Softly and Tenderly

"Softly and tenderly.
Jesus is calling.
Calling for you and for me."

Calling to bring forth the kingdom of God on earth.

You may not at first think of Sedalia, Missouri or any place as a picture of the kingdom of God.  Not at first sight, perhaps.  But the voice of the Spirit moves in some of the most unlikely places.

Calling sinners to dine together over an early morning breakfast.
Calling the weary to feast on God's word.
Calling sinners to listen to one another.
Calling the weary to experience the beauty and darkness of the Lenten season.

Each Lent the Sedalia community gathers at different churches for a Wednesday, early morning breakfast and devotion.  We take turns hosting and we hear from different members how God is moving in their lives.  We hear from the weary, the sinners, those in need of feeling at home.  We hear our stories.

The early, cold mornings meet us with fresh coffee and the smell of bacon and eggs.  Or perhaps the favorite of biscuits and gravy.  Softly and tenderly we greet the day together - with prayer and communion.  We feast.  We laugh.  We yawn.  Jesus calls to us.    

Then together we sing.

Softly and tenderly.  Jesus is calling.
    Together.
       Clumsy voices and hearty smiles.
           Baptists, Methodists, Disciples of Christ, Lutherans, Episcopalians, Catholics.
                We sing, "Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling."

Calling for each of us.  Calling us sinners to come home.  To know God.

The kingdom of God bursts into the community in the faded church basements and in the light of stained glass windows.  For a moment we remember not what separates us, but what calls us to form the body of Christ.

Softly and tenderly.  Jesus is calling.  Calling for you and for me.

Come home.

A Dusty Birth

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  

On the day the church faces mortality and looks towards the darkness walking to the cross, I reflect on my death, the death of people I knew, and the ashes that remain.

My step-father and my father have joined the saints and it is their ashes in particular that fill my mind each and every Ash Wednesday.

I have the tradition of scattering the ashes of loved ones wherever I travel marking sacred space.  With each journey I take I am strengthened by their presence and moved to pause for a moment.
    To say thank you.
        To stop.
             To pray.
                  To give thanks.
                          To remember that God brings beauty out of dust.

Traveling to Europe with my mother - the beauty of dust left on an early morning walk.
Graduating college - the beauty of dust across the school seal.
Walking across Spain - the beauty of dust joining the pilgrims across the Way.

And perhaps most memorable were the ashes left in The Gambia, West Africa.

Coming to the end of my two years in The Gambia, I knew I had to scatter my step-father's ashes.  I also knew where they would be scattered.  There was no doubt that the pepper gardens of the women would be a beautiful and meaningful place to honor my step-father.  And Lord knows I spent many hours with the women and buckets back and forth to the lake to the pepper plants and back again.  An early morning sunrise, the heat of the morning, or the setting of the sun provided the backdrop day in and day out as the women provided for their families.

Watering the pepper plants turned into a time of prayer.  A time to be intimately connected to the land, my African family, and the nourishment of mind and body.  It was sacred time in the silence and in the laughter.  Holy space.

The day to scatter the ashes had been set - the day he died.  December 15th.  I had been planning on doing it earlier but once December came I knew the date which called me.

Off I went in the early morning, this time alone.  The sounds of life surrounded me - roosters, chatter of women preparing food, a donkey's bray.  Colors of creation broke through.  The water crisp and cool and the plants yearning for a drink.  I did my work watering the pepper plants helping my pregnant sister.  It had been my gift to her to take over the watering of her garden.  Although she still worked and managed the other children and food and cleaning and laundry.  The little bit of water provided to the plants was the least I could offer.  

There amidst the blazing sun and the growing plants, I scattered his ashes.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

I remembered.  I prayed.  I breathed in creation. I thanked God for bringing beauty out of dust.

When I returned to my compound later in the day, I asked where my sister was to report of my completion of watering the plants.

"Oh, she went to the neighboring town to the clinic.  She had her baby today.  A baby boy."

Gambians have a different way of keeping time and I was not privy to the impeding due date.  For my sister had just been doing her daily chores the night before pounding and cooking and cleaning.

Yet, there was my family telling me and sharing the good news.  A baby was born.  A baby boy.

