A Journey to Belief

One of the deep gifts offered on Easter morning was a testimony shared by a woman who also joined our church on Sunday. I have known Julie for years as someone who used to visit our church a couple of times a year. I have then been given the holy privilege of walking with her through her grief over the last ten months. Her words were powerful, and they touched many people. She gave me permission to share them here. May they also bless you, cause you to think, and perhaps help you to look for signs of God's presence in unexpected places this day.

           Good morning.  My name is Julie.  For those of you that attend Mt. Vernon Place on a regular basis, you may have noticed I am a somewhat newer face here over the past year.  For those of you that I have gotten to know, you might also know that I lost my husband almost a year ago.  Doug and I attended Mt. Vernon Place on an infrequent basis – we weren’t even Christmas and Easter people, we were Easter and Mother’s Day people, because if mother was in town, we had to go to church.  (My mom is here with me today, and mom you’ll be happy to know I am attending church a little more frequently these days.)

            Doug was diagnosed with a very rare form of lymphoma in June 2014. His diagnosis and thus his potential treatment plan was difficult because he didn’t even exhibit the typical symptoms of this type of lymphoma.  In fact, if you knew Doug, there were some days when you would not have known he was sick at all.

Ultimately, it was decided that Doug needed a bone marrow transplant.  The plan was to give him two rounds of chemo to knock out any sign of the lymphoma, and then go to transplant.  He had his first round of chemo mid-March of last year, and for a couple of weeks, everything was fine—he started to loose some hair, but his attitude was “let’s get this over with so we can start living our lives again.”  We had even planned a trip in September of last year to go to Scotland, a celebratory trip of getting through the transplant.  “Lindsay,” as you might guess, is Scottish, and Doug had always wanted “to go back to the homeland,” as he would say. 

            Unfortunately, it was Easter weekend of last year when things took a turn for the worse, and it never got better. We checked into Johns Hopkins on a Friday, as they were going to try another type of chemo. On the following Sunday morning, the doctors came in and told Doug and I that the lymphoma had taken control and there was nothing more they could do, and we just needed to focus on keeping Doug comfortable.  I asked how long we had, and they said a week to 3 weeks.  When they left the room, of course I was sobbing, and I said “Doug, you can’t leave me.  What am I going to do without you?”  He said “Julie, I will never leave you.  I will always be with you, and I am going to come back and thump those kitties between the ears.”

            Now, before you think there was animal cruelty involved here, Doug and I didn’t have children—but we have two cats who were our children.  Doug was in sales, so he traveled a lot, and he would often call me on his way home on a Friday and say “I’m comin’ home, and I am going to thump those kitties between the ears!”  He played with them all the time, or “terrorized” them as he would say.  So, that was on Sunday morning and by Monday afternoon, May 4^th, Doug was gone.

            Billl Hilligeist is an active member of MVP and lives in our building.  When he found out Doug had passed, he let Donna know, since Doug and I had come here a few times.  Donna reached out to me, and we got together shortly thereafter.  My first questions to Donna—and my first questions generally—were “Is there really eternal life?  How do I know Doug is ok, and he is not just dead?”  Donna said that there were many things that she had questioned about her faith, but she had never questioned eternal life—God is so incredibly good and loves us so much, and life can be so incredibly hard, that this can’t be all that there is.  There has to be more.  I was like “ok”—I was raised in the Methodist church and this was all consistent with what I had learned, but I will be honest – I had always questioned it, and particularly when it was the love of my life that was no longer with me.

            A week or so later, a work colleague was going to take me out for lunch.  I was getting ready in the bathroom, drying my hair.  One of our cats, Max, came into the bathroom and just sat there watching me.  I looked at him and said “Max, do you miss daddy?”  (Yes, we called each other mommy and daddy.) I said “I miss daddy, I miss daddy very much. But daddy said he was never going to leave us, that he would always be with us.”  And just then, Max’s little ear goes {twitch, twitch}.  I turned off the hair dryer, and point blank looked him and said “Max, is that daddy?”  And his little ear goes {twitch}.  Tears welled up in my eyes, but the biggest smile came over my face and I can’t tell you the sense of comfort I felt.  I saw Donna again shortly after that, and she said “You know, I was thinking more about your questions about eternal life,” and I said “Nope, I got it.  All good.”

I ended up taking that trip to Scotland last fall, and I took some of Doug’s ashes with me.  I had identified a place where I wanted to spread his ashes—in Loch Coruisk which is in the Black Cuillin Hills on the Isle of Skye.  The morning my tour group was supposed to go there, the weather was not good, and our guides were told the ferries would not be going that day.  About an hour before we were supposed to leave, the sun came out, and we were able to make the trip.  It was a beautiful day and I was able to spread his ashes in the Loch.  After I spread the ashes, as I was sitting there, a little fish came swimming up—it was the only fish I saw in the Loch the entire time I was there.  I thought “Oh great, I am literally going to watch Doug become fish food.”  But it didn’t do anything—it just hovered there for about an hour, and as I got up to leave, it swam away.

I tell you all this as I firmly believe that Doug, through the Holy Spirit, is letting me know he is ok, and that I am going to be ok, as he really is still with me.  One thing I have learned is that, as much as we might like, there aren’t burning bushes, or clouds parting with voices thundering from above, as evidence of God or eternal life.  For me, it’s been as simple as a cat’s ear flip, an unexpected beautiful day or a little fish.

MVP has been incredibly supportive of my journey, and I am so thankful to be part of this community.  I joined the Tuesday night small group and we recently completed a study on the Gospel of John, including Christ’s death, resurrection and eternal life.  Two passages from our study materials really struck me, and I wanted to share them with you today. The first is “Easter transforms our sorrow into joy and hope, our fear into peace and courage.”  The second is “…the Resurrection declares that the worst thing is never the last thing.”  Before I watched my husband take his last breath, I was scared to die.  Now I realize that death is by no means the last thing.  On this Easter Sunday, while I still miss Doug terribly, I can honestly say I know he is still with me, and I will get to see him again. 

Easter Shame

There were times when I would literally sit and count the number of people in the photos friends were posting of their church on Easter.

