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 on the floor of an apartment five friends were renting in Dinkytown, in Minneapolis. At one point, we ran out of toilet paper and went through all the napkins, coffee filters and finally, Far Side comics, before someone finally bought more. But whatevs. We were young.

When Andy and I graduated from seminary, we were in our mid-twenties, and were willing to go anywhere in the US to start our next life chapter. Coast? Desert? Mountains? Big City? Tiny town? Sure! Why not! Andy applied to programs all over, and when we moved to Princeton, New Jersey, we packed up all our things in a u-haul and drove from LA for five days across the country. Each day was spent listening to Harry Potter cds and eating sunflower seeds and drive-through fast food. Each night we parked the truck with everything we owned in the world, towing our only car, strategically where we could watch it from our motel window so it wouldn’t get stolen.

There are times in our lives we anticipate upheaval. We expect it; invite it, even. We are totally open to change, happy to cooperate with a little chaos. But I think we think that is supposed to stop. That you will go through your change and chaos phase, and then after that, things are supposed to be predictable and secure. 

But life never stops with the turmoil. And upheaval is not an isolated incident. Children, or not, homes gained and lost, illnesses, adjustments—the changes just keep coming. That first friend to get divorced becomes one of many, maybe even yourself. That dream job you pursued falls through, that church you loved falls apart, that person you trusted falls away. And then your book club moves to zoom and eventually stops meeting, and your go-to restaurant goes out of business, and the person who has cut your hair for 20 years retires.  The neighbor you love moves away and the new people don’t seem interested in connecting, and that special, lonely spot you found solace as a child has become a sea of strip malls.

And these are just the little changes, the everyday, ordinary, constant disturbances. That is to say nothing of global horrors, war and atrocities, famine and hunger, natural disasters or community violence, nor of the unexpected personal catastrophes and devastating deaths that leave you breathless and disoriented, trying to figure out how life will look in a landscape you did not choose.

Disruption doesn’t restrict itself to phases, and chaos doesn’t play by any rules. Trouble, tumult, terror, and seismic shifts happen in our lives and in the world all the time. From our birth until we die, living with the unexpected and navigating constant change is basically what it means to be human.  anything can change at any moment, and everything does, all the time. 

 And in the midst of all this upheaval, we’re busy. We’re doing so much, and there is so much more we could be doing, and we only have time and energy for a fraction of it, and things are moving so fast who can keep up? But people seem to, so we strive, and reach, and do more, and wonder at our capacity, but keep scrambling to get our footing, racing to catch up, and feeling exhausted, overwhelmed, and anxious so much of the time.  

In our Jeremiah text the people of God are exhausted by turmoil, unsettled by circumstances, unsure of their capacity.  They’d been ripped from home and forced into a life unfamiliar and uncomfortable, with no ease in sight, disoriented, trying to figure out how life will look in a landscape they did not choose.

They don’t know if they have what it takes to live up to their end of their relationship with God. In fact, all evidence from history and experience tells them that if it is up to them to remember and live from the truth of their belonging to God and each other they will fail.  

But God says it’s not their job to uphold this relationship. God will make a new covenant, a new bond, not dependent on their ability to remember correctly and teach each other rightly, but written into their very hearts, every one of them. God will be God. They will be God’s people. This covenant can’t be broken because it will be inside them and God will do the heavy lifting. Their belonging, identity, security is from God; God does this. “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.” 

They are invited to trade their way of being for the one God is offering. They’re called to trust God and participate with God in a life of freedom and care for others, not when things get easier but right now - despite the upheaval, and right in the midst of their unsettledness. This home God is offering them is not dependent on what happens around them, because it happens within them, and between them.  

    Lent is a season of repentance.  Repent doesn’t mean wallow in your disgustingness and come groveling back to God. The Greek word for repent, means literally “change how you think after being with,” ‘turn around, shift your being in another direction, change your purpose after this encounter.”  Essentially, exchange your perspective for God’s, trade your way of being for the one God is offering.  Repentance is the wake-up moment, when we say, Oh! I don’t want to live afraid, resentful, stingy, anxious and striving! I want to live connected to God and others in freedom and care.