I smiled.  I cried a few tears.  For I knew that beauty indeed comes from the dust, and death is never the final word.  For in our death we are bound to Christ in the waters of baptism, waters of new life and hope.

Beautiful dust born in an African village and scattered amid peppers.      

My Prayer Today

I came home around lunchtime.  I drove myself home, opened the fridge and wondered what I would gather for a meal.  I sat down and turned on my computer, put some music on, and looked out the window at the crisp, dreary January day.

I don't normally take such time to reflect on how simple yet meaningful it is to make the decision about what to eat.  I don't normally look outside and give thanks for being able to breathe fresh air and see glimpses of sunlight.  I don't normally reflect on how many choices I get to make in a given day.

But today is different.

For today, for just a moment, I received a glimpse into a world where choices aren't taken for granted.  A world where sunlight doesn't reach your face.  A world where doors shut behind you.  A world where you are known not by the content of your heart but by offenses and actions.

In a word - jail.

This morning, the church I serve and a few Methodist churches partnered to provide a hot meal for the inmates at the Pettis County Jail.  Because of budget cuts, hot meals are few and far between in any given week.  Super Bowl weekend seemed as good a time as any to cook chili and pimento cheese sandwiches.  We collected from various churches the ingredients for chili and sandwiches.  Several folks baked cakes and provided fresh fruit.

Trying to be mindful of the task at hand, I prayed:

I prayed for those who are prisoners to not only the justice system but to cycles of violence and drugs.
              I prayed for those who are separated from loved ones.
                      I prayed for those who work extra shifts to pay for court fees.
                               I prayed for those who don't get to see their children grow up.
                                         I prayed for those who never knew the love of family.
                                                  I prayed to God for compassion.
                                                         I prayed to God for understanding.
                                                                 I prayed to God for mercy.

And after all this prayer, I needed to get moving.  After all, we had a meal to deliver.

We could only drop off the food in the back by the kitchen.  The meal will be served on Super Bowl Sunday - a hot meal cooked and prayed over, a meal of love.  A meal for God's children.

A tour of the jail was the final part of our day.  I've never been to a jail and didn't know what to expect.

Once inside we were surrounded by darkness, dreariness, and the lack of light and hope.  And then there are the sounds that you can't ignore as each door shuts behind you.  Every move is watched.  Every corner covered.  Every window only provides one way of viewing.  It was stifling.

Perhaps what was most distressing from the tour was my total inability to do anything.  At all.  I just watched.  Observed.  Asked a few questions.  We couldn't interact with anyone other than our group and the guard.  We were mere spectators.

Then I came home.  I sat.  I wondered.

I know some folks who have a loved one in jail or who served in the recent past.  I ask them questions.  I listen.  I pray for them and their loved one.  I wonder what more I can do.

The question still remains about how to connect and follow the gospel mandate to proclaim release to the captives.  To visit the prisoner in jail and to know that when we do so, we do it to Christ.

I have no answers; yet, I hope to have further conversation with those in my community about seeing the prisoner as brothers and sisters in Christ.  I pray that they will know and see themselves as children of God.
 
Perhaps in my questions I will ponder truthfully the reality about who is really trapped?  I wonder if we have a connection in our society to prisoners because our lives are behind not physical bars but bars of fear, ignorance, racism and addiction?  Are we prisoners to following the status quo?  Are we prisoners to self-doubt and insecurity?  Are we prisoners to a theology of glory rather than a theology of the cross?    

Join me in the questions and join me in praying with Jesus:

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."
  

Lessons from the Well

Today's date marks a special day in my life. 

Two years ago I was ordained a pastor in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.  Two years ago we gathered as a community from all across the US and even Iceland.  We gathered to worship, pray, and give thanks to a God who calls each of us beloved.  To praise the One who calls us to a life of service.  Folks gathered who knew me since I was young, folks who taught me the truth of being a pastor, folks who loved me when I didn't know what love really looked like, and folks who knew me as just Kim without that title pastor in front.

The day brought joy and tears.  Hope and fear.  Incredible awe and incredible trepidation.

Yet, I was not alone.  As in the past, my inspiration came from the woman at the well.