There were times when I completely forgot all that did happen on Easter morning because all I could think about is how I felt on Easter evening.

There were times when I dreaded having to hear colleagues talk about how many people came to church on Easter.

There were other times when I was fully aware of how many more people we had in our pews this year than we did the year before. But I would still see emptiness when I looked at the pictures of our space.

There was never enough. No matter how many people were in our pews, it was not enough.

But something changed yesterday. There was enough. There was more than enough people, more than enough food, more than enough passion, more than enough joy. When I looked out from my seat up front, I saw more people gathered in our sanctuary for worship than I had ever seen before. There were even people in the balcony, something that typically only happens when someone is wearing strong perfume below. 

Brene' Brown has powerfully named my standard Easter emotion. She calls it the shame-based fear of being ordinary, a fear that may be more powerful in my life than any other fear I know. It's what she describes as the "fear of never feeling extraordinary enough to be noticed, to be lovable, to belong, or to cultivate a sense of purpose" (Daring Greatly, page 22).

While I have always known that I am a beloved person with a powerful sense of purpose, I've regularly feared that I am not extraordinary enough. This fear pushes me to often compare myself to others which regularly only helps me see my own sense of inadequacy. And there is nothing faithful about such feelings.

Brene' has helped me see that scarcity is a great lie. It is even more so for people of faith who believe we worship a God of abundance - a God who says there is always more than enough, and that we are more than enough just as we are.

I'm trying hard to live wholeheartedly. Wholehearted living, according to Brene', includes ten things. I offer my five favorites below:

1. Cultivating Authenticity: Letting Go of What People Think
2. Cultivating Self-Compassion: Letting Go of Perfectionism
4. Cultivating Gratitude and Joy: Letting Go of Scarcity and Fear of the Dark
6. Cultivating Creativity: Letting Go of Comparison
9. Cultivating Meaningful Work: Letting Go of Self-Doubt and "Supposed To"

Imagine how different the week after Easter would be if we sought to do the hard work of cultivating these gifts within us. Imagine how different we would feel about the gifts God brought on Easter if we refused to compare our church with any other church, our sermon with any other sermon, our music with any other music, our size with any other size.

I've come a long way.

I still have a way to go.

I'm going to try again.

What about you?

Not a Rolled-Away Stone, but a Carried-Away Church

I was getting ready to leave the church today when I crossed over the glass bridge that connects the office suite with the sanctuary. I heard music as soon as I opened the office door which puzzled me as I thought I was the only one still in the church part of the building. I then looked down and saw someone sweeping. Michelle, a first-year seminary student who lives upstairs, was sweeping the floor that was earlier covered with tables overflowing with food from our community potluck.

"Michelle, what are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm sweeping," she responded.

"But the floor will be swept in the morning," I said.

"I know. But I went upstairs and I couldn't stop thinking about the mess that was made. I didn't want our Easter joy to be someone else's burden," she explained.

Leadership comes in many forms. Michelle showed me an extraordinary form of it today. I was nearly rendered speechless, humbled to my core when I heard her words about the remnants of our joy possibly becoming someone else's burden. We had just celebrated the resurrected Jesus but Michelle was a powerful picture of Jesus to me today - Jesus who serves, Jesus who remembers that someone else may have to carry the burden we create, Jesus who quietly cares for others when no one else is watching. I'm still utterly amazed by her actions.

I later noticed this quote from Clarence Jordan posted on Facebook, "The proof that God raised Jesus from the dead is not the empty tomb, but the full hearts of his transformed disciples. The crowning evidence that he lives is not a vacant grave, but a spirit-filled fellowship. Not a rolled-away stone, but a carried-away church."

At the end of this Easter day, I realize again that I have the extraordinary privilege of being part of such a place. Our Holy Week has been powerful and transformational because countless people in our spirit-filled fellowship have gone the extra mile to share their gifts. A colleague at Duke used to refer to a group of gifted people as "an embarrassment of riches." I've seen an embarrassment of riches at work this week in so many ways from a person who memorized a script for Palm Sunday to a woman who vulnerably shared her heart today through a powerful testimony, from people who sang incredible music to an individual who created the worship slides, from people who opened the doors of the shower ministry this morning to those who picked up trash in the front lawn yesterday, from those who came early to greet to those who carefully ensured there would be just enough food at the potluck, from those who created prayer stations on Good Friday to the one who preached on Maundy Thursday, from those who counted every single person in worship today to those who were willing to miss worship to care for our children, from those who took down every table and chair following lunch to those who have created a communications team and posted all kinds of clever things this week, from those who did not get to sit in their normal pew today to those who scooted over to sit closer to someone who was moved to tears, from those who hid eggs for our children to find to those who took the trash out after lunch, and from every person who showed up and said "hello" to someone else, making them feel welcome but also becoming the answer to our prayer that no one show up without being noticed in some way.

It's been an extraordinary Easter because of the sacrifices of many people. My heart is overflowing. May Christ continue to transform our hearts, fill our fellowship with the Spirit, and carry us away in powerful ways.

Christ is risen. He is risen indeed!

Where is God?

I'm normally one of the first people to arrive at the abbey. I want to get here when there are still spaces available for spiritual direction with one of the monks since there are typically only 6 sessions available for a dozen or so retreat guests. For years I'd come to meet with Brother Mark who started to recognize me the moment I walked into the small room. I would settle down in my chair, and he would begin the conversation.

How can I help you?

It would take a maximum of two seconds before I started to respond. I cannot find God. I try hard but I cannot seem to get close to God. Where is God?

Brother Mark would then usually ask, Is this not the same question you asked last year?

Yes, it's me again. I'm working so hard. The congregation I serve is growing. But my relationship with God has dwindled. I have purchased dozens of devotional books. Some feed me for a few weeks and then I'm back where I started. I cannot seem to stay close to God.

But something is different this time.

I didn't feel compelled to be one of the first people to arrive. I didn't sign up for a session with one of the monks. In fact, the more I've been at the abbey this week, the more I realize how different my relationship is with God than it has been in years past. While I'm not sure I can put my figure on it, I know things have changed.

