Dear Trinity

May. 

The month of transitions.  The month of parties and celebrations and barbecues.  And not to mention lots of nerves and excitement.  The month of hope. 
 
My husband Stephen graduates from seminary in just a few short weeks.

Stephen and I both will be graduates of Trinity Lutheran Seminary.  A place near and dear to both our hearts.  How could it not be - for we met at seminary.  We met right outside the doors of the chapel (that's my memory anyway, you'll have to ask Stephen his memory of our first meeting!)

We fell in love.  We got married at the seminary.  And now we're both almost alums. 

So in the midst of the transitions, the hope for our future together, and the gifts passed on through the years of learning, I find it fitting to write a love letter of sorts to the place that shaped me for leadership in the church. 

Dear Trinity Lutheran Seminary,

I remember our first meeting.  You greeted me with your tree-lined, winding walkway.  It was a summer day and I was scared.  I was a sixteen year old walking towards three weeks away from my family.   A sixteen year old filled with fear, worry, and excitment.  I would be attending the Summer Seminary Sampler.  Three weeks with other high schoolers and seminary counselors learning about God and vocation and serving the world.

There I went up the walkway towards the beginning of our relationship.

I would have been the first one to tell you that I would never go to seminary to be a pastor.  Never.  But I would go to seminary to be with other high schoolers, to take classes, to serve the Columbus community, and to learn from mentors.  I would go to seminary to expand my definition of God and community.  

So, first of all, Trinity, thank you for opening your doors to a searching and thirsty high schooler in need of knowing that God loves me.  Loves all of us.  Thank you for showing me that faith and questions of God are meant to be discussed and laughed over and shared late-at-night in a dark chapel or over a picnic dinner.  Thank you for sparking a fire within me. 

Following the Seminary Sampler program, Trinity continued to shape me in the relationships I developed with the professors and the campus pastor.  Through college you kept in touch with me and reminded me that my gifts were valuable.  You encouraged me to see the whole world as a place to share God's love.  And when I decided that just maybe, maybe, seminary would be a place for me, you were there with a variety of programs and ways to be a leader in the church.  You were there to welcome me and my specific gifts.    

Following college and Peace Corps service, I once again found myself meeting you with your tree-lined, winding walkway.  Yet, then, at 24, I no longer was uncertain as to what I would find behind the entrance.  Of course I had questions about theological education and my classmates and the classes and all the requirements that had to be done.  But I also knew that I was walking towards a place of welcome and hope, and challenge.

Thank you for introducing me to a wide variety of leaders in the church.  For my classmates and colleagues.  For the late nights singing together, for the early morning classes, for praying before each class, for the talent shows, and the daily worship, and wondering about how God could call such diverse people, for the endless readings and papers, for the chance to practice our prayer positions and presiding at weddings and funerals, for the cookouts and bonfires, and for all the children in the courtyard.  

Yes, thank you for the children in the courtyard.  And that pogo stick.  Yes, you know what I'm talking about.  Those early mornings and those late nights and all the time in between bouncing on the pogo stick trying to get the most hops.  If it wasn't for those children and that pogo stick I might not be as patient of a pastor as I am.  If it wasn't for those children and that pogo stick I might not know what it is to play as a form of ministry.

Thank you Trinity for all the frustrations that come from living in community.  You know, all the miscommunication, all the hurt feelings, all the comparisons, and all those who think they know exactly how everything should be done.  There was never a dull moment!  Yet, when we gathered around the table for bread and wine, water and word, in our diversity we were gathered by a God, a triune God, who welcomed and continues to welcome each of us.  Dirty, messy, hopeful, striving, searching, and beloved community. 

I wouldn't be where I am today if not for you, dear Trinity. 

Keep opening your doors.  Keep welcoming.  And keep believing in the God who walks with each us; who marks us with the sign of the cross; who forms and shapes us to be sent into the world bearing the love of redeeming and healing grace. 

Love,

Me

           

Promises, Promises

One year ago today on a beautiful, spring Milwaukee day, washed in the waters of baptism, Sophie Pearl was claimed as a child of God.

As one of her godmothers, it was a privilege to stand at the font and witness God's amazing love.  It was awe-inspiring to promise to support and care for Sophie, to promise to teach her the Lord's prayer, the creed, and the commandments, to model for her and to teach her to strive for justice and peace.

On this one year anniversary of Sophie's baptism, I offer a letter to my goddaughter.  A glimpse into this amazing grace that envelopes her.

Dear Sophie, 

You may not remember much from your baptism day - or even of this day as well.  But I remember.  The community at Lake Park remembers.  And most importantly, God remembers.  

Today is the one year anniversary of your baptism.  It's another day to celebrate the gift of being a child of God.  But really, there isn't a day that we don't celebrate being a beloved child of God.  Always.  Forever.  Marked with the cross of Christ and sealed by the Holy Spirit.  

Yet, there will be days when you don't feel very loved and special.  There will be days when it is hard to remember that you have a special calling in life.  There will be days when you'll want to give up.  There will be days when all you will see is darkness.  

On those days - on days when it's a struggle to remember your identity in Christ - it is all of God's people who will remember for you.  For God remembers.  

Leading up to this anniversary of yours, I've spent much time in the CCU of the local hospital.  A dear member of the congregation I serve is dying.  He doesn't want to die.  He wants more time with his wife.  He wants more of the goodness and love he has received throughout his life.  But he does know that the end will come.  

