Saturday, March 31, 2018

The day after the worst day

A Reflection for Holy Saturday


Last week I was on vacation with my family in Mexico.  One morning, I did yoga on the beach, led in Spanish by a skinny, weathered, aged man, with a faded turban and a long, grey beard. At one point, he had us sitting with our legs crossed, and he picked up his leg carefully, with both hands, and gently tucked his foot into the crook of his arm, smoothing out his toes. He cradled his knee into the fold of his other arm, and rocked his lower leg softly back and forth like an infant. Then he invited us to do the same.  
When I picked up my leg and held it like that, the underside of my foot staring me in the face, my toes splayed up brazenly toward the sun, when I felt the weight of part of myself in my arms that I have never held before, and rocked it back and forth, I welled up with unexpected tenderness.

I keep thinking of this image for Holy Saturday.
 I keep sensing an invitation to gently lift my soul into my arms and rock it softly back and forth.


Between the crash in the darkness that threw us 
into the night air on Friday to make our ways home in silence, 
and the trumpet fanfare that draws us back 
into the warmth and light of Sunday morning,
is there something deep within your soul, 
in the dark corners you haven't swept in a very, very long time,
that wants to rise up and be cradled today? 

THE DAY AFTER THE WORST DAY

"It is finished."

It simply does not get worse than yesterday.
The world has ended.

And then there was evening and there was morning. The second day. 
Today is the day after the worst day of all.

Yesterday happened.
We are stripped of illusions now.
We have stared evil in the eyes, and it has won.
It's ok to lay down and curl in on yourself for a little while. 
It's ok not to be vigilant today. 

Today is the day of not knowing and not doing.
It's ok not to know. It's ok to just be.

This is a day for silent shock and hushed sorrow. 
It's a day for heaviness, and slowness, 
and not talking too much, or too loudly.
This is a day to tread tenderly on the earth, 
to respect the pain that each one bears,
to be gentle with yourself, 
and cautious with each other.
To eat simply and sleep hungrily, 
and leave the lights and your shoes off.
It's a day to wake up to the shocking four inches of new snow and the blustery wind, 
and think, Yeah. That feels about right.

Between the Friday and the Sunday came a sabbath day.
The greatest drama of all creation and eternity
pauses
for the day of remembering God is God and we are not, 
in an inconvenient
and even ironic,
place in the story.
It stops at the absence of God from the earth; 
the death of it all; 
the day after the worst day. 
And it stays here a bit.

Sometimes sabbath is for keening.

After the worst day of all comes the day of nothing left to lose.

So rest in the gaping hole of today. 
It's ok to pause here; (God did). It cannot swallow you whole.
It's ok to stop and not look ahead.
Yet.

Friday, March 30, 2018

Today we will not lie

Good Friday Reflection




TODAY WE WILL NOT LIE
Today is Good Friday. 
A lot has happened since last night's dinner with the disciples, with broken bread and washed feet, that ended with a walk to the garden to pray. During the night Judas led the authorities to Jesus.  He was arrested and interrogated, and this morning dawns with Jesus appearing before the governor, where he is sentenced to death. Around 9 am he is hung on the cross, and the whole sky turns dark from noon to 3 pm, when Jesus breathes his last and dies.

When I was a kid, my mom would fast on Good Friday from noon to three, as her own spiritual discipline.  I didn't realize she did this until I was older, and it made those hours set apart, holy, somehow, with a sense of awareness and sadness hanging over them.  
But we did not go to a Good Friday service at church, and I remember the Easter season mostly jumping from the fanfare and fun of Palm Sunday to the triumph and party feel of Easter, without any kind of dip into the loss or horror of Good Friday.  In my experience, Jesus would have leaped from donkey's back to the empty tomb - only appearing on the cross briefly in the hymns we sang, if it were not for my mom's silent vigil.

How much of our time, these days, do we spend cheering ourselves up? How do we push away the bad feelings, shy away from the difficult conversations, let our fear of vulnerability, sickness and pain keep us from being fully present with each other? Or fully awake in our own lives?