I'd not been here half an hour when I noticed God at work in the field outside my window. I saw the cow and her baby the moment I opened the blinds. I then realized that the calf was newly born and just learning to use her legs for the first time. She would stand up and then fall and then stand up only to fall over once more. But the mama cow never left her side. Instead she kept licking her, nursing her and nudging her. And the closer the mama stayed, the more it seemed that the calf had the courage to try to stand once more.

The view completely seduced me. I could not stop watching the action outside. I also could not stop thinking about how God does the same in our lives. God cleans us up, nudges us, seeks to nourish us, and then stays close when we have fallen and are trying to stand again. We have no idea just how much God loves us and cheers for us. If only we could hear the voice of God!

The cow and her baby have not been seen again since that first day. I don't believe we are puppets on a string, our every move controlled by God. But I believe the cow and calf were a gift given to me upon my arrival. 

With God's presence so tangibly close, I turned to the task at hand and started to choose from the dozen or so books in my bag. I first read a beautiful book of a woman's journey through grief. I'd recommend Comfort to you - as long as you have a box of tissues at hand. I then continued to sift through books on leadership, the church's current reality, and mission. And then I found a book that helped me see why God may be so close in this season of my life.

While the cover may likely not win an award for design, the treasure inside Samuel Wells' book, A Nazareth Manifesto, is not to be missed. It's not often that I pick up a theology book that I cannot put down, but Wells has achieved such an end with this masterpiece. 

The argument for the book is found near its beginning, "...while there is a place for working for, working with, and being for, it is being with that is the most faithful form of Christian witness and mission, because being with is both incarnationally faithful to the manifestation of God in Christ and eschatologically anticipatory of the destiny of all things in God" (p. 23). Wells sets out to demonstrate how much ministry is done for other people - something I've experienced often.

I went to a meeting last week designed to ignite a movement to make sure life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are realities for all people in this nation by 2026, the year we'll celebrate the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. But I quickly realized that the people we wanted to do something for - the people we were talking about - were not in the room. They had not been invited to be part of the conversation.

We feel good when we show up to serve dinner to people or write a check to our favorite charity, or even take a load of clothing to Goodwill. We are doing something for others! But Wells has helped me see ministry in a different light. He's helped me discover why I am journeying through this current season with a lens of abundance instead of scarcity.

As I look back upon my annual pilgrimage to the abbey, I see how often I have come here with a feeling of there not being enough. There are not enough people in the pews, not enough members, not  enough leaders, not enough resources, not enough money, and not enough time. Furthermore, I was not a good enough pastor, a good enough leader, a good enough preacher, a good enough wife, a good enough friend. I was never fully satisfied with the here and the now (and perhaps I never will be - which is not an entirely bad thing). 

But I realize now how much of my life includes abundance. I also know why I often show up for our Tuesday morning Hope 4 All group that is seeking to journey with people from homelessness into housing. It might be easy to see scarcity in such a group. Our city does not seem to have enough housing for everyone who needs it. But I have yet to show up at 7:00am on a Tuesday without seeing abundance in ways you might not expect.

Wells quotes John McKnight and Peter Block who write, "Gifts are inborn and not subject to management. Gifts don't need to be trained into us; they are inherent. They are who we are and they cannot be taken away. They are also nearby, though often unseen. Since we cannot manipulate the gifts of another, they are not subject to external management, and therefore they are an antidote to system life" (253).

We all have gifts. They are inherent within us. They simply need to be nurtured and named. Wells writes, "Well-being is about overcoming isolation and finding ways to make material limitation a source of mutual interdependence" (254).

There are not only gifts at the table on Tuesday morning, but there is an embarrassment of riches. And the riches have been uncovered as we have sought to provide space where isolation can be overcome and mutual interdependence can be shared.

Lorne has taught me about the power of not giving up. We nearly offended him on his first day when a facilitator of the group shared how his first place may be "a crappy room somewhere." But he kept coming. He signed a lease on a room that was not ideal. And he's showing us how to smile in the midst of adversity.

Greg could complain about a million things. He spent more than 23 years in federal prison. He's learned that the halfway house was an easier place to live than the streets of Washington. He regularly makes me think about the Shawshank Redemption film. He's working hard to get a commercial driver's license. I've rarely heard him complain. He seizes the abundance that he has and keeps moving forward one step at a time.

Richard has been coming to worship every Sunday in recent weeks. His face is overflowing with joy as the smile seems rather permanent. He first couldn't wait to tell me about his room in a group house. He now cannot stop talking about how he has his own place. I HAVE MY OWN PLACE!!!!

Wells writes, "Generosity is the virtue of abundance. Unlike charity, which assumes scarcity and 'is really an unstable and false generosity because it is oriented around the needs and deficiencies of just one party in the transaction' and is thus demeaning, generosity assumes abundance by investing in the still-not-fully disclosed gifts of the other" (255).

I've come to realize how often I'm the poor one, especially when my eyes are only capable of seeing scarcity - in myself, in others and in our community - instead of the abundance that is always at hand whenever we sit down and see another person, hear another person, and then give them an opportunity to see and hear us in such a way that we all walk away with a keen awareness of our abundance.

Wells quotes Albert Schweitzer who used to say that when we ask God, "'Where are you staying?' God's answer is, 'I'm staying with you'" (259).

I'm so incredibly grateful that God has chosen to take up residence in me and in you. And the more I see you, the more I realize how much abundance there is all around - particularly when we refuse to accept isolation as the norm instead of the exception.

Surely the presence of the Lord is in this place. Thanks be. Thanks be. Thanks be. 

Shattered

Three weeks.

It was three weeks ago this morning when I settled into my favorite chair with a cup of hot coffee on the table next to me and opened the pages of the Washington Post. It's my favorite routine for a Saturday morning, one that normally encourages the calmness we seek for our only day off together. But Saturday, February 20 was different because rather than reading about another homicide in our city on the front page of the Metro section, I was actually reading about someone who was once part of my community.

