution, starling cultural norms) that allows them to be aware somehow of the greater movement of the murmuration. So these starlings who create beautiful movement, do so through focusing on their closest seven birds, but staying aware of the greater shifts in the group.

What a vision of how to be in the world. So many people I know feel the weight of care taking. Aging relatives need medical and emotional support. The injustices of the world are confronting us with an urgent need to act. People of faith are compelled to care for others. But here are starlings, going about things seven birds at a time. It’s not likely the same seven birds, but it’s always seven. If they attempted to expand their circle of awareness to a larger group, the whole murmuration would be thrown off and fall apart. So who are the seven people that I can reasonably care for? The seven people I can hold close in my heart at this moment and really love without spreading myself too thin? And then, how do I give myself these boundaries while preserving my awareness of the larger whole? This, I think, is the challenge and lesson from starlings. A call to recognize that in order to create beautiful things, in order to sustain a community that is changing and shifting, we must know our boundaries, be in close relationship with our people, and stay in touch with the needs of the larger body. This is the thought that my new office murmuration will bring. This is the root of my gratitude for this gift. May we all see the gift in starlings and their murmurations.

Present Waiting

The season of waiting has begun.

In many ways Advent is my favorite time of the year. For weeks we reflect on the happier side of Jesus’ story. We get to relish in anticipation. My favorite holiday, yes, all the lights and cold weather and over-eating included, is just around the corner. What’s not to like about Advent?

But Advent isn’t so far from it’s liturgical friend Lent. It’s still waiting. We’ve just packaged it in a prettier bow.

I found myself pausing for a moment today in reflection. I’m notoriously bad at sticking with intentional spiritual practices. Somehow, I’ve managed to survive all this time by unintentionally finding myself sustained- more on that later- but this week I decided to try a form of tracking my tasks and appointments alongside of things I am grateful for and things I am looking forward to. As I went to write these down, I couldn’t stop thinking, “I can’t wait for Thanksgiving.” Thanksgiving is usually the one time of the year we manage to take the time and money that usually block us from a twelve-hour drive to see my in-laws. We get to relax with family, see friends, eat great food, and be in a different space than our usual, every-day responsibilities. It’s good for the soul. And here I am embracing a mentality that I can’t wait.

For me, “can’t wait,” means that I put my head down in the ground like a good, little ostrich, and power through until I finally get to the thing I’m looking forward to. I anticipate. I don’t invest myself in the things that are on my plate in the meantime. I struggle to stay present. I make packing lists upon packing lists. I do anything and everything to stay focused on what is to come and then…then it’s here and while I enjoy myself, I usually feel like I’ve lost a week of time and the thing I have anticipated isn’t nearly as much of a salve as I had hoped. I have built up my own house of expectation cards.

As I wrote, “Thanksgiving,” I stopped myself and wondered if I am really engaging in the waiting of Advent or if I am simply forecasting myself into what I hope will be a more enjoyable time than the thing I am currently doing. Am I present in my waiting or am I absent in anticipation?

Two Advents ago I was thoroughly pregnant. The stories of motherhood that are tied through our narrative were particularly hard-hitting for me at the time. There was so much joy built into the excitement and expectation of Jesus’ birth. This was decidedly not my pregnancy experience. I was miserable. There was morning sickness, a three-month bout of bronchitis, and I used my newfound She-Hulk strength to break multiple glasses including one that resulted in 9 stitches, a doozy of a scar, and lost feeling in part of my hand. My body was having a difficult time. Sure, I was excited about the baby to come, but I was over being pregnant. I wanted my anticipation, but my body kept pulling me into the reality of waiting. Waiting is uncomfortable. Waiting puts us in positions we’d rather not sit in. Waiting draws us back into the present when our brain rushes forward. While anticipation is mental, waiting is rooted in the physical self.

