Sermon – John 11.32-44, Isaiah 25.6-9, AS, YB, November 7, 2021

Tags

All Saints Sunday, All Souls Day, death, God, hope, humanity, Jesus, Lazarus, loss, necrology, new life, promise, saint, Sermon, soul, strength, tears, weep

Most Sundays we talk about Jesus’ life and witness and how we can emulate the Son of God.  Many years ago, there was even a campaign with the letters WWJD:  What Would Jesus Do.  But what we rarely talk about is how incredibly hard that ideal is – how hard as everyday humans emulating the Savior, who was both fully human and fully divine, really is.  So, in theory, a day like today should be a relief.  All Saints Sunday is a day we shift gears and talk about emulating people who were fully human.  Of course, that notion is tricky too.  By “saints” the church means those “persons of heroic sanctity, whose deeds were recalled with gratitude by

later generations.”[i]  These are people like St. Francis who shed his every earthly possession and obtained the stigmata, Mother Teresa who nursed this sickest of the sick and poorest of the poor, or even St. Margaret, who slayed her way out of a dragon after being tortured for her faith. 

I think that is why we often conflate All Saints and All Souls Day – the latter being a day when we remember all of those who have died in the hope of the resurrection.  These are the saints or souls who may not have been marked by heroic sanctity, but certainly had an impact on our lives.  These are the moms and dads, the spouses and friends, the children and lovers who may not have always been holy, but certainly taught us about the Christian faith and who we entrusted to the hope of the resurrection as we sat by their deathbeds or mourned their sudden deaths from afar.

We conflate the notion of All Souls Day into All Saints Day because there is something more human about All Souls Day – not only because we can relate to ordinary human life and death, but because the celebration today makes us feel like our humanity can be enough too.  That’s why I love the gospel lesson we get today.  In all the texts about Jesus’ healings, outwitting the challengers, and his ultimate sacrifice for us on the cross, today we get a text about Jesus being very human.  Before the amazing miracle of raising Lazarus from the dead, we are told, very simply, Jesus wept.  Caught up in the grief of his friends Martha and Mary and lost in his own overwhelming sense of loss, Jesus cries; not just a single, artistic tear, but a full-on bout of weeping.  In that solitary moment of grief, Jesus feels deeply, tangibly human.

I do not know about you, but that is what I need from Jesus today.  Later in our service we will list the names of the beautiful souls from Hickory Neck who died in the last year – those who made us laugh, sometimes made us angry, who put a smile on our face, and sometimes made us weep.  In the Prayers of the People, we will pray for the over 750,000 people who have died of COVID in the United States, mourning not just their loss, but the loss of our old “normal” and all that this pandemic has taken from us.  We mourn the ways in which many of the funerals we celebrated in the last year cheated us from each other’s presence – a reality that has still not be fully remedied.  In the midst of what has been a time of significant trauma, we need a Savior who weeps with us – and not just for the dear friend who has died, but also for the fact that his raising Lazarus will soon mean his own death.[ii]

That very gift of Jesus’ humanity today is what empowers us to boldly proclaim hope[iii] in the midst of sorrow, in the midst of trauma, in midst of this strange in-between time.  The words of Isaiah remind us of the promise, the promise that, “the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.  And he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations; he will swallow up death forever.  Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces, and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the Lord has spoken.  It will be said on that day, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us.  This is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.”  On this All Saints Sunday, that is our hope for the week – the promise that the Lord God will wipe away tears – because God’s Son has known our tears – and that we will enjoy that rich feast with our loved ones again.  This in-between time is just that – a time in-between where the promise of new life is a rich promise indeed; one that gives us strength for the not-yet time.  Thanks be to God!

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[i] Holy Women, Holy Men:  Celebrating the Saints, (New York:  The Church Pension Fund, 2010),664.

[ii] Debie Thomas, “When Jesus Weeps,” October 28, 2018, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/1999-when-jesus-weeps on November 5, 2021.

[iii] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Mourn Loss, Proclaim Faith,” November 1, 2021, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/dear-working-preacher/mourn-loss-proclaim-faith on November 5, 2021.