We live close to death. 
Loss, pain, horror, they are right in front of us, or just around the next corner. 
We see, share in, and contribute to, the suffering of this world. 
But we pretend we don't. 
We act like things are ok when they are not.  
We blame other people, we rally to anger or finger-pointing, and then numb ourselves until the next tragedy strikes. 
We race, unthinking, through our days, until one bleeds into the next, punctuated only by fun events and pleasant distractions.  
Maybe we're afraid that if we let ourselves feel the grief we might be overcome and never recover.

Agony is embarrassing. We really are more comfortable skipping from Palm Sunday to Easter. We want our religion to reassure us.

But that is not how the story of God-with-us goes.
Thank God! 
Because that is not how the story of life goes.
And there is no resurrection
without death.

Today is Good Friday.  Today is about the death.
So today we will not lie.

I have felt heaviness and sorrow lately, at the state of the church, the world, our nation, our relationships with each other as people.
I want stories of hope and love, yes.  But right now I find myself longing for Good Friday. Today is a balm to me:
Grief is welcome here.
Sorrow is given space today.
This is agony's brave domain.

Jesus has gone there with us.
We can go there with him.

What invitations call to you this Good Friday?
Where might you tell the truth about death- in your life, in your relationships, in the world - as you await what God will do next?

What might be your holy practice today?
Holy honesty?  Holy silence?
Holy 
repentance? Holy sorrow?
Holy tending to your losses and disappointments?

If not you, is there someone living closer to death than you are at the moment, that you might draw near to? 


Author and artist Jan Richardson reflects on Good Friday:

All too quickly the breaking of the bread becomes the breaking of the flesh.
All too soon the cup offered at the table becomes the life poured out at the cross.
After the rending, after the emptying: an impossible stillness, an aching silence, an incomprehensible hollow for which no word will ever be adequate.
And now? How will we meet this silence? What will we do with this ache?

Still
For Good Friday
This day
let all stand still
in silence,
in sorrow.

Sun and moon
be still.

Earth
be still.

Still
the waters.

Still
the wind.

Let the ground
gape in stunned
lamentation.

Let it weep
as it receives
what it thinks
it will not
give up.

Let it groan
as it gathers
the One
who was thought
forever stilled.

Time
be still.

Watch
and wait.

Still.


Join us this evening at 6:30 at LNPC for our Good Friday Tenebrae Service, that tells the story of today - walking with Jesus from the garden to the cross.  Tonight we will be still.


Thursday, March 29, 2018

Jesus incognito, Jesus revealed

A Reflection for Maundy Thursday



"Maundy Thursday is an alternate name for Holy Thursday, the first of the three days of solemn remembrance of the events leading up to and immediately following the crucifixion of Jesus. The English word "Maundy" comes from the Latin mandatum, which means "commandment." As recorded in John's gospel, on his last night before his betrayal and arrest, Jesus washed the feet of his disciples and then gave them a new commandment to love one another as he had loved them (John 13:34). This is why services on this night generally include the washing of feet or other acts of physical care as an integral part of the celebration.
While John's gospel does not record the institution of the Lord's Supper among the events of this night, the other gospels do. Christians therefore keep this night with celebrations both at the basin (footwashing) and at the Lord's Table (Holy Communion)." (from the United Methodist Church)

JESUS INCOGNITO, JESUS REVEALED

I was a child of the 1970s and 80s. I grew up with Mr. Rogers. I visited the neighborhood daily (sometimes twice a day). Mr. Rogers was a trusted friend - I now recognize, a mashup of caring teacher/uncle/pastor - whose gentle wisdom cushioned my days.

I remember Officer Clemmons. I remember this scene from reruns.
But encountering it again as an adult, it takes my breath away.
I am moved by the power of God's love in our everyday lives.
When we are with and for each other, we meet Jesus, who is God with and for us. Right here and now.

This feels like the right story for this Maundy Thursday, so I share it with you.