For two years living in Africa I felt like the woman at the well.  I lived for some time as a stranger, a foreigner.  The well became my refuge, a place to reach out for living water.  I learned from a nameless woman.  This woman at the well who taught me to constantly search for the living water found in community at the well and in the waters of Christ's love.  Who taught me to laugh with no restraints.  Who taught me to never take easy answers.

So of course I needed to hear from that same woman at the well as I embarked on a call taking me states away from family and friends to a place where I would be known as pastor.  I needed to know that no matter the challenge or adventure, I would be met by the One who offers life.

And as in the past, the woman at the well became my confidant and partner as I yearned for living, life-giving water.  She walks with me as I maneuver this vocation known as pastor.

When I gather around the hospital bed hearing the prayers of one who yearns for peace in his heart and the next day rejoice with him at the doctor's words, the woman at the well beckons, "Come and see."

When I watch the spirited two-year old walk laps around the pews during the Eucharistic prayer and come running to the front for the children's time, the woman at the well says, "Come and see." 

When I listen to the struggles and questions of one desiring to know that grace is real, the woman at the well speaks, "Come and see." 

When I mark the sign of the cross on the forehead of children, the woman at the well says, "Come and see."

When only death and loss fill the reality of a grieving spouse, the woman at the wells says, "Come and see." 

When the confirmation students exhilarate me with their questions of God, the Bible, and life, the woman at the well says, "Come and see."

She continues to force me to look deeper in all my relationships and to see the life found in being with others. 

She continues to remind me to share with reckless abandon the living waters that come through God's word, bread and wine, and gifts of community.

I'm not done with this woman at the well just as she will never be done touching my life.  

So for the last two years and for the hope of a promised future, I say along with the woman at the well, "give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water."

I too have found the One who knows me and tells the truth, the truth of life-giving water found in the Body of Christ. 

KONG

There are some days that I just sit back and pinch myself in an effort to believe that my calling can be so much fun.  Yes, fun as in laugh-out-loud, running around a ping pong table, out-of-breath fun.

The kind of fun that relishes in do-overs.  The kind of fun that includes all people and all gifts.  The kind of fun that brings laughter together.  The kind of fun that breaks down barriers of ages and beliefs and differences.

The kind of fun that would bring Jesus to join us around a ping pong table.  

Ever heard of KONG?

If not, you're missing out.

Trust me, the fun is embedded in the game itself.  Here's what you need for a night filled with lots of laughs, exercise, and plenty of new friends:

ping pong table, ping pong ball, and at least 3 people (you don't even need paddles, just your hands).

I first came to know about KONG while in seminary thanks to my friends who hung out at the Ohio State Campus Ministry.  The game was too good to keep to themselves.  And since then the game of KONG has been present during lunch breaks, New Year's Eve celebrations, evening study breaks, and everything in between.

You basically hit the ping pong ball and then run around the table to the other side so you can hit the ball back over again.  Over and over again.  Making sure the ball bounces on your side first before heading over the net.

Imagine the fun in gathering with seminary students of all ages and your professors to run around the ping pong table hoping not to get out.

Imagine the fun in ringing in the new year with friends new and old and learning about your strengths and weaknesses as you keep your eye on the ball.

Imagine the fun in seeing everyone take part and everyone having a gift to share.

This fun was brought to Missouri at a dinner party with three different families present and ages ranging from 15 - 50.  Pastors and pastor's spouses, construction workers, business owners, high school administrators, and students were all part of the fun.  And of course there was laughter.  And there was learning about each other and our strengths.  And lots of do-overs.

Glimpses of the kingdom of God.    

Big, Blue Beauty

She's big.  And blue.  And quite beautiful in that worn-out-give-me-attention kind of a way.  

But she's ours.  All 3,870 pounds of her.  Stephen, my husband, and I own a 1972 Chevy Suburban.  A three-door truck, utility vehicle they call it, large enough to fit the entire youth group I believe.

She came under our possession after the closing bid of an EBay auction - only $25 over the reserve price.  Luck had it that she was up for auction three other times and never sold before Stephen placed his bid.  Luck had it that the owner only lived 3 and a half hours away in Kansas.  Luck had it that we have friends who own a car trailer so we could haul her back to Missouri.  

Yet, I knew luck had nothing to do with owning a '72 Chevy Suburban.  