On Cups of Sugar and Other Gifts…

Tags

death, emotion, gift, God, neighbors, pandemic, share, struggle, suffering, sugar, together

Photo credit: https://www.bhg.com/recipes/how-to/bake/how-to-measure-sugar/

One of the things I love about our public library is the way they display children’s books to catch your attention.  We have our favorite characters and series, but our librarians always pick books you might not find if you were just looking at endless rows of books.  In our last trip, we picked such a book called Addy’s Cup of Sugar.  There was a girl and a panda bear on the cover, so I was sure it would be a winner with my young daughter.  It also said it was based on a Buddhist story of healing, which sounded intriguing.

Little did I know how powerful this children’s book would be.  For those of you who have not read it (spoiler alert!), the book is about a girl whose cat dies.  She talks to her friend, the panda bear, about bringing the cat back to life.  The bear says the only way to accomplish that is for her to help him with the supplies he will need – specifically a cup of sugar from a neighbor; but the cup of sugar must come from a home where no one has experienced death.  So off Addy goes, and slowly we learn through her visits and beautiful conversations with neighbors that not one single house in her neighborhood has been unaffected by death.  You can imagine the conversation Addy and the bear have upon her return at the close of the day.

After recovering from being sideswiped by the emotional power of the book, I began to reflect on my work as a priest.  As part of my vocation, I am entrusted with fullness of people’s stories – grief they might not confess to their loved ones, weariness they may not show in their tough facades, anger at God they are afraid to claim aloud for fear of judgment.  Every once in a while, one of those poignant moments of sharing knocks the breath out of me and I am at a loss for words – because words cannot heal some hurts. 

Although I experience the depth of humanity more regularly than some, we all have the opportunity to do the same with our family, friends, and neighbors.  As the duration of this pandemic lengthens, I have been wondering if we all might need to start taking our own cups for sugar around the neighborhood (masked and socially distanced, of course), offering the opportunity for others to share their hurts, their sorrows, and perhaps their own struggles to see God.  Once we begin to see the wideness of the human condition, we also see how we are not alone.  Our cups of sugar then become not just gifts for ourselves, but for others too.

Sermon – John 20.1-18, ED, YA, April 12, 2020

Tags

alleluia, Coronavirus, death, disciples, dread, Easter, eternal life, hope, Jesus, promise, Sermon, worship

I have to confess to you, I have been dreading preaching this Easter.  My dread has not been because I do not think we need some joy.  Lord knows, we could use all the joy we can get!  But there is something that feels off or forced about saying, “The Lord is risen indeed!” or singing “The strife is oe’r” or even, “Jesus Christ is risen today!” because, well, the strife is not over.  Death rates are on the rise, cases of Coronavirus are expected to surge here soon, our overburdened medical professionals and essential works are already strained with anxiety, and we have at least two more months to go in our stay-at-home order in the Commonwealth.  This strife is far from over.

Knowing how hard this day would be, and longing to be authentic about where we are, I went back to where we always go – back to the text – back to Holy Scripture.  Songs and Prayer Book aside, John’s gospel has been especially comforting to me this year. The comfort from John has not been because John’s gospel demonstrates a people ready to celebrate today.  Quite the opposite, three of Jesus’ closest disciples – Mary Magdalene, Peter, and the beloved disciple – have encounters with the risen Lord that are almost comically human.  On the promise of good news, Peter and the beloved disciples race, one beating the other but not going fully in the empty tomb; the other going in but not saying anything; neither understanding what is going on; and both just leaving – just going home without a word to one another or to Mary Magdalene.   Then there is Mary Magdalene, who in shock, runs to the disciples; when left alone a second time, she weeps; angels try to comfort her; Jesus himself speaks to her and she does not immediately recognize him; when she does finally recognize her beloved teacher, she is not allowed to touch him; and finally, finally, she shares her testimony – not what it all means (because I am not sure she knows) – but what she saw.   Nowhere in John’s gospel does Jesus say, “The strife is over” or “Alleluia, the Lord is risen indeed!”  Instead, Jesus seems to be saying, “Hey…calm down…relax…I know you – you are mine.  This is a good thing.   I cannot comfort you in the way you want, because I am not done yet, and some even more amazing things are coming.”