In college I majored in Theatre/Dance. The small, liberal arts school I attended had merged the programs along ago and they were close partners in the curriculum we were taught. Though I had a history of childhood dance classes, I would not in any way say that I am a dancer. I’m a dancer in the same way that we all are dancers. I have a body. I move it. Sometimes in rhythm. The dance program at my school was thankfully much different than I had expected. We did not learn ballet or jazz or modern. We spent hours in the softly lit studio talking about proper body alignment, about what it means to move from your core to your distal ends, retracing our own physical development as a child and memorizing anatomy. We were thrown into the deep end of body awareness. There’s something to that. To having time blocked off to be present, to breathe, and to feel the way your body works together within itself. Call it mindfulness, call it new age, call it the Laban technique- it was impossible not to be present. In fact, we were taught an important tenet to the practice was to be comfortable waiting in the unknown. I became really at ease in those moments. It was a spiritual practice without the label and, somehow, I was able to receive credit hours.

Why, then, is waiting so uncomfortable? Why retreat to anticipation? Practice. Perhaps, like me, you are the kind of person who prefers to only participate in things they are naturally skilled in. If I can’t pick something up in a day or two, I’m happy to move along and leave it for someone else. This may not be inherently bad, but it has certainly informed the neural pathways and muscle memories that I have built over the years. I am not inclined to practice, I’m inclined to do. Isn’t it just wonderful then that what truly can bring me into the present of waiting and out of the future of anticipation is just that: practice. Thank goodness for the liturgical calendar reminding us twice a year that being present in our waiting is necessary. Despite the Hallmark Channel schedule and mall décor, Christmas does not come any faster by anticipating. We cannot rush to the end and ignore all that is in between. We cannot anticipate and block out the present. We must be here, physically experiencing the passage of time until…well there is no real and full until because it will all come back in just a few months. Just as there is always the next vacation looming on the horizon or the next special event or the next hoped-for big break. There will always be something we could rush towards. But I sense our embodied persons will be the worse off for our hurriedness.

So.

If you need me, I’ll be waiting- trying to resist the urge to write a few packing lists, taking a few deep breaths, and reminding myself that this day has just as much beauty in it as the ones marked with special dates in the calendar.

Sermon: I've Got Peace Like a Hail Storm

Ezekiel 13:8-13, 15-16*
Therefore, thus says God, the Holy One: Because all of you have spoken empty words and envisioned lies, therefore- listen!- I am against you. This is a statement from God, the Holy One: Therefore, my hand will be against the prophets who envision emptiness and who divine lies in the assembly of my people. They will not be recorded in the history of the house of Israel. No, they will not be written about, nor will they enter the land of Israel. Then you will know that I am God, the Holy One. Because they, yes, because they caused my people to go astray, saying: “Peace!” When there is no peace. And they build a wall. And- look!- they cover it with foolishness. Say to those who cover it with foolishness that it will fall.
There will be rain.
There will be flooding.
And you--
Great hailstones will fall and a stormy wind will tear it down.
Look! The wall has fallen. Will it not be said to you all again and again, “Where is the foolishness with which you plastered it?”
Therefore, thus says God, the Holy One:
I will say to you there is no more wall and there are no more of those plastering 16 prophets of Israel, who prophesy about Jerusalem and who see for her visions of peace when there is no peace.

            A few weeks ago, I traveled to Baltimore as a part of the PC(USA)’s Big Tent. As my plane landed and I made my way into the city center I found myself excited about one thing in particular: my hotel room would have cable. This is a big deal for people who have opted to “cut the cord” and use streaming services for entertainment. While nine times out of ten I am happy about this decision, I was excited about the idea of putting on the news while I got ready in the morning. My first morning in the hotel I woke up, leisurely made some coffee, and flipped through the channels to find a station offering news updates. In the roughly 30 minutes I had the news on the hotel TV, I found myself saddened by that day’s painful stories and dizzied by the voices barking back and forth in disagreement about how to respond. I found myself thinking that I needed a little “peace and quiet.”

For most of us, peace is an aspirational goal. Peace is what we will have when we finish this project or get around to unpacking the basement or leave for vacation or when the baby finally sleeps through the night. This “peace,” the “peace and quiet” peace, is really about a sense of calm. A lack of rush. A chance to simply be. In the context of the Hebrew Bible it’s probably more accurate for us to describe this feeling as “shabbat,” or Sabbath. But in our texts for today, both Jesus and the prophet Ezekiel aren’t speaking about sabbath. They are speaking about shalom.