Today we begin the holiest time of the church year. "Holy" means "set apart." I invite you to come into these next few days with a sense of holy pause, awareness, noticing.

Let these days be set apart from the ordinary with a sense of attention to God's presence.  

The upside down, powerful-in-weakness, gentle and persistent love of Christ sees, acknowledges, and lifts up others. In whom do you see this love today? 
Who are you invited to see, touch, lift up, and so meet Christ?
Who is Jesus speaking through to you today?



Blessing You Cannot Turn Back
For Holy Thursday


As if you could
stop this blessing
from washing
over you.


As if you could
turn it back,
could return it
from your body
to the bowl,
from the bowl
to the pitcher,
from the pitcher
to the hand
that set this blessing
on its way.


As if you could
change the course
by which this blessing
flows.


As if you could
control how it
pours over you—
unbidden,
unsought,
unasked,

yet startling
in the way
it matches the need
you did not know
you had.


As if you could
become undrenched.

As if you could
resist gathering it up
in your two hands
and letting your body
follow the arc
this blessing makes.


—Jan Richardson, (The Painted Prayerbook)


For a longer version of the story, go here

Sunday, March 4, 2018

What Makes God Angry



John 2:13-22


It was difficult for me to write a sermon this week.
My heart was in Pennsylvania, with Theresa (our former Parish Associate and beloved friend), who is facing down a lot of pain and anger that arose when hurtful parts of her past were dug up and spread around. 
I flew there Monday night to be with her Tuesday, as she faced the seminary community where she is president, and did the most courageous and vulnerable thing I have ever seen a leader do. She shared her very self with them by telling them her story – the parts that felt personal and fragile, the parts that have been misunderstood and misused, the parts that she regrets that have caused pain to others, and the parts that have made her a little bit more who she most longs to be.  
And I saw briefly, a glimpse of what it looks like to belong so fully to God and to yourself that you can belong completely to others and invite others into their own belonging.  I felt a bubble of hope rise within me for that community, that they could get through the pain this has dredged up together to the other side, where trust and joy dwell when we are with and for each other.

But pain is powerful, and we use it as protection.  And not everyone is ready to set it down. And outside that room, on social media, I’ve watched a nightmare unfold, as, in the wake of people’s pain and anger and amidst partial truths, she is being labeled, attacked and demonized.

When I go online and see something about my friend that dehumanizes her, or makes her out to be so radically other than she is, I feel a ball start to form in my gut, a molten rage that pushes up into my chest and heats my face. My hands actually get tingly, my head starts to spin a little, and I want to lash out and defend her.
In fact, on Friday I did. On an unsuspecting friend who shared something she’d read, I unleashed a series of firehose-esque messages intending to set the record straight.
Then I sheepishly apologized for my enormous, emotional word dump.

So, when I came to this text this week, I connected with it at the gut, visceral level first.

I imagined Jesus walking into the temple that day, the temple, which was the special place where humans and God meet one another.
I imagined this man, this God-with-us, divine embodied human walking in there and taking in the chaos.  Letting it hit his senses: the moneychangers and the sacrifice sellers, the smells and the clamor, the animals bleeting, and the vendors shouting, and the crowds navigating this noisy bazaar atmosphere in the temple’s outer court.

I imagined Jesus taking it all in, and the hot, churning ball forming in his gut, the tingling hands and the anger rising up his chest and heating his face.  I picture him grabbing some rope and finding a wall to squat against, and with sharp clarity of purpose, pouring all his concentration into the task, braiding a whip out of cords.

Then, rising from his corner, intent on setting the record straight, he takes a deep breath and plunges into the center of the chaos, swinging his whip at the cattle, shouting, and chasing the bewildered animals out of the temple. 
Turning back he lunges at tables, flipping them over, scattering money everywhere as though it is useless. He points at the doves and roars to the sellers, “Get these things out of here! Stop making my father’s house a marketplace!”

And something inside of me wants to get to my feet and cheer.