The opening line of Psalm 46, sum up the theology of the whole book of Psalms in these words: God is our refuge and strength. God is our safety. A very present help in trouble. Not a helper in the midst of trouble but Help itself. Very present help. Right here. Right now. Right in the midst of it. Therefore we will not fear. 

        But I fear a lot. I am a very skilled fearer.  I’ll let you in on the secret to my success: I practice fear by worrying. What if, what if, what if… My favorite time to do this is when I would really like to be sleeping.  When I am finally still, at the end of the day, I’ve stopped rushing and outrunning my anxiety, then it all catches up to me and I let buckle down and get to my worry workout, what if… what if.. what if…

I would love to trade my worry for trust. I would love some ease and trust, To not feel tossed about by chaos and upheaval but grounded in God’s care.  But if it’s up to me to remember my belonging to God and each other I will fail.  So what does repenting even look like, and how do we do it? 

It turns out, repenting is less something we do than what we stop doing. 

Be still. Psalm 46 goes on to say. Be still and know that I am God.  Be Still. In Hebrew, it means “put down your hands”-  cease striving. Quit doing stuff. Stop overestimating your own power to fix, change, control or escape things. Quit your fleeing and flailing and wait for God to act.  

In scripture, Be still is not a soft invitation to a spiritual spa moment. Be Still! is a command for the chaos. For the impossibility. For the crisis, and the injustice and the division and the shame. Be still appears as a command two places in scripture. One is here, in our Psalm, where it comes after telling us this doozy: Nations are in an uproar! kingdoms totter! God raises his voice and the earth melts....Be still and know that I am God.

The other place is 1000 years earlier than where we met the exiled Israelites today, when their ancestors have been delivered out of Egypt, but Pharoah has changed his mind, and has sent his entire army after them to destroy them. There they are, at the edge of the Red Sea, the chaos of waters blocking their way forward, and Pharoah's whole army bearing down on them from behind. They are trapped, hemmed in by danger, facing sure and certain death, and the command comes, Be still! The Lord will fight for you.

At the very moment when it seems like you should be scrambling and grabbing, and mustering all your resources, put your hands down.  Right in the middle of chaos and the tumult, when you’re uprooted from home and stuck in a place you do not choose to be, when you’re trapped, with nowhere to go, and certain death bearing down on you, Put down your hands. 

Stop moving. Stop doing. 

You are not God. Let God be God.

When things feel overwhelming. Be still.

When fear threatens to rule you. Be still.

When you’re unsettled and lost. Be still.

When the whole world seems to be convinced that we are about to be destroyed, Be still.  

Be still and know I am God.

When we’ve stopped rushing and outrunning our anxiety, when it all catches up to us, when we surrender our grabbing for control, God meets us here and takes us in another direction. 

God-- who breaks the bow and shatters the spear and burns the chariot and raises his voice and the earth melts and finds us when we’re lost and makes a way where there is no way and brings us home in love wherever we are—this God answers worry’s incessant what if, what if, what if, with the steady and unwavering heartbeat of Love, holding us close,  “Even though… Even if… Even when…” Even then.

Even though the earth changes. And mountains fall into the sea, and tsunamis and storms and whirlwinds roar through our world, and the very ground seems to shake beneath our feet and turmoil and tumult overwhelm us.  Even when the divisions between us seem insurmountable, and the constant voices around us urge urgency, and the judgment within us is loud and unceasing. Even if we’re between jobs with no prospects yet, or we’re staring down a diagnosis we can’t yet get our heads around. Even when the state of the world feels precarious and dangerous, or our precious kids that we’ve been so focused on raising are suddenly off adulting half-way across the country. Even then. Not because these things don’t or won’t happen, but because they will, and do. Even now. 

We will not fear. 

God is our refuge and strength.

God’s salvation meet us just exactly how we need to be met, to heal us where we are sick, and mend us where we are broken, and release us where we are caged, and find us where we are lost, and be our refuge in tumult, and give us a stability and security not dependent on what happens around us, because it happens within us, and between us, not by what we do but by mighty hand of God. 