Today’s message from Jesus is certainly good news – but mostly Jesus is promising good news still coming – the promise of eternal life once Christ ascends to the Father in fifty days from now.  Somehow, all of that “stuff” today in our gospel lesson has been oddly comforting.  Disciples running around, not understanding what is happening, going back home without a word, desperate attempts to control the situation, and soothing, knowing words from Jesus despite our lack of understanding has been supremely comforting to me today.  John’s gospel today is not a fait accompli.  John’s gospel is a promise:  a promise of hope that everything will be okay.  And like every promise in a crisis – whether a crisis of health or a crisis of faith – the promise is not the announcement of something being done or accomplished, but a gift of hope that goodness is coming.

And for me, that is what I need today.  Not a worship service that declaratively says, “The strife is oe’r,” but one that gently and comfortingly says, “The strife will be oe’r.”  Not a worship service that says, “The Lord is risen indeed,” but “The Lord’s rising today is a promise for you going forward.”  Our service today is not a service trying to force you to put on fancy clothes (because I imagine some of you are still in pajamas watching from home) or trying to force you into some false happiness.  Our service today is about hope, a quiet confidence, a gentle reminder as Christ calls you by name, that death does not have the final say; that Christ is walking with us through this pandemic, and will be with us to restore us when we emerge on the other end.  We do not know what that other end looks like; but we hear today that Jesus is with us in the midst of this, calling us by name, giving us hope for tomorrow.  The return of our alleluias today is not a naïve proclamation that everything will be okay.  The return of our alleluias today is an invitation to reclaim the hope that can only come from the risen Lord, that can sustain us in our grief, hold us in our confusion and doubt, and embolden us to honestly witness even in our uncertainty.  The church says with us or for us today, “The Lord is risen indeed,” until we can believe those words with conviction for ourselves.  Thanks be to God.

Sermon – Ezekiel 37.1-14, John 11.1-45, L5, YA, March 29, 2020

Tags

change, Christ, Coronavirus, death, dry bones, exile, God, health, hope, Israel, Jesus, journey, Lazarus, life, normal, restoration, resurrection, Sermon, suffering

Today would be an easy day to skim the lessons and declare a victory.  We come to these texts today with cases of Coronavirus rising, deaths increasing, schools closing, jobs ending, and life stopping.  A simple drive down Richmond Road, and the restaurants and tourist stops whose parking lots are usually filled reveal a ghost town.  Even when we do venture out to grab necessities, the faces of people in stores are filled with anxiety, and bodies tense when spacing gets a little too close with others.  In this bizarre reality, we want nothing more than a breath of fresh air, a promise of hope and resurrection.

In many ways, that is exactly what we get in our lessons today.  Ezekiel shares a vision of resurrection and restoration.  The valley full of dry bones – presumably representing the people of Israel in exile in Babylon[i] – are brought back to life.  Through Ezekiel’s prophesying, God’s breath is breathed into the bones.  Bones reassemble, sinews and flesh come upon them, and even breath fills their lungs.  Reassembled, the bodies feel bereft in a strange land, but the Lord our God promises them they will be returned to Israel – to their land.  The same can be said of John’s gospel.  Lazarus is dead.  Four days dead.  The common Jewish understanding of the time was that the soul hovered near the body for three days, hoping to return; but after those three days, the soul departed for good.[ii]  There is no hope for Lazarus.  And yet, in Jesus’ deep love for this man, he weeps.  And then he raises Lazarus from the dead.  Into the next chapter, we even find Lazarus reclining on Jesus – not just alive, but living a life of abundance.

These are texts we want to hear today.  We want Holy Scripture to say, “Everything will be okay.  Everything will go back to normal.  You’re okay.”  And in some ways, that is what the texts seem to say.  The exiled people of Israel will be returned to their land.  The lost brother of Martha and Mary is returned to them in health and vigor.  Suffering is ended for both.  Life is restored for both.  We get to go back to normal.

And yet, I am not sure our texts today are saying things quite that simply.  For the people of God in exile, Ezekiel’s words are a bit more complex.  The breath God breathes into them helps them remember that even in exile, God is with them.  God is animating them in a foreign land.  Yes, there is a promise to return to the Promised Land.  But we know that any great journey into suffering means that even when we return to “normal,” we are not “normal.”  We are changed.  Health may be restored, land may be restored; but we are forever changed.  The news for Lazarus is a bit more complex too.  Although Jesus brings Lazarus back from the dead, to live an abundant life in the here and now, Lazarus’ resurrection is not forever.  Someday, Lazarus will return to the ground.  We know, like the people in exile, Lazarus’ life after the tomb will not be like his life before.  And we also see in Jesus’ conversation with Martha that Lazarus’ death not just about Lazarus.  Lazarus’ death is merely a foretaste of the resurrection of Jesus.  This return to life is limited to one person.  Jesus’ return to life will change a people.