I know Clifton as someone who came to our church's shower ministry a few years ago and then to our Tuesday morning Hope 4 All group. Our church paid for a bus ticket so he could go home and be with his mother in Atlanta. Along with another church member, I took him to lunch on his birthday. I served communion to him on Christmas Eve. And I not only knew Clifton, but I also knew one of Clifton's roommates - the person who was not home on that day. He, too, had been a Shower Ministry guest and then a Hope 4 All guest. He came to the church to see me in mid-December immediately after signing his lease to the same house where Clifton lived. He wanted to not only show me his keys but actually show me the place where he had signed that he had access to a room of his own. It was a celebratory moment filled with hope being born anew. And so when I first read about Clifton's death, my mind also immediately went to this third roommate who we prayed was still alive. We located him a couple hours later, and he's now staying in the home of a colleague of mine until he can find another place to live.

But I'd never known anyone who was murdered. I've never read about a homicide that includes the name of someone whose story I know well. How could this be?

The waves of pain and anger came crushing in again on Monday night when I got a message saying, "Ivy died." Ivy? How could Ivy be dead? Ivy is one of the reasons we started our Tuesday morning group. I first met her on a cold January day in 2015 when I went outside with a colleague to make sure everyone was okay. The temperatures were cold enough to kill someone. But we had no idea what we would find that day. When we pealed back the layers of green tarp and blankets, we found a cozy communal space holding a few prescription drugs, some food, and lots of clothing all covered with more blankets. It was Ivy's space, Ivy's belongings, Ivy's temporary home. And it was this image that captured our congregation's attention enough to figure out how we could offer hospitality in a different way.

Since our change in policy, a group of individuals have gathered every single Tuesday morning with the exception of one. There are some mornings when there are 15 people at the table and other mornings when there are three or four people. Each gathering starts the same, with an invitation to tell us who you are and what you have done in the last week to get closer to housing and/or employment. Every person's answers are recorded so we can hold people accountable the following week. If someone has a barrier whether it be transportation or clothing, then we try to remove it. We've loaded dozens of Metro cards, purchased new shoes for an interview, solicited new suits for men to wear to a meeting, paid for licenses and school fees, and countless other things. All of these expenses are met through a fund that was established in 2007 when our congregation let go of inviting people to give Easter lilies in honor or memory of someone on Easter and instead give life through the purchase of a share in the Harry McLean Life Fund. A list of all who give is included in the Easter bulletin, along with the names being honored or remembered. It's just that while lilies often die a few weeks later, these gifts have produced new life in the form of food, gift cards for medication, and help with housing and job expenses. We have learned that someone being moved from homelessness into housing is nothing short of a miracle. And still, we've had front row seats to some 14 different people who have been able to make this incredibly large step in the last year.

Two of them are now dead.

First Clifton and now Ivy. While it would not have surprised me to learn that Ivy had died several months ago - her body was so frail - Ivy was doing incredibly well. She'd put on at least 20 pounds, looked healthy, and had returned to our group a few weeks ago to start offering encouragement to others. She had a housing voucher. She was housed - but she came to tell others they could do it. Just two weeks ago she sat next to me. I can still hear her saying, "You came!" to another participant. "I'm so glad! You can do this." When it came time for her to share, she joyfully talked about her relationship with her son, describing how big he is and how much she's enjoying him. She shared how her longtime partner was finally in treatment and that they were committed to getting married one day. She was overflowing with goodness and health and wisdom and triumph.

So, how could Ivy be dead? That was the question that kept going through my mind last Monday night only to later see this article being shared by another person from our church. Ivy had been shot in broad daylight. The one who was rebuilding her life one painful step at a time had everything robbed from her in the blink of a bullet.

I've never felt this kind of pain when it comes to knowing someone has died. The tears of grief started to overflow on Wednesday morning after I successfully kept them tucked inside on Tuesday. How could someone who finally had so much going for them be killed on a Sunday afternoon? Good God Almighty, can you help us? Can you hear us? Can you prevent this from happening again?

I soon started to ask how we begin to move forward. How long will we wait before reading about someone else we have grown to love? Who else from our community will have their life robbed from them in an instant? Where are you God?

My mind then turned to an anonymous note left for me at our Ash Wednesday worship service. The individual was taken back by signs that say, "No Sleeping. No Storage. No Loitering." They were bright orange and quite loud. Our practice was to always take them down before worship begins but we forgot to take them down for a midweek service. The signs have since been redesigned with information on how we are trying to be in relationship with people who need places to sleep and store their belongings. There are invitations to come inside for a shower or join us on a Tuesday morning. The person who wrote this note helped us see the impact of our signage. But I'd love to have a conversation with him or her.

I'd love to have a dialogue about how our understandings of mercy and justice have been transformed. Opening a church's porches for people to come and sleep outside is not hospitality. There is nothing merciful about thinking your church is doing someone a favor by letting them sleep outside. Have you ever invited someone to come and visit you and then given them a pad on your porch?

We are so quick to judge one another.

Our church and I were judged harshly on Ash Wednesday.

But I've also been so quick to judge people.

"Can't these people get a job? Can't these people get a home?" These questions have gone through my mind dozens of times when I have found myself cleaning our front porch or picking up someone's belongings.

I've learned that the answer is sometimes "no" and often "yes." Many people can get a job, and many people can get housing. But it takes a village. It takes people who are willing to not do the easy thing, like saying, "Well, at least we're giving them a place to sleep where they don't get wet by rain." But rather it takes people who are willing to do the hard work of showing up, of providing people with some basic resources, of letting folks know we are together on this journey, and of holding people accountable. I was reminded this week that it also takes people who are willing to allow their heart to be broken.

My heart may always be shattered a bit - not like the bus stop where Ivy was killed - but by the weekly reminders of how broken our community is. But my heart can also be overflowing with joy when I see how much healing can occur when people who have so much start to share a little, when individuals can muster the capacity to give a second chance even when they see the words "convicted felon," and when we wrestle together to figure out what would Jesus really do.

Our nation is also deeply broken by our addiction to guns. Lives and families and communities are being shattered. The madness needs to stop. Changes in policy are needed.

Will you pray for us, please?

Ivy changed my life. I pray her memory is one of the last things I forget and that it also propels me to encourage our congregation to do everything we can to journey with people and prevent further lives from being robbed.