Our belonging, identity, security is from God. God does this. “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts, God says, “and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.”

We are God’s people.  Always. No matter what. 

May we rest in trust.

Amen.

Portions of this message were adapted from a chapter of Receiving This Life.

Perspective

Matthew 2:1-12

Isaiah 60:1-3

 

The story of Epiphany unfolds in a simple home on a simple street, where an ordinary-seeming family opens their door to astonishing strangers from afar, who unexpectedly kneel before a mother with a child on her lap, and then give strange gifts and tell strange stories in a strange language, with charades and hand gestures, of a long journey led by a mysterious star, the very heavens pointing them to this precise place, revealing to them that the God of the cosmos has come into this life with us, for us all, and is indeed embodied in this drooling toddler sitting before them.  And the mother and father, who - along with her formerly childless aunt and uncle, and a few local sheepherders – have carried this secret knowledge for a couple of years by themselves, are suddenly reminded of the scope of things by those from afar whose presence in their living room declares in no uncertain terms that the whole universe is in on this thing, that in their beloved child God is actually here, and his very existence in her arms has changed life for every person who has ever or will ever live. 

 

That’s Epiphany, celebrated by millions of people for two thousand years. But we tend to miss that at the time, the real story was just an odd little scene on the margins of another story that was far more visible, and it’s impact seemed far more real and pressing to far more people. 

 

The other story is of a so-called king, notably insecure and obsessed with his reputation, name locked away in his fortress, raging in fear, causing all in the land to be terrified and worried about what he might do, because he’s fixated on this perceived threat to his power and authority – a baby, he’s told by these foreigners, who has been born specifically to claim what has been his title, “The King of the Jews.”  So he uses manipulation and flattery to try to coerce these scholars from another land to do his bidding - as though they are under his jurisdiction or influence – so that he can stamp out a potential usurper by any means necessary.

 

Oh, Herod.  Poor, frightened, tormented Herod.  This story is so much bigger than you. It’s so much longer, deeper, stronger and more significant.  God is doing this thing.  God has come, God is here among us. And there is nothing you or anybody else can do about it.

 

No matter how it looks on the surface at any given moment, the heartbeat underneath is love.  And this project – of a whole world indivisibly connected to God and each other, of all nature in harmony, and all people in family, with God as the true sovereign, who rules in disconcerting vulnerability and incontestable strength – like it or not, that is happening.  

 

And it can never be thwarted. Not by ego-maniacal leaders, or their misguided and vengeful followers, not by the wisdom of the sages, or the coercion of earthly power, not by the tragic dysfunction of broken systems or the excellent functioning of perfect ones, not by widespread illness or concentrated madness, or brutal violence or tragic suffering, not by anything human beings can forget or demand, or screw up or succeed at.  Nothing we can do, or not do, can stop what God is already doing. It is unstoppable. 

 

And yes, we do a whole lot to muck it up –accidentally or on purpose.  We can act like we are divided, we can kill, and blame, and shut down, and overlook each other. We can contaminate the earth and wipe out whole species; we can ravage our own hearts and minds and go numb or afraid – and fear can make us do terrible, heartless things. But no matter what, God is doing this. It can happen through us or it can happen in spite of us, but God’s project of redemption and wholeness is under way, and it will not stop until all that remains is love. 

This is the message of Epiphany.

 

Today’s scripture tells us about some, one especially, who missed God. Who lived in the way of fear, obsessed with their own security and power – and ultimately lost it anyway because death is real, triumph is short-lived, and permanent success is an illusion.  

 

And it tells us about those who welcomed God in. Who set down everything and went on a long journey to lay themselves down at the feet of the divine with ecstatic joy.  They let epiphany shape them, each moment, taking it in, noticing, listening, sharing, and then getting up and going home by another way, because ultimately our security comes from trusting our lives to the Great I Am, who directs the whole universe in true wisdom.  

 

And even when this King over all - who starts out his time here submitting himself completely into the arms and care of those made in his image - grows up to be killed by these he has come in to love and save, even that does not stop the project, it only cements it deeper and opens it wider.  The light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it. Not ever.