All of this is to say that today’s good news is good news indeed.  There will be life after this virus.  There will be restored health and community after this virus.  There will be renewed strength and vitality after this virus.  But we will also be forever changed by this virus.  We will see life and the gift of life differently than before.  We will come back to our life rhythms and routines a changed people.  We will understand the gift of resurrection in new and deeply moving ways.  The promise of these passages in not simply a return to normal.  The promise of these passages is a journey that will change us all – of valleys with dry bones, of weeping by bedsides, of crying out to Jesus.  The promise of these passages is the destination of Easter.  Not a return to normal, but a new, profound understanding of resurrection in Christ.  In the meantime, Jesus weeps with us.  God is breathing life into us.  And soon, we will know the depths of resurrection life like never before.  Amen.

[i] Kelton Cobb, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 122.

[ii] Leander E. Keck, ed., The New Interpreters Bible, vol. ix (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 687.

Homily – Luke 22.14-23.56, PS, YC, April 14, 2019

Tags

church, death, faithfulness, hope, hopelessness, Jesus, life, Palm Sunday, Sermon, sinfulness, tension

Several years ago, I was visiting a parishioner on her deathbed in the hospital.  We were talking about the things you talk about at the end of life:  the blessings, the memories, the unexpected turns of life.  Whatever fears about death that had been present were long gone.  All that was left was a sense of peace, and a certainty about the eternal life waiting for her on the other side.  I found myself wistful and a little sad, knowing there was nothing I or the doctors could do at that point.  Death was coming.  In the midst of this sacred, serious moment of inevitability, we heard a tinkling noise in the hallway.  Having had a child in a hospital, I knew what the tinkling noise was:  the tinkling sound was the announcement of a new baby being born.  As I explained the noise, the parishioner and I sat in awe – the closeness of life and death were all around us.  We did not have much to say at that point.  The sound of that tinkling just lingered in the room, long after the sound was gone.

I was thinking this week how similar the experience of Palm Sunday is to that hospital room.  We hold in tension so many things today.  We certainly hold life and death in tension:  the joyful celebration of Jesus with palms, and the wailing sorrow of death at the cross of Jesus.  We hold hope and hopelessness in tension too:  the promise of a new king, entering triumphantly, and the despair and finality of Christ on the cross.  We hold faithfulness and sinfulness in tension today:  the bold proclamation of the king who has come in the Name of the Lord, and the shouts of “crucify, crucify him,” just moments later.  Though we might prefer to claim life, hope, and faithfulness, today we must claim death, hopelessness, and sinfulness too.  They are as intertwined as life and death in a hospital.

In some ways, the tension of this day is just what we need in a culture that might like us to jump from the palms to the risen, triumphant Lord.  I am reading Brené Brown’s Dare to Lead this Lent, and one of the hazards to leadership she articulates is numbing.  Numbing can happen in all kinds of ways – through food, work, social media, shopping, television, video games, or alcohol.  The problem with numbing is that we cannot selectively numb emotions.  As Brown says, “if we numb the dark, we numb the light.  If we take the edge off pain and discomfort, we are, by default, taking the edge off joy, love, belonging, and the other emotions that give meaning to our lives.”[i]  When we numb our way through life, we not only suppress the bad stuff; we never get to fully enjoy the good stuff of life.

Today, the Church refuses to allow us to numb.  The Church has us wave palms and sing loudly and smell the sweet smell of victory, with a grin from ear to ear.  And the Church has us listen to the devastation of betrayal, hear the voices of contempt and hatred, and shout for Christ’s death.  Our hearts feel heavy as our minds try to justify all the times we too have betrayed Christ.  We feast as the disciples did on Christ’s body and blood, and we leave in silence as his disciples did from the cross.  Today we feel everything:  life, death; victory, failure; joy, and devastation.  In letting go of our tendency to numb, we open ourselves to the fullness of all that happens on this day.  Only then can embrace the Easter message of resurrection that is to come.  Only when we are fully broken, fully vulnerable, fully present in the tension of this day can we receive the fullness of joy that comes next week.  Only when we are looking into the doorway to death can we understand the depth of joy that comes from the tinkling sound of new life.  So, stay awake with us for just a little while longer.