Glimpses of Grace

I started the day with our Tuesday morning Hope 4 All Group. It's a group that began a year ago in response to our church leadership discerning that no one should be sleeping outside. In the last twelve months, we've gathered with many different people as we seek to fulfill our calling to journey alongside individuals who are seeking to transition from homelessness into housing. We've learned a lot about different resources in our city and which organizations can be counted on to help provide people with jobs, medical care and housing. It's been a humbling journey for anyone who has participated in the group as either a facilitator or a guest.

I don't get to the group as often as I used to. I have not been there since the start of the new year, in fact. But I learned again today why I need to go more often. Today I needed a lesson in grace.

I watched as one of our key volunteers went to purchase 10 Metro SmarTrip cards for people who participated in our group today. The thought that kept going through my mind was, "Wait a second. We don't even know these people. How do we know they will use them to get to a potential job or housing opportunity?" "Is it really good stewardship to give out so many cards?" "What if we run out of money?"

And then I heard Jesus speaking to me once more about grace. I heard again that grace is God's unmerited favor that has been bestowed upon us. Grace is a second chance. Grace is an ability to see beyond someone's past and into who someone is today.

What I realized is that what we do in our time together on Tuesday mornings is exactly what we pray our community will do for and with our guests.

George spent 20 years in prison. While I've been tempted to ask what he did, I know I don't need to know. What I need to know about George is that he's working so incredibly hard to get his commercial driver's license. I need to know how he's worried about how he'll repay the $7 he borrowed from someone to get his driving record. I need to remember the time we promised him we would meet him to buy him shoes but were not able to go because of a medical mishap and how he kept saying, "Please don't worry about me. I'll be okay." George is overflowing with grace. I've never heard him complain. He keeps his word. And it's going to take people giving him grace to get him housed - individuals who are willing to look beyond the words, "Felon" stamped on his record.

Sam spent 3 years in prison. He's a veteran who shared how hard it is for anyone to look past his record. "Felon is what people see when they see me. But that's not who I am anymore." He needs grace.

We had three women at the table today. All three of the women are staying at the same shelter. And while they all had the capacity to share what happens inside the shelter, they're somehow managing to look beyond it. But they need grace. One can tell you what happened when alcohol reemerged as a force in her life, spoiling the hard work she had done. Another can tell you how hard it is to get a job at age 67. And still another one can smile through debilitating back pain. Grace is needed to look past the alcoholism, the debilitating pain, and the age.

And then I think about one of the women who helped us start the group who gives so unselfishly of her time to guide our steps. I think about a church member without whom the group would have never started as he's the one who said, "We cannot just move people from our porch to someone else's porch." He's showed up nearly every Tuesday since. I think about one of our ministry interns who shows up each week to give and to learn. They are offering valuable time and arriving at 7:00 in the morning. It's an unmerited, undeserved gift.

I wonder what I need to give today.

Not because someone is expecting it. Not because I'll get a thank you note or a perfect follow through with whatever I give. But I wonder what I'm invited to share because all I have is a gift - an abundance of favor that is completely unmerited.

There go I but by the grace of God.

Dear Jesus, thank you for church members who continuously widen my heart to make more room for your friends. Thank you for each person who has given a gift to fund our Tuesday Morning group, originally giving up Easter lilies in order to give life to our community. Thank you for the ways you powerfully show up whenever we step outside our comfort zone and seek to spend time with people who have little when it comes to material possessions and so much when it comes to the true riches of your kingdom. Thank you for the grace you've given to me and the way that offering has been duplicated by so many other people in my life. Help me to share grace just as freely with whoever is in my path this day and on all my days to come. Amen.

Looking for God in a Snowstorm - a #BlizzardChurch Conference Call Meditation

I don’t do well with snow storms. I’m not good with things that have the potential to disrupt my best-laid plans, let alone force me to stay home when I have things to do. I’m proficient with the “what ifs.”

What if we lose our power?

What if our roof caves in?

What if there’s so much snow I cannot make a scheduled train?

What if we get stuck inside for days. God, can I now just go on with my plans?

I started cursing the snow before it even started on Friday night.

But it started.

And just as I awakened yesterday morning, ready to shout some more, a colleague posted about how he was drinking hot chocolate, listening to his favorite music, and settling in for what could be a day filled with spiritual experiences.

What?

How could a day with a forecasted blizzard be a spiritual experience?

But I found the image of a person drinking hot cocoa and smiling as he looked out the window watching for God to show up to be irresistible – especially when a spiritual experience was not on the list of things I anticipated receiving on Saturday – a shortage of patience, too much time to do nothing, a little anxiety, yes, – but a spiritual experience – no way.

And I cannot help but wonder how often we forget that God does some of God’s best work when we are outside of our comfort zones, our regular routines, and our need for control. Maybe we need things to sometimes be clearly out of our control in order for us to see how God is fully in control.

We are told that gale-force winds arose while the disciples were crossing over the Sea of Galilee.  Waves are crashing against them. They are frightened as they conclude they are about to drown. But Jesus is sleeping until he is awakened – not by the storm – but by our fears – and he silences the storm, he makes the thing causing fear and anxiety to go away. And then he asks us about our faith – where is your faith?

God does some of God’s best work in the storms.

Jesus sleeps through the storm not because of a lack of care for the disciples. He sleeps through the storm because he knows that the storm is only temporary. It will soon go away.

What if we were to approach every blizzard as a spiritual experience?

What if we were to face every adversity as an opportunity for God to work?

What if we were to remember that the best of all is that God is with us – especially through the storm – which means that the storm will never have the final word?

And what if one of the greatest gifts we can be given is a disrupted schedule that reminds us fully that we are not in control?

Changed by a Child - a Homily for Christmas Eve

           

            “Dear Max,

            Your mother and I don’t yet have the words to describe the hope you give us for the future. Your new life is full of promise…

            Like all parents, we want you to grow up in a world better than ours today.”