 

Epiphany illuminates our choice: We can look at what is right in front of us at any given moment, and we can live in fear. We can believe that the powers that rattle their sabers are the real powers, and that the terrible damage they can do – and they can do terrible damage – can break us, or make the world go off course. 

 

But like those who followed the star we are called to lift our eyes to a further horizon.  The whole world is in on this conspiracy. It’s unfolding in the margins, in ordinary homes and ordinary lives on every continent at every moment, God is coming in. And the earth itself bears witness - every blade of grass, and creeping insect; every daily sunrise and blazing planet, light years away testifies. 

We are people of this infinite vista, this vast, cosmic perspective, not bound to look only to the situations in front of us like Herods, captive in fear to events and circumstances by which we stand or fall, driven to go after our enemies or hide in fortresses of false security. 

 

We belong to the bigger story; we are subjects of the Alpha and Omega, beginning and end, eternal and omnipotent.  And this King has come; and now there is nothing, not anything, that can separate us from the love of God.  God’s redemption is under way already and forever.  

 

So we are called to hang onto the ancient and cosmic promise and not to cower at bullies or venerate false power, to be guided by the deeper, eternal force of love, instead of the shallow whims of panic, the rise and fall of drama and dread, addicted to the non-stop fluctuations of worry, frenzy and regret. 

 

This means we live our lives paying attention to dreams, and finding solidarity with people we think of as other, and bearing gifts for the unsuspecting, and gladly laying down our lives as a gift of gratitude to the God who comes in, and by the Spirit we are made willing to be redirected and sent home another way.

 

In the tides of history, there is, as Ecclesiastes says, nothing new under the sun.  Nations rise and fall. Great leaders come and go, fools rise up and disappear, fear dominates and wars rage, babies are born and gardens are tended and beloveds die and are buried, their graves are covered with new fallen snow, and the sun melts the snow and spring comes again, and love, love, love, happens, in between, in all the nooks and crannies, weaving us together and weaving us into the story that cannot be derailed.  God’s story.  There is never anything so bad that it can alter the origin or the outcome – it all comes from God and to God it all returns.

 

And in the in between time, God comes to share it.  The hidden, humble king, a baby savior, who saves us from all the darkness within and without. The One who brings together strangers to surrender in joy to the love and hope embodied in their midst. 

 

Nothing can stop love and forgiveness, nothing can hinder hope and healing – not the most terrible thing we can imagine or face can stop God from acting.  The world belongs to God.

 

So, Arise, shine; for your light has come. 

Amen. 

 

 

 

 

 

Still...

A letter to my congregation. 

Beloved ones,

I want to tell you what happened to me last week.  
On a Sunday morning, after a whirlwind 48 hours that included two funerals and a Saturday Evening Prayer service, I headed for the airport.  I was going to meet three other spiritual directors for a three day retreat at a monestary in Kentucky, before heading to the National Youth Worker’s Convention in Cincinnatti where we would do spiritual direction with youth workers, and I would lead a workshop on Sabbath.
I felt like canceling.

I had so much to do, I thought, I would certainly be behind if I left then. Lots of people needed me, and I felt desperate about not being connected to social media for three days, as the country was spinning post-election and so many big and tense things were unfolding.  I was exhausted, but I couldn’t stop going - moving, thinking, talking, acting, and the thought of setting everything down was very unsettling.


This something I have learned about Sabbath: When I think I am least able to take a break, that is the time I most need to stop.

I landed in Kentucky and drove to the middle nowhere (ie, Trappist, KY). When I entered the monastery, my cell phone coverage cut out, and the calls I had to return, the emails I meant to send, the conversations and tasks I’d left hanging, were cut off. It was then I learned the next three days would be spent in silence.

Sabbath day begins at sundown in the Jewish tradition. As soon as the sun hits the horizon, what is done is done, what is undone stays undone. There is no “finishing up” first; you simply start.  That’s a lovely sentiment, and now it was forced upon me by the lack of internet, phone, and SPEAKING.