Though we translate “shalom” as peace, the idea of what that looked like for the Jewish communities of Ezekiel and Jesus is vastly different than our idea of peace. The personal peace of serenity, or even the larger concept of peace as a time without war, rests on a foundation of absence. We subtract pressure, busy-ness, violence and then we achieve this thing we call “peace.” Shalom, however, means something more akin to “wholeness.” Shalom is not when we take away something else, but rather it is when all things are added together. It is a peace that rests in the complete wellness of the community. Shalom is something closer to a commune, a utopia, to the words we pray in the Lord’s prayer: “on earth as it is in heaven.” Shalom, the peace of the world being made whole, is at the very root of how God wishes the world to be.

In Ezekiel’s speech on behalf of God, we see just how crucial this shalom-peace is. Ezekiel’s setting could not be less peaceful. The people of Israel had been exiled by Babylon. Their communities had been strategically torn apart and separated into distant lands in the hope that their identity would be lost in the process. It was an attempt at genocide. It was traumatic. They were forced to leave homes they had grown up in. To leave the farms that provided them sustenance. To leave a temple in which they had seen God at work. To go into places where they were not welcome and were unlikely to survive. There was no personal peace, no peace from war, and there was certainly no hope for the wholeness of a shalom-peace. Throughout Ezekiel we see God’s sadness and anger at the lack of peace for God’s people, but in our passage for today we see another side of God. God rises in opposition to those who seek only the passive peace of serenity. God shouts at the people of Israel who refuse to see the lack of peace in their midst, those who stood up in front of the community and said, “everything’s fine.” Those who said, “why are you making such a ruckus? Calm down.” Those who didn’t want to deal with anything else. Who foolishly built walls to protect themselves, who looked around at a world in ruin and put on blinders so that they could claim a personal peace for themselves. This self-beneficial, exclusionary peace is no peace at all to God.

When we hear this passage, we think: Okay, there’s no peace. People are pretending there is. God’s upset. I get that. So surely God will come in and show them what peace looks like so that everyone can get back on track. But if we come to the text with our assumptions that peace is placid, calm, and free from disruption we will be disappointed. God does not saunter in and give everyone in Israel a calm heart. God instead shows up in rain and floods and hailstorms that bring down the foolishness, lies, and walls that the people had erected. God does not gently sweep in with a beach umbrella and lapping waves, but rather a typhoon. The example of peace that God shows us is one that is active, confrontational, and even destructive. But God is not carelessly destructive. It is not the beauty of God’s creation that is torn apart in this hailstorm. God’s peace is focused on breaking down the ideas and structures that we have created in order to maintain our own peace of mind. Ezekiel shows us God dismantling these structures from top to bottom. God tears down the walls that blocked the people of Israel from seeing the lack of peace around them. God erases the false claims of peace from their histories. God makes sure that anyone who clings to this false self-security will not re-enter Israel. God completely washes clean the foolishness that had led the people to believe peace was a lack of upheaval. Peace was about their own sense of calm. God steals away their ease and subverts their entire world because God knows that only in rejecting the false peace we claim for ourselves can the real work of God’s shalom-peace for all begin.

You see, God knows that if given the choice people will err on the side of complacency and the familiar. We love any chance to excuse ourselves from working harder or breaking out of our comfort zones. We say, “It’s not my problem,” when confronted with the struggles of another. We delude ourselves into thinking we are making progress by demanding facts and figures from the comforts of our couch while people in the midst of crisis lose their lives. We allow ourselves to benefit from centuries of laws, traditions, and practices that give us more privilege than others because we’re used to it and, frankly, it gives us peace. So, the only way to usher in a whole and complete shalom is to begin with a new vision of how things ought to be. A new definition of what peace is.

This week begins the Season of Peace in the PC(USA). Over the next five weeks, we will explore what this new definition of peace looks like and engage in deepening our call as peacemakers. In this first week, here at the start, we ask ourselves how we begin. How do we take the risk of living outside of what society tells us is peace and embrace God’s peace?

We begin with active, challenging, inspirational, and hard work.