[i] Brené Brown, Dare to Lead (New York:  Random House, 2018), 85.

On Grieving Together…

Tags

community, companion, death, eternal life, God, grief, Jesus Christ, life, mortality, pastor, strength

Photo credit:  https://www.everplans.com/articles/how-to-make-sure-your-legacy-lives-on-after-youre-gone

Grief is a funny thing.  We all experience it differently, respond to it differently, and let it impact us differently.  Sometimes we let grief do its work and then we are done; sometimes the grief sneaks up on us; and sometimes the grief never fades, a constant companion.  This week my grandmother passed away.  We knew this call would come soon.  I had taken my girls to see her months ago for a goodbye.  She had been in Hospice and had stopped eating.  But in the flurry of living – of clothes strewn about, water sloshing around, story-telling, cleaning, and brushing, the news of death was jarring.  For a moment I thought I would wait – share the news with the girls at a more appropriate time.  But then I remembered there is no appropriate time.  Death happens when it happens, and its companion, grief, comes as it will.

My initial work was helping my girls navigate their grief.  Upon receiving the news, my younger’s eyes got wide, and she was quick to assert that we needed to leave so that we could “take ‘Mee-maw’ to the hospital and take care of her.”  I tried to explain that it was too late, but she insisted that if we rushed, we could help her.  Once her disappointed face registered reality, she proclaimed, “Well, I’m not going to die!”  Then began a conversation about mortality and eternal life.  And a new level of grief began.

Meanwhile, the older child seemed to hold her thoughts and emotions at bay, being equally distracted by her sister’s reactions.  We talked about it briefly as I tucked her in, and she seemed okay.  The next morning, after I had dropped her off at camp and was heading back to my car, she ran back up to me and gave me a big hug and started crying.  “I’m sad about what happened yesterday.”  I honestly wasn’t sure what she was talking about until she explained her delayed reaction to Mee-maw’s death.  Time stood still as we grieved together.  A minute later, she was drying her face with the back of her hand and running to catch up with friends.

My own grief finally caught up with me as I watched an emotional movie later that night.  The truth is, my grandmother was a complicated woman.  She was the matriarch of the family who sometimes ruled with an iron first – even if you were only aware of her power subconsciously.  She was intimidatingly smart, held a wealth of knowledge in her mind, and could talk to any stranger.  I loved and respected her, and also saw her many flaws and the ways she hurt people.  She was not really a loving, doting grandmother, but a woman who held everyone to high standards and pushed us to be our best.  I was often afraid of the woman who insisted on the title “Grandmother Andrews.”  But in these last years, I loved seeing her humanity as a new generation of greatgrandchildren called her “Mee-maw.”

As I wade through grief this week, I welcome your prayers.  Even pastors need pastoring sometimes.  But also know that I am praying for you and the ways in which grief continues to be your companion:  for the grandparents, parents, spouses, and friends lost; for the marriages, jobs, and pregnancies lost; for the possibilities, dreams, and loves lost.  You especially have my prayers as grief reminds us all of our own mortality.  As you hold me, I also hold you in the promise of eternal life, a new reality in Christ Jesus.  May that grounding strengthen each of us as we stand together in the already and the not yet.

Almighty God, look with pity upon the sorrows of your servants.  Remember us, Lord, in mercy; nourish us with patience; comfort us with a sense of your goodness; lift up your countenance up us; and give us peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.  (BCP 467, amended)

On Resurrection Living…

Tags

afraid, Christ, church, death, Easter, Eastertide, eternal life, free, identity, Jesus, life, resurrection, transformation

I have been thinking a lot about death lately.  That probably sounds a bit morbid, but given my profession, should not be much of a surprise.  I think death has been on my mind for lots of reasons:  we celebrated the death of an incredible woman at our parish last week, our Adult Forum series during Eastertide is about death (end of life care, wills, legacy giving, funeral planning), and this Sunday’s lessons, although beloved, are quite common readings for funerals.  Everywhere I turn seems to offer reminders of death, and yet here we are in the season of Easter – a time to honor resurrection – to honor Christ’s victory over death!