I went to bed and awoke to the "silent" day ahead of me. The whole day my mind was a noisy cacophony. My gut was in knots, my soul felt clenched.  As I walked and slept and read and bumped about, I wondered how I would ever feel quiet.  The day ended in a candlelit Compline service, listening to the Trappist monks chant the Psalms.
I slept like a baby.

The second day was glorious. 
I walked 5 miles, sharing the woods with wild turkeys and deer, squirrels and birds, the loud sound of my own feet tromping through the leaves and across fields of harvested corn and hay, and the wind singing in my ears.  I read and prayed, colored and wrote, and gulped in great breaths of air and silence till I began to sense I could feel full and satisfied.

The third day was a gift – I visited Thomas Merton’s hermitage and grave, and felt settled into the silence as a friend. I felt myself breathing deeply and trusting. I felt my heart open and my stomach calm.
We say when we stop God will meet us.
That keeps on proving true.

The rest of my week was spent at a convention center in the city, meeting one on one with people and listening deeply to their lives and living, noticing together what God was up to, celebrating and grieving together.  In other words, the next three days were spent practicing and remembering that we belong to God, and we belong to each other, all of us.  

The week was capped off gathered in a room with youth workers and pastors, sharing stories and learnings of Sabbath that our community has experienced, and watching people’s imaginations open up to what might be in their own lives and congregations.  When we stop, I said, God will meet us.

I returned Sunday night feeling grounded, awake, and open to God. And I returned really deeply trusting that God’s love is the biggest and truest thing, and so grateful and thrilled that we get to be part of it.

Advent begins this week. 
It's your turn to be reminded: When we stop, God will meet us. 
Advent is season of waiting in darkness for the coming of God,  it is a choice to keep stopping, in the midst of the holiday noise and chaos, and finding the stillness that connects us to our longing for God. 

Our theme this year is STILL…
Still…there is hope. Still…there is peace. Still…there is joy.
Still…there is love. Be Still and know that I am God.
 
I encourage you to come to worship all four weeks of Advent.
If you are a Sunday only person, come Saturdays too.
If you are a Saturday only person, come Sundays too.

Holiday chaos is crazy.  End of year busyness is pressing. We are in a bumpy time in our country, and the noise around us feels loud and incessant. The world is filled with pain.
But still… God’s love is the biggest and truest thing. 
And still…when we stop, God will meet us.

Come into the stillness where we are rooted and grounded in the love of God who came to share all of life with us. 
Come into the waiting where we get to be honest about our anxiety and hear again how there is no fear in love. 
Come and rest. 
Come, let us stop together.

This Advent, we will be with Mary, Zechariah, Elizabeth and Joseph, watching what God was doing in their lives. We will be singing our Advent songs, and holding space for prayer and silence, and we will be collecting symbols to hold throughout the week, inviting our souls into stillness.
For God alone my soul waits in silence. From him comes my salvation. (Ps. 62:1)

And when Christmas comes, we will lift our heads and open our eyes, grounded, awake, breathing deeply, and trusting, and we will celebrate that at every moment and in all things, God-with-us is with us.  

I will meet you there,
Kara

Welcome, "Season of Gratitude"

The past couple of years people have been posting on Facebook things they are grateful for each day for the month leading up to Thanksgiving in "30 Days of Thankfulness."  It's a chance to infuse the annual day of gathering and gorging with loved ones with a bit more intentionality and anticipation, and uses gratitude to help people stay connected to their lives.  I love reading people's lists as they grow - people they love, experiences that have shaped them, small gifts they appreciate.

Today begins a particular season for me, which I had yet to name. For the past couple of years, I have had a ritual that begins on Halloween and carries me to Thanksgiving. Here is what I wrote about it when I began.

OCTOBER 26 2011 - LOVING ON ADVENT

I love Advent. Love Love Love it.  I love the color of the "darkest sky before the dawn,"  I love the anticipation and the honesty, the willingness to say, "Look at this world, God!  We really need you! Could you please come?" And the waiting. I love the active, eager, honest waiting for the light of the world.  Yum.

However.