You may not think of a hospital room as a glimpse into the kingdom of God, but this week, the kingdom is overflowing.  Each time I visit this member he wants to tell stories.  He wants to share of his life.  He wants to remember.  

And what does he remember?  Lots.  Lots and lots of stories.  And lots and lots of bible verses.  Readings from Shakespeare.  Bryant's Thanatopsis poem.  The preamble to the Constitution.  The 23rd Psalm.  And songs of the church as well as "You are my Sunshine."

He remembers much.  Each time another family member or friend arrives, he begins the recitations again.  Over and over again.  

His wife used to tell him to be quiet - for he'd shared these stories and verses so often.  But now in the hospital room and no hope of returning home, he shares freely and his wife looks on lovingly.  

I listen to his voice and his heart.  I hear the 23rd Psalm and somehow I hear God's voice reciting along with him.  "For thou art with you."  

Yes, God remembers.

I listen to him sing, "You are my Sunshine."  I, too, hear God's voice singing with him, "Have I told you, how much I love you?"  

Yes, God remembers.  And God joins in the song.           

So, dear Sophie, if all you remember of this day are the stories and songs that have been passed down.  That is enough.  If all you do is look at the pictures, remember who brought us all together.  If all you do is light your candle and hold it up for all the world to see, remember who first called you out of the darkness and into the light.      

All I can say on this one year anniversary is to keep listening for the songs.  God's songs.  Thank God that God's promises are ever-lasting.  Thank God that the words and promises we offer are words and promises that are the melody of our lives.
 

A Snowy Palm Sunday

 

The streets are lined with snow rather than palms this morning.  Yet, all creation still shouts out, "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord."  Worship may have been cancelled.  We may miss waving the palm branches high.  We may miss the noise and fun and laughter with the parading and processing.  We may miss shouting, "Hosanna in the highest!"  We may miss the delicious cake in the shape of a cross.  We may miss turning our palm branches into crosses.  We may miss the music.     

Yet, all creation still shouts out, "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord."  

Today is Palm Sunday.  Believe it or not.  

Today is the day Jesus' marched into Jerusalem on a donkey.  

  Today is the day the palms were waved.  

     Today is the day the cloaks were scattered on the road.  

Today is the day we confront our cheers and know that in the next few days they will turn to tears.  

Today is the day we remember in a few short days we will yell, "Crucify Him."  

                   Today is the day we remember our willingness to turn away from the cross.  

Today is Palm Sunday.  Believe it or not.  

Believe it or not, perhaps we needed this reminder on Palm Sunday.  Perhaps we needed to be reminded that creation will indeed continue to shout, "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord."  God's love for the world doesn't depend on us; don't get me wrong, we do need worship.  But God will continue to be God and continue to do what God does with or without our palms waving this morning.

For God is a God of resurrection.  

Holy week will still come.  Jesus will continue his walk to the cross.  We will continue with him.  

The world is hopeful.  We are hopeful.  Creation shouts, "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord."   

And so do we.    

The Smell of Grace

"Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus' feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume."   
 -John 12:3

 

The emergency room, as always, greeted me with a smell of staleness.  Something between life and death, hope and despair, renewal and pain.  The ever-present antibacterial liquid smell met me at the door. 

Irene and her family also met me at the door. 

Wrapped in warm blankets, surrounded by muted walls and the rush of doctors and nurses Irene sat in her wheelchair.  During this last year, she hadn't left her home except for the occasional doctor's appointment or a car ride to the family farm by the lake.  Her life consisted of days where she seemed to grow stronger and days where she seemed to regress.

Today Irene found herself outside the comfort of her home where her care came from her husband and nieces and nephews.  The emergency room was full.  A code blue signaled on the overhead radio.  Worried families sat waiting.  Patients in pain.  The flu season still holding a grip over the community.

Mary had been on my mind in preparation for Sunday's sermon.  With the fifth week of Lent upon us, Mary drifted in and out of my thoughts.  I wondered about her gift and how she could afford such extravagant perfume.  I wondered if she worried about her acts.  I wondered if she knew the importance of anointing Jesus.  I wondered what it takes to humble oneself so completely.   

I continued to trudge through the tiredness of cold and snow.  This Lent the community embraced the depth of pain and loss felt by our brothers and sisters, the frustrations of being unable to control the effects of growing old, and then this week Mary challenged us with her extravagant gift.  Her abundant love for Jesus.   

"Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus' feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume."

I always carry my container of oil with me.  I never pass up the opportunity to offer a blessing. 

Mary inspired me with her gift of perfume. 

So there in the emergency room, we gathered for a prayer.  We placed our hands on Irene and we prayed.  We prayed for healing.  We prayed for strength for whatever may come.  We prayed for the hands and hearts who care for so many in the community.  We prayed in words and in our silence. 

I then made the sign of the cross on Irene's forehead with oil. 
                                                       The scent of frankincense and myrrh. 
                                                                        The scent of Mary's perfume so long ago. 

We remember Mary together.  We know what is to come for Jesus after the anointing.  But even in death, we have the lingering fragrance of an extravagant love that takes hold of everyone.   

Mary's gift of anointing Jesus and the fragrance of her abundant love, of Jesus' abundant love for us, still remain in our reach.  Sometimes the smell is so powerful that we can hardly stand on our two feet.  We get a waft of the fragrance of healing precisely in the midst of death.  We get a waft of the fragrance of hope precisely when our lives are no longer in our control.  We get a waft of the fragrance of God's love in the most unlikely of places.

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."