This isn’t a backyard stream God calls in, but a hailstorm. We have to widen our eyes and be open to seeing the lack of peace around us, even if it means letting go of some of the truths that we have held dear. We must be vulnerable enough to see the ways in which we are holding up walls that prevent God’s peace. Not so that we can feel guilty or tear ourselves down. Remember, God doesn’t disrupt creation- God disrupts the walls and stories that claim false peace. We must look at ourselves so that we can be emboldened to claim a new identity as peacemakers for God’s peace. To be the hailstorm that God calls upon to tear down barriers.

I cannot stand here and claim to have this all perfectly integrated into my own life. In fact, it’s a constant struggle for even the most dedicated of peacemakers I know. It is so easy and way less scary to run back into the safety of the walls of our peace when we see the lack of God’s peace in the world. But if we are to truly embrace God’s call in our lives, we must find the courage to break down the walls so that there is no retreating behind them. As we join in the Season of Peace with Presbyterians across the denomination, we must heed Christ’s words when he looked upon Jerusalem and said, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.” Let us open our eyes. Let us replace our old glasses with lenses that show us God’s peace. Let us be a hailstorm in the world, dismantling any walls that stop God’s peace of wholeness and community from washing over us all. And let us find the courage to do this despite how uncomfortable we may be. For it is only in clearing away our peace that God’s peace can find us all. And we could all use a little shalom.
Amen.

For video of this sermon preached at Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church in Overland Park, KS- Click Here.

*The English text is an original translation.

Radical Rest as Resistance: A Chapel Reflection

Then the word of GOD came to him, saying, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” He answered, “I have been very zealous for GOD, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.”  
They said, “Go out and stand on the mountain before GOD, for GOD, is about to pass by.”  

 Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before GOD, but GOD was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but GOD was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but GOD was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.  

When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. 

1 Kings 19: 9-13 

Before this past year, I had never been a big napper. Perhaps it was the addition of a baby, the transition of finishing seminary, or the slowing energy of entering my 30’s—but something in me has changed. Suddenly there are few things better than a good nap. To cuddle up with a nice blanket, a fan blowing a gentle breeze (or if you can be outside, a real breeze!) is a kind of relaxation that seems more necessary than luxury as of late. In 2016, a like-minded soul named Tricia Hersey, founded The Nap Ministry in Atlanta. Calling herself a “Nap Bishop,” she hosts open events where people are invited to join in a group meditation followed by an hour of napping and time to debrief. While this may sound like a nice chance to rest up, Hersey has built her ministry on the radical idea of rest as resistance. For Hersey, the cultural trauma inflicted on black bodies in the United States and her scholarship in black liberation theology provided a new lens for the idea of rest. She spoke to Atlanta Magazine, saying, “It was this whole examination of labor in the South, and how bodies are commodified, and how capitalism and white supremacy help that.” For Hersey, making space for people, in particular, woman of color, to rest serves as a way to run a counter narrative to a society that values people based on how much they’re able to contribute to the dominant society. She says, “We’re pushing back against these systems telling us we should feel guilty for laying down and taking a nap.”  

How many of us have heard or felt these messages? That we aren’t doing enough. That we haven’t completed enough of our to-dos. That if we spend time doing “nothing” we aren’t doing “anything worthwhile.” We download the latest productivity app. We practice multitasking techniques. According to a recent poll, only 28% of employees in the United States plan to use all their vacation days in 2019.  The world is screaming out to us with deafening efficacy to do more. But it is not in the cacophony of sound that God shows up.  

Elijah certainly must have felt the pressure to be successful. He faced an empire that sought to kill him in response to his prophetic acts. Yet in fleeing for his life, he wasn’t all that focused on survival. Instead he was consumed by the guilt of not having lived up to his prophetic call. He was so caught up in the feeling of not being enough that he begged for death. In its place comes an angel who cares about his survival and gives him food and water, nudging him along to Mount Horeb where the angel says God will soon pass by. Here the biblical narrator gives us a scene that defies our expectations. We think that surely God must be upset with Elijah and is on their way to scold the prophet and get him back on track. Surely, a rock-splitting wind conveys how God feels. But that is not where Elijah finds God. Nor in earthquake. Nor in a fire. It is in silence where God shows up. Elijah, who was consumed by the need to “do” and felt so exhausted, fearful, and alone, was met by a God who knew that he needed rest. And in that moment of rest and silence is where Elijah is able to finally free himself from the concerns of the empire and re-center himself on God.  