            These words begin a letter written earlier this month by the parents of a baby girl named Max, a child who has already changed them. The letter goes on to describe how life is different today than it was for her parents when it comes to health, poverty, technology and knowledge. Max’s parents then make a vow to play a vital role in improving life – not just for Max – but for children around the world.

            The parents then write, “As you begin the next generation of (our) family, we also begin the Chan Zuckerberg initiative to join people across the world to advance human potential and promote equality for all children in the next generation…We will give away 99% of our Facebook shares – currently about $45 billion – during our lives to advance this mission…We want to do what we can, working alongside many others.

            Love, Mom and Dad”

            The birth of Max is a game changer.

Max had been in this world barely long enough to catch her own breath when her parents realized they were called to play a role in helping a world of people keep their breath. Max’s birth birthed fresh hope, bold visions, extraordinary generosity, and deep retrospection in two parents whose gifts can now touch and transform the lives of thousands of people.

A tiny baby his father swaddled in a brown robe, dressing her up as a Star Wars Jedi last week has made a profound impact.

            “Your mother and I don’t yet have the words to describe the hope you give us for the future. Your new life is full of promise.”

I cannot help but wonder if the same words may have been pondered, penned or prayed in a borrowed barn in Bethlehem some 2000 years ago as the child who provides more hope than any child ever born on earth came to a young, unwed, poor mother, part of God’s plan to transform the world in ways that even $45 billion cannot buy.

We’ve gathered tonight as people who may not be expecting to see or hear anything new. People flock to churches all over the world on Christmas Eve in hopes of singing the same songs we sung last year, lighting the same small candles, and hearing the same words of scripture about a young family making a journey to pay their taxes only to find there is no room at the inn. Many of us know this story by heart. There are images of it in some of the Christmas cards currently stacked on our kitchen tables and in manger scenes we remove from their boxes every December, placing the Marys, Josephs, and baby Jesus’ on a shelf with a couple of cattle nearby if we purchased a deluxe set.

And while we may not expect anything unusual to happen this night, I’m convinced that God has another plan. The parent of this child wants everything to be different – changed – touched – transformed because of his Son named Jesus. This child is meant to be a game changer.

While some of you here may be able to recall moments in our nation’s history where people were acutely aware of the power of war, racism or a downward economy, I cannot recall a time when I proclaimed the good news on Christmas Eve while feeling the heavy, nearly paralyzing weight of our collective fear as a nation and world.

Uncertainty lingers in the form of unbridled gun violence. 

“Black Lives Matter” is now a mantra that is not spoken because of one particular incident but because of numerous incidents that tragically keep on occurring in cities across our nation.

Darkness fills a tiny country in the Middle East where archaeologists and scholars once flocked to see incredible ruins while pilgrims went to walk down a Damascus street where God caught up with Saul and transformed him into Paul, but where Syrians now flee in hopes of finding light and life in another land.

And you and I live with the reality that even a holiday party at a center for people with developmental disabilities is no longer off limits when it comes to terrorists and their tricks.

The rod of oppression is real whether it’s the awareness of how many people in our city have no place to call home or how the family who sat behind me at a downtown Cosi is no longer welcome by everyone since the mother and two of her daughters were wearing a hijab, making them known as Muslims in the same way the crosses around our necks mark us as Christians. But we are not the target of a presidential candidate who believe anyone professing faith in Allah may be a terrorist who must have every aspect of their background checked before they enter our country.

Is there anything we can do to stop the violence, the racism, the oppression, the terrorism, the madness?

A clergy colleague has felt a tugging on her heart recently, a sign that indicates God may be calling her to new places. She can articulate a call to do something about gun violence, and she keeps talking to different people about what role she might play. But she came into my office earlier this week to share how people are not sure there’s anything she can really do. We may be past the point of no return.

But what if the child whose birth we celebrate tonight assures us that nothing is past the point of no return – no person, no amount of violence, no amount of darkness, no amount of sadness, no amount of oppression, no amount of terrorism, no amount of burden no matter how heavy the burden might be because one has come who has increased our joy. A child has been born for us, a son given to us, and his name is Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Jesus was brought into the world by a Father who knew his son could provide hope for the future.  This child’s life was full of promise! Prophets foretold how he would advance human potential and promote equality in a way that none of us can, no matter how gifted or resourced we might be.

What would it mean for us to lay our eyes on this child tonight as though we were seeing him for the very first time?

Imagine taking him into your arms, and allowing his beauty to take your breath away, getting a hold of your heart.

Imagine being convinced that he has been born into your life – a gift of God given to you.

A child disrupts every sense of order or schedule a family may hold.

What if this child is to do the same for us – to awaken us in the night – anytime we see pain that we can actually play a role in alleviating; to force us to feed someone who cannot feed him or herself; to push us to embrace someone who can experience healing by the power of being held by another; to tell someone we’re not going anywhere – that we’ll sit with them through the night until everything is okay again, until the scary thing that has entered our room is finally gone.

One of the greatest gifts offered by a child is that a child helps us see that life is no longer about us. Our priorities have to be placed aside as we care for a tiny person in our midst.

But that’s also the greatest gift of this child whose birth we celebrate tonight. Jesus teaches us how to give ourselves away more than any other person or thing can while helping us learn that the more we give ourselves to others, the more we experience life and light in the midst of darkness.

We may even hear the rod of oppression being broken with our own ears!

Will you allow his birth to change you, perhaps even transform you?

Will you allow a child to push you to give away some of what you’ve worked hard to amass – your time, your talent and your resources – because you now see how you are called to be a part of healing the brokenness of the world around you?

Truly he taught us to love one another; his law is love and his gospel is peace. Chains shall he break for the slave is our brother and in his name all oppression shall cease.

Let it be so.

Amen.

Boxes of Comparison

I was recently reintroduced to this box at the gym. It's not too intimidating of a picture, but seeing the real thing can cause my heart to beat faster, especially if my trainer is placing it on the floor in front of me. It's 20 inches high, and the invitation always starts with the same words. "You're going to place one foot on top and step up." These words are sometimes followed with, "while holding this kettle ball" or "and then lift your other knee straight up as high as you can before putting your foot back down on the floor."