Let me back up and give some context to the scene. 
This act Jesus did took place in the Court of the Gentiles, where thousands of Pilgrims came from all over and converged. This area was as far as non-Jews were allowed to enter the temple, as close as they could get to worship the God of Israel. It was their place to pray.  
The next section inward was for Jews only, called the Court of the Women, where all Jewish people could go, but the farthest in that women were allowed. 
Then came The Court of the Israelites, for only Jewish men, and inside that, the Court of the Priests for Levites, and inside that, the Holy of Holies, where God most resides, and where almost no human is allowed to go. 
I imagine each section quieter and calmer than the last, each one closer to the Divine, each one with fewer people in it.

The marketplace situation was business as usual in the temple, because people had to change their money for temple currency, and to buy sacrifices to offer to God in this place where human beings and the Divine meet each other.

Because way back, when God was giving instructions for how to live as God’s people, when God was directing them about how God and humans interact, God’s directions said,

Set apart a tithe of all the yield of your seed that is brought in yearly from the field. In the presence of the Lord your God, in the place that he will choose as a dwelling for his name, you shall eat the tithe of your grain, your wine, and your oil, as well as the firstlings of your herd and flock, so that you may learn to fear the Lord your God always. 
But if, when the Lord your God has blessed you, the distance is so great that you are unable to transport it, because the place where the Lord your God will choose to set his name is too far away from you, then you may turn it into money. With the money secure in hand, go to the place that the Lord your God will choose; spend the money for whatever you wish—oxen, sheep, wine, strong drink, or whatever you desire. And you shall eat there in the presence of the Lord your God, you and your household rejoicing together. As for the Levites resident in your towns, do not neglect them, because they have no allotment or inheritance with you.
 Every third year you shall bring out the full tithe of your produce for that year, and store it within your towns; the Levites, because they have no allotment or inheritance with you, as well as the resident aliens, the orphans, and the widows in your towns, may come and eat their fill so that the Lord your God may bless you in all the work that you undertake.
(Deuteronomy 14) 


Point being, all this -  saving up 10% of all your land and herds and vineyards produce and bringing it to God and feasting on it with God -  is meant to remind you every year that you belong to God.  And don’t forget, (in fact, every three years, you’d better use your saved up 10th to really practice and remember this, by throwing a feast in your own town with it for all those in need): you also belong to each other.

But over time, the helpful accommodation God built in for those far away - that lets them sell their 10th of produce and harvest for money, and then buy lovely things when they arrive on the other end to feast with God - this tool that was meant to create easier access between God and humanity, had become a gatekeeping instrument, a barrier, hurdles to jump through. Whether you lived near or far, it was expected of you to trade your money for temple money, and likely you'd need to trade your subpar sacrifices for approved temple sacrifices. And a whole business had built up around it; commerce and corruption, the outside world brought in to the place where God and human meet. 

And just as all things do when we trade the way of God for the way of fear, it had become a system of restrictions and labels, defining who was more worthy, and deciding who had more access. In the name of approaching God, they had succeeded in creating a maze of requirements and expectations to get close to God, that limited that access to a very narrow chosen few.

Now, the real reality is that God loves the world God made so much, and so longs to be in joy-filled relationship and deep connection with us all, that God became one of us, came here to share life with us, and take on death and all that separates us from God so that no barrier could ever again exist that would keep us apart.  Because we belong to God.  And in this person of Jesus Christ, God and human meet, completely, fully, absolutely. 

And so, walking into the temple that day and taking it all in, fresh off his water into wine miracle revealing a God of abundance, relationship and joy, Jesus was exceedingly angry.

The truth of who God is and who we are had been warped, amended, covered over – buried under layer after layer of caveats: some belong, in part, but not all, and not quite. 
You belong if… you don’t belong unless… you only belong when…

Instead of the very being of God meeting real human beings in this place, it had become a game of how to please God, how to be a good Jew, (or a good Christian, or a good American, or a good parent, or a good ally, or a good fill in the particular measurement you’re working on at the moment...)
Instead of our very humanity coming into the presence of the One who claims us in love, it becomes how to prove yourself to God or others, how to meet expectations, how earn your worth or justify your existence or solidify your place. 
These are the messages swirling in the dust and the dung amidst the noise and the vendors and the people trying to pray to God the best they know how in the middle of it all.