One of the reasons we are freed up to talk about death in Eastertide is because death is changed through the resurrection of Christ.  In light of the resurrection, we see our life and death differently.  We proclaim that difference in the Book of Common Prayer at funerals.  “Life is changed, not ended,” we say in the burial office.  Whereas the secular world would have us consume life to its fullest, ignoring the inevitability of death; would have us preserve our bodies and make ourselves look younger to ignore our natural aging; would have us avoid conversations with our loved ones and community about death, the Church says something different.

The Church says Christ’s resurrection changes life so much, talking about death is no longer morbid.  The Church says, the promise of eternal life allows us make those funeral plans with a spirit of joy, not a spirit of dread.  The Church says that our time among the living is meant to bless and honor others, so making that will and designating those legacy gifts to a church are in great congruence with our understanding of resurrection living.  An Adult Forum series on death (or Resurrection Living, as we have called it) or reading lessons from funerals during Eastertide makes perfect sense.  Those exercises free us from seeing death as final, encouraging instead a life of resurrection hope and joy – a life lived in the light of eternal life.  I hope you will join us this week at Hickory Neck as we dive into that new identity and welcome the transformation of life in the light of the resurrection.

Photo credit:  http://www.rlmonline.com/about-rlm/

 

 

On Making Mary Moments…

Tags

beauty, closure, death, goodbye, grandmother, holy, Jesus, journey, Martha, Mary, meaningful, presence, sit, visit

Photo Credit:  Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly, January 26, 2018

Over a week ago, I received a call that my grandmother was approaching death.  The suggestion was if I wanted a last visit, I should come sooner rather than later.  Looking at the week ahead, I realized I could go with my children last weekend with minimal impact to their school schedule or my own work obligations.  I was not sure what to expect – whether I would be able to have meaningful conversation or even eye contact with her, or especially how my three- and eight-year olds would respond to her in her current state.  At some point, a family member pastorally suggested I not come, knowing how hard such a long journey for such a brief visit would be.  But something kept pushing me to go, even if the journey seemed fraught with potential difficulty.

There were things that did not happen.  We did not have one last, long, meaningful conversation as I had with my other grandmother.  My grandmother was much too weak and her thoughts much too confused to answer any of my lingering questions about our family.  My children did not get to interact with my grandmother extensively.  They had beautiful moments of tenderness with her, and they played nearby, but they also needed to be kids and move.  I did not leave with a sense of real closure.  No one really knows how long she will be able to thrive.

What did happen was a much clearer understanding of why Mary chose to sit at Jesus’ feet, while her sister Martha busied herself with the duties of the home.  For full confession’s sake, I am much more like Martha most days – I am always washing one more dish or finishing one more piece of laundry instead of playing with my kids or hanging out with my husband.  But sitting beside my grandmother, holding her hand, realizing all the things I was not getting, I came to see the beauty of presence.  I do not think I have ever just been still with my grandmother.  I have never looked into her eyes for an extended period of time without saying anything.  I am pretty sure I have never just held her hand.  In the midst of all that could not be said, I felt a different kind of closure.  I could finally see in my larger-than-life grandmother her vulnerability, her desire to love, her humanity.

I left my grandmother last weekend wondering if I might be able to create more space for Mary-type moments in everyday life.  Whether I might put my phone away more often at home and be more present with my family.  How I might stop worrying about my to-do list, and spend more open time with our staff and parishioners.   Whether I might write that note to a suffering friend instead of letting the thought pass.  What Mary-type moments have been missing in your life lately?  When was the last time you sat at the feet of Jesus, or sat at the feet of the holy in others, and stayed for a while?  What might you need to do this week to find your own Mary moment?  I look forward to hearing about your reflections.

On Life, Death, and the In-Between…

Tags

birth, death, gift, God, joy, life, promise, thin space, Trinity, vocation

At the hospital where I delivered my second child, they had a practice of allowing the spouse or supporting person of the mother push a button that would play a tinkling song throughout the hospital marking the birth of a child.  The practice has many wonderful implications.  One, it makes room for joy – joy that can be experienced throughout the whole hospital community.  For those of you who have spent much time in hospitals, you know joy can be lacking.  Two, it creates a sense of mutuality between the birthing mother and her support team.  When the mom is doing most of the hard labor, it is nice to have tangible ways for the supporting team to participate.  Three, it creates little moments of celebration for the hospital staff – something they need too when bogged down with the work of health care.