I DO NOT love shopping.
I hate shopping. And I ESPECIALLY hate shopping in Advent. It corrupts my Advent.  Muddies it with florescent brightness. Shopping spoils my waiting - because the good waiting, the dark and quiet and hopeful and prayerful and yearning waiting-  is ruined by the noisy, pushy, honking, piped-in-carols, counting-down-shopping-days waiting of "Holiday Season."


I worked at Pottery Barn for a holiday season, people, I've seen it from both sides.  And it is not pretty.  Normally fine people, perfectly pleasant people, become snippy, rude, pushy and greedy. (And I'm including myself in this). The smell of consumption clings to our clothes and our hair, the commercials screaming deals assault us and the never-ending checklist hovers over our waking hours.  And buried behind all this mess is the poignant call of Advent to settle into the deep. To get in touch with our need. To wait for God.

(And, let's just be clear, here, I am not going to be the person who can skip gifts and just donate to charity.  I enjoy the gift-giving and won't not do it.  I love Christmas. Almost as much as I love Advent.  Almost).

Well, I've had enough.

Today I read about someone who completes all their Christmas shopping and wrapping BY THANKSGIVING.  Done.  Then they spend all of December enjoying time with their family.  Ignoring the sales and the pressure and the crowds.  And I almost wept out loud.

That's it. I'm doing it.
I'm reclaiming Advent.

Every year I get swept into the madness, and feel overwhelmed and guilty and tired and sad and rushed.

Not this year.

I am in charge of my time and money - I am the steward of the gifts given to me to share! (Look into the mirror and say it with me!)  My time is more valuable than I treat it sometimes.  When the dust settles, I can remember what's important.  It just gets stirred up and confused sometimes.
So.  I'm doing things differently this year.  I'm doing my Christmas shopping now.

I'm hoping that shopping now - when the stores have already been displaying Christmas things for a month, I might add, but before the real drama of the consumer season begins - will help me keep some perspective:
That Christmas is really about presence, not presents,
that connecting with people is how we connect with God,
that the whole point of all of it is celebrating that God comes to share life with humanity, and we are called to share life with one another,
that the whole world belongs to God and not just the people I personally love.
That all of Advent is for sitting in the grey twilight of reality, holding life's treasures and pain gently, tenderly, openly - and not trampling all over them with tinsel and cheer.

36 shopping days until Thanksgiving.  (38 until Advent!)
I'm getting it done.
So I can sink into the wait.

Advent, sweet Advent, here I come.

That first year, it was a kind of freedom and release, a setting aside time in order to make a different kind of space for Advent and Christmas.
Last year, I enjoyed it more, but still saw it as mostly as necessary preparation for something else.  I shared,

Target - September 21, 2012

My practice reminds me of what a Jewish friend once described as Friday's market hustle and bustle and preparing the Shabbat meal and gathering the family and setting the table, so that when the sun goes down and Sabbath begins, you are ready.  It's a timing thing, the joy-filled work before the rest - a way that I created to help myself be as fully present as I am able to be in what I truly care about.

This year feels different.
Maybe it's having just been on sabbatical, but this year, the preparation itself it feels like something special.
The shopping feels sacred.
(What?!?)
Yes! I am finding the shopping itself a life-giving practice!
And I think I know what this season is for me now.  It's a "season of gratitude."  This is a pocket of time leading up to Thanksgiving, where I get to hold in my heart those people I love and am thankful for, to think of each of them as I choose a gift that fits them, to relish the thought of them opening it on Christmas day.  I get to spend time thinking of ways to bless those I care about, and holding them in gratitude.  My own "30 Days of Thankfulness" practice redeems shopping, of all things, and helps me to be present and grateful, even in the times of preparation.  It is transforming these moments to be about the gift of sharing this life, and celebration for the ways God connects us, even as I prepare for the coming quiet of Advent that is lingering on the horizon.

And so, with gladness I step into this "Season of Gratitude!"


If this sounds good to you, it's not to late to join me!

I'd also love to hear ideas you've tried or practices you do that help you stay present and open in the midst of holiday/pre-holiday chaos.  Please share!