This kind of rest, like the naps of the Nap Ministry, is radically different from the way of our world. But it is everywhere in God’s description of how the world ought to be. Our scripture is blanketed in references to Sabbath. We are told over and over about the importance of these days of rest. And in case we want to make excuses for ourselves, we have to be confronted with the fact that God rests. How can we believe that rest is somehow a characteristic of bad behavior when God embraces it for God’s self? Rest is a part of how God has formed our lives, our communities, our world.  

But lest you think I am advocating for total and utter sloth, it is important to recognize that sabbath, radical rest, is a part of how we live our lives. We spend the rest of our time doing God’s work for justice-like Elijah we speak out against empire, and we make space for all of us who are carrying the burdens of oppression to lay them down. And we have to make space for ourselves as well. It is so easy to become wrapped up in the weight of injustice. We may feel that we alone are able to make a difference in a particular moment, or in the very least if we aren’t helping then we aren’t doing our part. While this may be partly true, we risk forming a sense of pride that doesn’t just lead us to burn-out that renders us useless to God’s call, but we also risk losing God’s voice. Like Elijah we will feel alone, feel like we are not doing enough, hear the voices of everyone but God. In the silence, in sabbath, in naps: we open ourselves to hear the still, small voice that has been speaking to us all along. We make a door for God to remind us of how we should be. And if God’s conversation with Elijah is any indication, God will not only show up, but God will tell us how to move forward and will tell us where to find the companions we need along the way so that the work of justice may continue even when we rest. And in the face of a society that tells us we are not enough, or we are commodities to serve a system, God will do the work of justice especially in our rest. May it be so. 

This sermon was delivered during a chapel service at the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) Center focused on Radical Rest as Resistance.

The Weight of an Empty Village

In April of 2018 I spent many odd hours on my phone scanning social media. I had a one-month old baby at home who was still unconcerned with learning to sleep during the evening rather than the day, so it had become an exhausting routine for me to change and feed the baby and catch up on the news at 12am, 3am, 6am, and so on. During one of these foggy scroll sessions I first learned about the separation of families at the border. It broke my heart. This little baby in my arms was difficult, tiring, and had left my body an absolute mess- but to think of not having him near me left me shattered and on the verge of tears.

I was not alone in my feelings that April, nor was I alone in my deep sadness over the stories of children dying along the border this week. My usual internet stops were covered in statements about horrible conditions in detainment camps, photos of children crying, images of smiling children accompanied by the story of how they died in detention, and the stark image of a drowned father and daughter. I have been outraged. I have contacted my representatives, provided resources for donations to friends, and encouraged my pastor friends to preach on the issue. It is not much, but it’s something.

And yet, the images still haunt me and leave me physically exhausted and mentally-emotionally traumatized. I struggle to stay awake during the day and struggle to sleep at night. I find myself on the verge of tears when children are discussed and, each time an article leads with photos of bodies, I feel my stomach lurch. These are the signs that I have come to recognize as Vicarious Trauma.

Traditionally, Vicarious Trauma (sometimes called by names like Compassion Fatigue) is the result of working closely with those who have experienced a direct trauma. But social media and the vast accessibility of the 24-hour news cycle open up a gap that traditional understandings of trauma or Vicarious Trauma do not address. We may not be direct witnesses, but we are certainly exposed in a way that reaches us in the depths of our humanity.

I have found that this is particularly difficult for people who have committed their careers to the church. We are taught that our work is a calling from God, a deep metaphysical need in the world. Depending on the person this can manifest in a great sense of ego or humility, but regardless it begins to shape an understanding of service in all aspects of life. Being called into ministry is not just a full-time job, but often it is viewed as a way of life. It can feel as though there are no breaks when you are called to serve God and thus we constantly view the world through Christ-tinted glasses. This can be a beautiful thing when we seek to see God in all people, to uplift justice-whether it be in our shopping habits or in organized advocacy, or when we aim to engage with others from a standpoint of compassion and love. But we are human. There are days where it is hard to put the glasses on. Especially when we look through the lenses and still we do not see the promise of God’s world, but instead view the pain of human suffering. In our daily tasks of opening up a news app or updating the church’s Facebook page, we see images of sins that feel impossible to address. In these moments our human infallibility leaves us hardened and deeply hurt by the trauma of merely living in a world so full of hate.