But what felt like a wonderful, life-giving gift as I was delivering has taken on new layers of meaning as a pastor who visits hospitals.  More often than not, I have heard that song played while sitting with someone with a serious illness or who is approaching death.  The sense of irony about the circle of life is never lost on me, the patient, or their family.  It still feels like a gift, but a bittersweet one nonetheless.  I have also wondered what that song does for women and men in the hospital who have struggled with infertility or who have just lost a child.  That song represents so many unfulfilled dreams and heartache.

That being said, I do not think the disadvantages of the song outnumber the advantages.  I think the song actually does for everyday people what those in healthcare and pastoral care experience everyday – the thin spaces between life and death.  I cannot tell you the number of times when I have experienced life and death in a matter of days, hours, or minutes.  I have written about that here.  In a given week, I can hear the tinkling song while I sit at the bedside of a dying parishioner.  In a given day, I can hear elementary children playing and laughing, and then sit with a family member who needs a good cry.  In a given span of hours, I can bury a parishioner and then counsel a parishioner who is burying a marriage, birthing new love, or celebrating a new beginning.  This work is such that life and death are thinly separated.

The consequence of that thin space is that I get regular reminders of the enormity of God’s presence.  If I find the experience of celebrating life and watching life pass away in a matter of minutes, how much more infinitely does God experience the highest of highs and the lowest of lows in the human experience.  The God who created us and the world about us and called it good, and yet stood by as we sullied that creation has seen much.  The God who took on human form to experience for God’s self the complexity of the human experience knows much.  The God who breathes through life, death, and vocation in between feels much.  As we celebrate Trinity Sunday this weekend, I wonder how your appreciation of the three-in-one Godhead might help you appreciate both the promise that God is with us always, but also help you name God with us always for others.

Photo credit:  https://www.everydayfamily.com/blog/worlds-oldest-new-father/

On Fragility…

Tags

cycle, death, fragile, God, hidden, life, loss, prayer, pregnancy, thin space

Photo credit:  www.extremetech.com/extreme/191233-new-nanoparticles-get-us-closer-to-artificial-photosynthesis-mass-carbon-capture

I have talked before about how, as a priest, the life cycle is ever present in my work [see post here].  Simultaneously celebrating new life and honoring earthly death can sometimes happen within days or hours.  But this week I have been reminded of how sometimes we do not even see or think about that thin space between life and death because, all too often, we have the privilege of not having to think about it.

This week, one of my close friends celebrated the fifth anniversary of the birth and death of her child.  The baby died in utero around twenty weeks.  That event was formative for our entire community of friends.  Suddenly, pregnancy was no longer a happy, idyllic time, when everything always turns out okay.  We all began to see the dark side of pregnancy, and understand how much we take a “normal pregnancy” for granted.  In thinking about baby Ella this week, and the impact she had on so many of us, I find myself humbled by how much her death gave us.

And like any other cyclical week in the priesthood, what news should I learn but of a friend who was surprised to discover she is pregnant after having lost her first pregnancy over a year ago.  I was equally elated and terrified.  Elated, because I knew how much the couple hoped that maybe, just maybe, they might be blessed with a successful pregnancy and birth.  But terrified because they, and I, know how fragile these next thirty-four weeks will be.

So this week, my prayers are with all of those who walk through the journey of life, death, and pregnancy.  I especially lift them up, because all too often, their joy, grief, and anxiety are hidden.  For fear that life will not be viable, many couples elect to keep their pregnancy quiet for as long as possible.  Whether they share or not, the couple faces consequences.  When everyone knows about a pregnancy that is lost, the couple can have to retell the painful story over and over again.  When no one knows about the pregnancy, the couple can feel isolated and alone in their grief, because to share their story, they have to tell you that they were pregnant and are now no longer pregnant.  There are no easy ways forward, and so for those in our midst walking the path of longing to create new life, fearfully growing new life, birthing new life, and mourning lost life, our prayers are with you.  You live in a fragile reality that we honor and hold with love and that we lift to God.  You are not alone.