And they all had accepted this as fact.  All of them.  Complicit in the system. They had accepted the how as the way it is.  They had let go of their who, and God’s who too, and accepted their roles, their proper place, their particular requirements to reach as close as they could to God, believing, perhaps, that they were lucky to get even that far, and not expecting anything more, because in the way of fear and scarcity there is only so much to go around, so if some get accepted others can’t be, (but at least we can take comfort that we’re farther in than they are).

It is no surprise whatsoever, then, that when Jesus cries out his last breath and dies on the cross, the huge, heavy temple curtain that divides off the Holy of Holies where God most resides and where almost no human was allowed to go, is torn in two from top to bottom.  His little temple demonstration with the whip this day was a mere taste of what was to come.

Because Jesus will tear down apart every barrier we erect that divides us from God and each other. He will drive out every distraction, and requirement, and label, and demand we place on ourselves and others that presumes to dictate who is worthy or unworthy to approach our maker, that dares to set terms for how to be included or excluded as God’s beloved people.

"What sign can you give us for doing this?," they ask Jesus, when he’s all finished making a huge mess of things.
What a great question. I love that question, because it means they’re willing to accept wild incidents, willing to let God surprise them; they’re open to being redirected.  

Jesus answers, Tear down this temple and I will rebuild it in three days. Only he uses the other word for “temple” not as in "sanctuary space," but as in “the place where God dwells.”  They scoff and think he is talking about the building they are standing in, ‘How are you going to do that?!” but he is talking about his very body.

I am, Jesus will go on to say a million times in John, I am the way and the truth, I am the good shepherd, I am the light of the world, I am the resurrection and the life. In me is all belonging, in me is love, in me is your wholeness and your joy and your identity and your purpose.  I am the temple, the place where God and humans meet.

God with us is with us. Nothing can separate us from that love. 
But we will make it a chaotic marketplace of goods and hurdles to reach what is already and always ours – belonging to God and belonging to each other.
We will put up barriers, and wield belonging like a weapon, a prize, a ticket that requires purchase. 
We will define ourselves and each other by our mistakes and our regrets, our associations and our labels, our beliefs and our track records and our ratings.  
We will decide who gets to come into belonging, and how far.  
We will act like we can bestow belonging or deprive people of it.

This happens between us, like it is happening right now for Theresa.
But it also happens within us. In the very center of our deepest selves, where God longs to dwell with us, we’ve barred our full selves out, deemed ourselves unworthy to go there.  We’ve decided what parts of us God welcomes in and how far, and what parts have to stay out in the outer place of exchanging and earning, chaos and noise.

But listen up, you guys, we don’t get to decide how to include or exclude or earn or prove who belongs.  And if we try, this scene assures us that God will mess it up for us, because that stuff make God really angry.

Jesus is always opening cages and letting our qualifications fly off, Jesus is always storming in with a handwoven whip and chasing away our good deeds, past performance, and personal sacrifices.  Jesus is always throwing over our carefully counted measurements of worth, and tearing open the barriers that keep people out.  
Jesus is intent on setting the record straight. 
And that is comforting to me.

We meet Jesus who is with and for us when we are when we are with and for each other. That is it. That’s the temple. That’s the place were God and humans meet. 
That’s the calling.  
We are the Body of Christ. 
May we belong so fully to God and to ourselves that we can belong fully to others and invite others into belonging.  
May we be willing to let God surprise us, 
open to being redirected, 
and brave and vulnerable to live as our true who, 
seen, and known, and loved, and claimed by the great I AM.

Amen.

How to Repent (It's not how you think)

Psalm 46 ,  Jeremiah 31:31-34 When I was in college, I spent the large part of one summer sleeping on a 3-foot round papason chair cushion o...