Church people really love to push that aside. Our rhetoric turns towards the hope to which we cling. Our stories center around our God, the one that does the impossible time and time again. But hope and the power of God do not erase the very real impact of Vicarious Trauma on our minds, our emotions, our bodies, our relationships, and even on our ministry. There is healing that needs to be done. But, how do we heal when the voices in need of help are calling out from every direction?

What we suffer from when we cannot find the time to heal is the lack of our village. It is impossible to do this thing alone. Not just because of the vastness of inequity that must be addressed, but because as finite and fragile beings we cannot handle the weight of the world on our own. We need our villages to rest, to heal, and to find relief in knowing that we are not diminishing the fight every time we need to take a break because someone else will be there doing the work alongside of us.

This is not a comment on the bigness of God,
after all God is the one who made us to be relational.

It is not a comment on your ability to live out God’s call in your life,
after all God is the one who made us to be relational.

Where we run into difficulty is two-fold. We are too proud, scared, disconnected, or whatever-else to let go and take a break to heal ourselves. But, there is also the reality that our village seems to be falling down around us. There are not people on whom we can rely to pick up the work when we step back. This lack of community and support is in and of itself a form of trauma.

So where does that leave us?
I don’t know.
We have a major overhaul in store if we want to live into God’s world. Creating a village isn’t something that we can do on our own, but it is something we can begin with just a few like-minded souls who are willing to care and to be cared for.

All this to say:

If you are feeling traumatized because of the state of the world and have felt the pressure to belittle your feelings because it’s not “real” trauma, your feelings are valid.

If you are feeling overwhelmed and need to heal yourself, do not feel guilty or like you are failing your call, your community, your God.

If you feel grounded and stable, look for those in your village whom you can give a break.

We really can make it through, but we must do it together. Because it takes a village.

Omwana takulila nju emoi (Bunyoro)
A child does not grow up in only one home
Omwana taba womoi (Bahaya)
A child does not belong to one parent or home
Omwana ni wa bhone (Wajita)
Regardless of parents, a child’s upbringing belongs to the community
Asiye funzwa na mamae hufunzwa na ulimwengu (Swahili)
Whomsoever is not taught by the mother, will be taught with the world.

It takes a village to raise a child.[i]

[i] Thanks, Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/It_takes_a_village

When Jesus is all, "Don't Worry."

Then Jesus said to his disciples, “Therefore, I say to you, don’t worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. There is more to life than food and more to the body than clothing. Consider the ravens: they neither plant nor harvest, they have no silo or barn, yet God feeds them. You are worth so much more than birds! Who among you by worrying can add a single moment to your life? If you can’t do such a small thing, why worry about the rest? Notice how the lilies grow. They don’t wear themselves out with work, and they don’t spin cloth. But I say to you that even Solomon in all his splendor wasn’t dressed like one of these. If God dresses grass in the field so beautifully, even though it’s alive today and tomorrow it’s thrown into the furnace, how much more will God do for you, you people of weak faith! Don’t chase after what you will eat and what you will drink. Stop worrying. All the nations of the world long for these things. Your Creator knows that you need them. Instead, desire God’s realm and these things will be given to you as well. (Luke 12:22-31)

I have a confession to make. I really don’t like this “consider the lilies” business. I routinely groan when I see it is going to be read. I have stated probably too loudly, “I hate that passage.” And yet—I have been assigned to preach on it twice over the past few years. The first as a guest chapel preacher when working at a small liberal arts college. The second time was this past fall in my Intro to Preaching course. It doesn’t help that lilies are my favorite flowers. This means, inevitably, that Luke’s account continues to creep up like a pesky vine that just won’t chill the heck out.

You may be thinking, “Why does this bother you so much? You’re not a raven who is being told they are less important than a human. I’d get it if they were pissed, but you seem a little unnecessarily salty, to be honest.”