My father owned another Chevy car from 1972 and with just a little over one year since he died, my husband and I are honored to restore and work and play and enjoy a car that we know he would have loved to be working by its side.  

Luck had nothing to do with it; we know we have angels looking out for us.  

And thankfully, we were not alone as we drove three and a half hours to the middle-of-nowhere Kansas to pick up the Suburban.  Randolph, Kansas.  I've driven in Kansas before and was glad that Stephen could experience the state's expansiveness and distinct beauty through the Flint Hills.  Mile after mile along I-70 to our destination looking out over the hills and the blue sky we wondered what exactly we had gotten ourselves into.  

We only saw pictures of the car.  

We only read that it ran.  

We only engaged in short phone conversations detailing our pick up time.  

Who knew what we had invested in.        

After driving through the nearest large town, Manhattan, we went north 20 miles till we reached Randolph.  Perhaps we'd be able to get a bite to eat after loading the car, so we thought.  We called the sellers once we arrived unsure of our destination and parked outside of the abandoned Fleetwood Grille.  Only a gas station across the way drew any sort of notice in this stretch of town.  

Even before we got a glimpse of our big, blue beauty we could hear her roar.  Stephen and I turned at the same time and exclaimed, "There she is!"  Our EBay seller got out of the car with a smile on his face and the title in his hand.  

Stephen checked it all out, opened the hood, sat in the driver's seat.  She was ours.  

Almost.  

I mentioned we had a car trailer, but Stephen had just picked it up the day before to get himself familiar with its workings.  Our new friend from Kansas even noted that you don't see trailers like that around here too often.  But Stephen rolled back the rollback trailer so the car could drive on and drove the car on.  Step one.  The difficulty came when our trailer needed to be rolled forward, but it just wouldn't go.  Slight problem.

One and a half hours later our dear Kansas friend and Stephen had jerryrigged speaker wire to the trailer brakes in order to get the roll-back to actually occur.  The third time was our charm. (Or was it the fifth?)

She was ours.  With only three and a half hours of driving to separate us from being home.  

Our Kansan friend said to us as we prepared to leave, "Just promise each other that you'll finish one project before starting another."  

Throughout the drive home both Stephen and I kept looking back at our big, blue beauty.  And we kept driving to a future full of more unexpected journeys and hospitality along every turn.  

  

Drenched

Today we celebrated the Baptism of our Lord.

As a Sunday school we shared our baptismal items: gowns, candles, certificates, bulletins, stories, and memories.  The body of Christ called to live out our callings as God's beloved.  We took time to celebrate our neighbors at the elementary school next door and shared our thanks for their work with the youth.  We talked about full names and when they get used, what our names mean, and how God gives us a new name that cannot and will not ever be taken away from us.  

Beloved.  Child of God.  

We were drenched in the love of a God who knows each of us intimately and deeply.  We even ate baptismal themed snacks - blue jello cups and brownies with baptismal symbols.  Drenched in the goodness.

The reminders of God's call surrounded us.

During worship we spoke the words of the Thanksgiving for Baptism, sang all those hymns that bring tears to your eyes, and gathered at the font.

One by one, the beloved children of God came forward.  My husband, Stephen, and I welcomed the congregation to the font.  What a privilege to look into their eyes, to see them for a moment as God sees them, and to touch their foreheads with water.

Each person came forward for the blessing.  And with each dipping of my hand into the water, I too was blessed, and drenched.  
           Drenched with water and the love of a community.
                          Drenched in the reminder of mercy and forgiveness.
                                          Drenched with story after story of God's love for all people.
                                                          Drenched with the hope of peace.
                                                                          Drenched in God's kingdom here on earth.
                                                                                          Drenched.  

The congregation had all come forward and the music continued.  Stephen and I were still up front and he turned towards me.

"Oh yes, I always forget about receiving the blessing myself."

Stephen places his hand on my head, marks the sign of the cross and speaks the words I had just uttered to others, the words I needed to hear:

"Child of God, remember you are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever."  

In that moment I was no longer pastor and he was no longer seminarian.  In that moment all that mattered was the water and the word.  God's word and God's abundant grace overflowing into our lives.  It was just a moment and it was fleeting, but it was real and incarnate and brought the kingdom of God to earth.

For just a moment.

We were drenched.