It's an exercise that requires balance and determination. My legs haven't always been strong enough to pull my weight on top of the box, let alone get my other knee high in the air, too. 

But I did it yesterday. And, I was doing really well with my balance and form...until I started to watch what another woman was doing on a box a few feet away from mine. Her kettle bell was much larger than anything I'd taken on top of the box with me. And I started to get intimidated. I started to compare myself to her until I forced myself to stop and turn my body away from her so I could not see her anymore.

I spend a lot of time telling other people to live their story - to stop comparing themselves to others or yearning for talents and gifts other people have. But I still got caught up in the similar cycle of desire yesterday morning. 

And I'll need to work hard to avoid the trap of comparison today.

It's a day where countless colleagues are posting the schedules for their Christmas Eve services. The largest of our denomination's churches started celebrating Christmas Eve a few days ago in order to accommodate the masses who will flock to their spaces to sing, "Joy to the World." Another colleague who I don't even know posted a schedule of eight services scheduled for today, and he'll preach each one - in different locations around a city in the Midwest. I see these schedules and am suddenly reminded of my context. 

There may be more people showering in the church building this morning than worshippers in the sanctuary tonight. More than half of our congregation has gone "home" - a place far away from the city of Washington. Many restaurants will be closed around us. Traffic will be at it's best. I'll never forget one colleague's statement following his first Christmas Eve in a Washington church - "That was the most depressing thing ever." He was used to overflowing crowds instead of being in a place where people often go somewhere else for the holiday.

But I am filled with anticipation for the joy of preaching tonight. I'm utterly delighted with the words that have been crafted and will be ready to share. I cannot wait to light the candles, to offer an invitation to the table, to gather in the midst of a beautiful sanctuary with people who have come to receive the bread that has been prepared for them. My heart is beating faster as I think about the harp music that will play from the balcony, and images of children coming forward to learn the stories of Jesus, the bread that will be broken, the carols that will be sung.

I cannot imagine driving around a city in the state where I went to college in order to preach eight different times. That's not the box I've been called to stand on. So why would I even be thinking about that box?

What about you? How much time are you spending looking at someone else getting on their box instead of seizing the life you've been given? 

Come to think of it, I'm utterly delighted I got this body on top of those 20 inches in the first place.

The Gift of Letting Go

My father recently delivered a half a dozen plastic bins that have been sitting in my mother's basement for 20 years. She has asked me when I would get them at least once a year for the past ten, but it took my dad delivering a piece of furniture over Thanksgiving to ensure that the transfer of belongings would actually take place.

We brought the bins inside one by one, and I untaped a few to allow my eyes to behold a homemade Cabbage Patch Doll created during a Christmas season when Wal-Mart shelves were barren, a large rag doll that used to sit in a rocking chair in my room, and a Fisher-Price ferris wheel whose appearance quickly revealed my age. These bins were the easier ones to open. They were quite delightful. 

But other bins brought memories I wasn't quite ready to relive.

While there were several plaques reminding me of first place wins in public speaking and writing contests, there were even more plaques with the words "second" or "third" engraved on top. While there were pictures of a high school best friend, there were diaries with pages that reminded me of how alone I often felt as a teenager. I regularly say you could not pay me to go back to high school - or perhaps even get me to a high school reunion today. But those boxes took me back in a way I had not experienced for years.

And I wonder. 

I wonder how many things we take with us that we should let go of all together. I wonder how many things we carefully pack and store away in case we want to look at them again someday. I wonder what's begging to instead be taken to the dumpster - the very place I took my high school yearbooks week before last.

We're in a season where so many people are separated from loved ones because they have allowed events of the past to be carried into the future. A family member hurt you years ago, forcing you to pack up the pain and carry it with you every year since. Memories of disappointing moments have been placed inside boxes that you have not been able to let go of yet. One person will prevent you from stepping inside a particular New Year's Eve party because she betrayed you years ago. And so you keep moving, but at a much slower pace, because it's hard to move forward when you're attached to so many chains. 

Howard Thurman, in his extraordinary book, The Mood of Christmas, offers an invitation to receive and give the gift of grace at Christmas. He suggests that if we want to experience the meaning of Christmas, then we need to seek reconciliation with any individual with whom we have "a ruptured or unhappy relationship." He writes, "During the year that is rapidly coming to a close, you have perhaps had many experiences with many kinds of people, those with whom you live, those with whom you work, or those with whom you play, and in the course of these going-ons there have been times when the relationships heightened and were thrown out of join, and a desert and a sea developed between you and someone else. And you were so busy with your own responsibilities, and perhaps so full of hostility yourselves, that there was no time to give to the business and the experience and the grace of reconciliation. So will you think about such a person, find a way by which you can restore a lost harmony, so that your Christmas gift to yourselves will be peace between you and someone else?" (page 47).

What would it look like for you to let go of whatever pain or resentment you're carrying? 

How might you let go of the pain, not by tossing it into a ten-foot high dumpster where it will be taken away once and for all like I did all my second place plaques and ridiculously painful journals, but by picking up the phone or writing a note or inviting someone for coffee...all in an effort to say, "I'm sorry. I'm ready to let go."

Tell me, what's locked away in your storage closet that you've been carrying too long? 

A Simple Invitation

I reached my tipping point.

It happens every year about this time as the fall craziness ushers in forms to be completed for Charge Conference, thoughtful letters to be written to each member as we invite them to ponder how to embody generosity in the next year, new classes to lead, leadership to select and equip, and general planning.

Last week was extraordinary on so many levels. There were meals with members, meals with new students, and a meal that brought together people from three institutions who are trying hard to work together. There were thoughtful conversations and helpful training sessions and exciting planning. So much happened, and I kept on going. Like an Energizer bunny, I filled myself with coffee each morning while allowing the devotional book and Bible to remain closed. I did whatever it took to make it through my to-do list and scheduled appointments, came home, crashed, and got up to do it all over again.

I then arrived at the church yesterday morning in what I perceived to be plenty of time only to learn how much time it takes when a room isn't quite ready for a meeting and when the plan for the All Saint's candles doesn't really work. I rushed through my preparations for a small group and prayed my sermon would flow.