Well. I am a little salty. Often the translations of this passage center on the idea of not being “anxious.” I, like millions of others, have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Telling me not to be anxious is about as helpful as suggesting that the precious lilies stop sucking up sunlight. Anxiety, while manageable through behavior and medication, is a reality of my existence. So, when Luke’s Jesus tells everyone not to be anxious, I can’t help but become defensive. I mean, I’ve done some work. I know that anxiety isn’t inherently bad. I am aware that having feelings of anxiety is a natural and helpful response when the human body encounters the unknown or danger. Paralyzing anxiety, not so much, but Jesus doesn’t take the time to qualify that here. It’s straight up worrying of all kinds.

And worrying about clothes and food! If there’s anything to worry about, it seems like these might be the things. We’re not talking about luxuries. Clothes are essential for protecting human bodies from the elements. Food is essential for keeping us running. And unlike the picturesque Van Gogh landscape Jesus portrays, where flowers bloom and birds fly happily overhead; the things necessary to sustain life are not guaranteed to any creature in this world. Frankly, the birds facing extinction and wilting flowers don’t seem all that provided for. Add to that poverty and a declining middle class that limit access to food for people around the world (yes, even in our supposed “first world” nation), and it seems like we should be worried about food. We should be worried about clothes. We should be worried about taking care of the needs of other people. I feel like that’s pretty on brand for this whole biblical message thing…

So, yeah. I’m a little salty at what seems like a disconnected Jesus.

___

This morning I walked into a worship service and tried to contain my dual desire to groan and roll my eyes. We were about to read Luke’s raven-filled homage to eradicating anxiety.

Great.

We moved through the opening words and ended up at the reading. I prepared myself to be miffed once more, however, there was something about the phrasing of the last sentence of this particular translation[i] that struck me in a new light.

Instead desire God’s realm and these things will be given to you as well.

Damn.

I had to sit for a moment and work out why this was so stirring for me. Perhaps it was sitting in a room with people committed to addressing the concerns above. Perhaps it was the striking visual of massive rain clouds out the window. Maybe it’s this whole Holy Spirit thing. Likely, it’s the fact that I ran out of shows to binge and have begun watching Lucifer. (The irony is palpable.)

If you’re a fan of the show, you know that a central trope is when the main character asks, “What is it you desire?” The show centers in on wants and guilty pleasures and, often, when we think of desire we go to that place as well. Desire has become synonymous with illicit sexuality to the point that Dolce and Gabbana have a perfume that bears its name. But desire when it comes to God’s realm isn’t about this sort of unnameable want. It’s not just claiming you want it in your heart or in front of others. It isn’t even about sitting at home and praying for Christ to return. (Though, I’m all for prayer and honestly it would be really nice for some apocalyptic restructuring of oppressive systems right about now.) Desiring God’s realm isn’t passive.

Desiring God’s realm looks like the person who shows up at a cash bail rally to free someone who is unjustly being held in prison. Desiring God’s realm looks like a group of people riding their bikes through an encampment of displaced people to deliver food. Desiring God’s realm is supporting access to any needs a person may have because of their health. It’s coat drives, building sustainable housing, showing up for a neighbor, offering space for those impacted by trauma to tell their stories and heal. And if we all embraced that active way of living into a desire for God’s way of being then—crap. These things will be given as well. Not because we wanted it more than someone else or because we are better followers of Christ, but because we communally commit to bettering one another.

I will likely never be okay with being told not to be anxious or not to worry. There’s a stigma around anxiety disorders that manifests in this phrasing and I’m not willing to embrace it. But, like a very good therapist once told me, we don’t need to worry when there’s something we can actively do about it. Or as Nike so aptly puts it, “Just do it.” It’s perfectly valid to worry about clothing and food while people continue to sit back and avoid doing the work of desiring God’s realm, but if we truly desire the world God intends through our lives and communities then Jesus is on to something in this passage.

We don’t have to worry because there’s something we can do about it.
All we have to do is show the heck up.

[i] I don’t know what this translation is. Pro-tip for worship leaders: always include in the bulletin what you’re using. It might be the Inclusive Language Bible? If you know, please let me know.

We Can't Expect Pastors to Do Everything

As I was sitting in a classroom the other day waiting for the professor to arrive, I overheard a conversation between two classmates who are members of a different denomination. They were discussing a sense of frustration that needs were going unmet in their community and all the while expensive gifts were being lavished upon their pastors. The mention of new cars and offerings taken up in the middle of the service left me aghast. I wondered where I could sign up and if I could transfer my membership, like, yesterday.

The joke is that I love the Presbyterian Church (USA). Although I have been a lifelong member, it is seeing our polity at play and witnessing the impact of a connectional church that has led me to not only stay in the denomination, but passionately claim it as my church home. The PC(USA) is quite literally my family as both of my parents are pastors and many of my friends are in various stages of the ordination process as well. But it is this close proximity to church leaders that left me joking about how to switch denominations with my classmates. I most certainly do not think that pastors should be given lavish rewards while communities suffer, but the PC(USA) has fallen into a harmful, if not abusive, pattern in which our servant leaders are expected to sacrifice health and family in order to meet the expectations of congregations.

To be fair, churches come by this honestly. For generations congregations have been staffed by men whose responsibilities outside of their work have been limited. If the pastor had a wife and children, undoubtedly it was his spouse who was responsible for the majority of both the childcare and housework. As recently as 2015, the Bureau of Labor and Statistics acknowledged that women spend twice the time each day that men do in household chores, errands, and helping family members.[i] With these tasks cared for by someone else, male pastors have been freed to tend to the needs of the congregation as a primary caregiver. These expectations have become ingrained into our congregational cultures and governing bodies. We expect that our pastors will be available to rush to our side at the drop of a hat. We expect that pastors will take limited time off for vacation and ideally these vacations will be continuing education. We expect that pastors are present for all church activities and meetings. We anticipate that if these expectations are unmet we can reevaluate their terms of call or bring it to session. These expectations are no longer acceptable.

The face of ministry is changing. From 2007 to 2016, more women have been ordained than men in the Presbyterian Church.[ii] This, along with continued progress towards gender equality, means that our churches are no longer staffed by individuals who can count on someone else to pick up the slack at home. We must recognize that our pastors are whole people who live whole lives of which their call to serve a congregation is an important, but not exclusive, part.

This shift in expectations has proven challenging for the church. At the most recent General Assembly, commissioners were presented with the opportunity to provide paid family leave for pastors. I had the privilege to speak to the committee and witnessed the testimony of many pastors for whom a lack of family leave had caused irreparable damage in their call and personal health. Stories of women who were unable to fully recover from traumatic births. Of families seeking to grieve the unexpected loss of a child. Of pastors considering leaving their calls to care for aging parents. Rather than centering conversation on these stories, the debate quickly turned to how the congregation would fare in the absence of a pastor. Who would fill the pulpit? Who would lead session? Where would the money come from? Rather than view these as necessary hurdles and seek generous solutions from the church body, several voices identified these challenges as the reason we should deny paid family leave. Ultimately, the Assembly opted to investigate the issue for a later date. This is not the first time this has happened and, in the meantime, clergy are struggling to find space to advocate for their needs while congregations expect them to be present without fail.

The cost of these expectations is devastating for the whole of the church. Not only are pastors burning out, but in placing the load of ministry exclusively onto their shoulders we deny the gifts and calls of members of the congregation. The PC(USA) affirms that we are a priesthood of all believers, with each member of the church bringing unique and necessary gifts to serve God. Our outdated expectations of leadership have left members floundering to find ways to live into their faith. We cannot continue to risk the health of our communities by denying the full humanity of our ministers and the full call of our members. We must seek to reorient the church or risk losing the extraordinary spiritual gifts in our midst. Like any waterway, our congregational expectations have been shaped by years of repeated practice, but with enough of us gathered together towards a common goal perhaps we can be a rolling justice that charts a new path.

[i] “Charts by Topic: Household Activities." U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. December 20, 2016. Accessed March 23, 2019. https://www.bls.gov/tus/charts/household.htm.

[ii] "More Presbyterian Women Ordained Ministers than Men 2007-2016." Presbyterian Foundation. Accessed March 23, 2019. https://www.presbyterianfoundation.org/more-presbyterian-women-ordained-ministers-than-men-2007-2016/.