I then showed up to facilitate a class where someone came who I knew didn't really want to be there because a session centered on the Holy Spirit can be both confusing and intimidating. But she came, arriving with her baby as she has each week.

The baby smiled for the first 30 minutes, and then he made a fuss, struggling to find comfort until she placed him in the Bjorn up against her chest. And it was this image that arrested me - this image that came as an invitation to me - this image in the midst of so many other powerful images from yesterday - that reminds me what God most longs for me to receive - to share with us.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. (Matthew 11:28-30).

Why do we have such a hard time accepting this invitation?

What would we need to do to stop for a moment - stop whining, stop working, stop planning, stop doing, stop being restless - and simply crawl into the arms of God and allow ourselves to be held for a while?

God is Still Speaking - Even to the Speaker of the House

Washington has been rocked this week.

Traffic patterns were redefined. Barriers were constructed. So many people teleworked that Metro's ridership was down by 18% on Wednesday. Tourists have arrived by bus, plane and rail. And joy has come in ways I've not experienced before. Police officers were going out of their way to say "Good morning," yesterday. Many people seemed to be smiling even as they had to wait an extra 20 minutes to cross the street.

Some people say our city put on quite a show. Indeed, it seems that everything about the Pope's visit went smoothly, just as planned. But it's now clear we were not really ready for the Pope. We were not ready for him to actually change us.

Our city is used to labels. Progressive people sit on the left while conservatives sit on the right. Some people wear blue and others prefer red. Some of us have elephants in our offices and others have donkeys in our front yards. Each thought, stance and person is to be labeled either "Democrat" or "Republican." Even the Washington Post could not stop from including the word "politics" when describing the Pope's first full day in our city. 

The problem is, the Pope doesn't fit neatly inside either box. And his words yesterday cannot be labeled "progressive" or "conservative" no matter how many newscasters sought to say something like, "And just as the Republican lawmakers were settling into their seats, the Pope gave them something to stand up for when he talked about the family." 

The Pope did not come here to win people to one side or the other. He did not come espousing conservative values or progressive ideals. He came preaching the Gospel. He came to talk about God who created the world, called it "good," and wants us to treat it with the same reverence and respect. He came and reminded people that God weeps whenever life ends - whether it's in the womb in a clinic or on a table in a penitentiary. He came to talk about the gift of wealth used rightly and the need to care for the vulnerable in our midst including children and the elderly. He came to talk about weapons and peace. And he then showed us how true riches can be found not in breaking bread with the "powerful" on Capitol Hill but with those who have an even more powerful way of showing us the face of Jesus in a nearby church's lunch ministry. 

We were prepared to move the Pope through our city. But we were not prepared for him to move past our labels. We were prepared to sacrifice hours in hopes of getting even a quick glimpse of this gentle man. But we were not prepared for his words to move us, and certainly not the powerful amongst us.

Countless people have mocked the image of Speaker John Boehner's crying in the Pope's presence yesterday. We saw them sitting together, joking about a green tie, sipping cold water. But we were not prepared for the decision made today.

The Speaker who cried yesterday announced his resignation today. People are quick to point to the politics, sharing how he won the seat by a narrow margin. But I think otherwise. You see, I've heard God speaking. I know the voice of one who says, "Will you come and follow me?" I know the joy that comes when one seeks to relinquish the treasures of this world in exchange for something far more powerful: treasures of the kingdom.

What if John Boehner not only met the Pope yesterday, but heard Jesus in a new way? What if he experienced a call to be reconciled, to live as one? What if he received a message to care for the poor and vulnerable around us? What if this humble, loving man renamed Francis showed him the way to peace, and how we might be more faithful instruments of his peace in other places? What if Jesus' friend name John experienced Jesus leading him to places where his gifts can be used in ways that will reap far more benefits than even being number three in line for the presidency?

My favorite definition of politics is "the ability to produce intended and foreseen effects upon others." If these words are true, then I bring politics into the pulpit every time I open my mouth because I long for lives to be changed through what I say. Ask any preacher if the same is true for her, and you're likely to hear a resounding "yes."

I cannot imagine the Pope coming to our country without praying that God would use him in a powerful way. I cannot imagine him coming to our country without praying the words Speaker Boehner reportedly prayed last night,

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.

O, Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive; 
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying to self that we are born to eternal life. 

It seems that prayers are being answered in powerful ways.

Imagine what might happen if every person with power sought to pray this prayer and then become the answer to it?

God is still speaking. Praise be to God! God is still speaking!

Waiting for a Pope

Our city is filled with a sense of expectation and excitement that I have not experienced in a long time. Some of us are glued to our televisions, and others have been standing outside since 4:00am, eager to get a glimpse of the Pope. Many of us have adapted our work schedules, heeding the advice of television newscasters offering insights on proposed traffic nightmares. And while I'm sure people are complaining at the disruptions, I've not heard the grumbling. Rather, I've heard an extraordinary sense of gratitude.

And I cannot help but to wonder how long we've been waiting for a Pope like Francis.

Gone are the Prada shoes and the palatial palace. But that was just the beginning. We have since watched the Pope cross one barrier after another. We have seen him prefer to touch the common person over spending time with the powerful. We have observed him being like Jesus. He's regularly stopped to notice those whom others cannot see. He has touched those once deemed untouchable. He's brought healing to his church - and to my church.

He's said things we need to hear about mercy, justice, humility, compassion and equality.

But he's not simply preached. He's done what St. Francis of Assisi said, "Preach the Gospel at all times and when necessary use words."

And while we have learned much from Pope Francis, we've also learned that our world is desperate for the people who say they follow Jesus to act like Jesus. People want to see others befriending the poor, touching the untouchable, healing the brokenness, and making the world one.

My prayers are with Pope Francis as he prepares to offer his first words to our nation this morning. May this prophet speak prophetically, and may the eyes and ears of all who see him be opened in such a way that we long to follow Jesus with what we do and how we spend the enormous resources God has given us. We are a nation in great need of healing.

Speak Francis. Speak loudly. Speak clearly. And then please keep loving extravagantly in such a way that the church and our nation cannot help but do the same.