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 10.1-10, Acts 2.42-47, E4, YA, May 3, 2020

Tags

abundant, church, community, Coronavirus, emotion, filter, Good Shepherd, grief, Jesus, life, pandemic, pastor, protection, redeeming, resentment, restorative, Sermon

It could be that having been ordered to stay in our homes for almost two months, with no real end in sight, has made me a bit cranky.  It could be that the tidal wave of illness, death, and suffering bearing down on us has birthed rising anxiety and fear.  It could be the slow realization that having lived in this “new normal” will mean our old “normal” will be forever tainted and will never fully be restored has brought a sense of grief or despair.  Whatever the feelings and emotional responses we are having to this pandemic, they are creating a lens or a filter through which we interpret everything – including Holy Scripture.

For me, the initial lens or filter through which I have been reading Holy Scripture has been one of bitterness, resentment, and grief.  Take today’s lessons.  This Sunday, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, is colloquially known as Good Shepherd Sunday.  The lessons on this Sunday every year give us images of pasture, protection, and pastoring.  And yet, this year, my initial response to the readings were resistance.  I am not emotionally ready to be cradled in the arms of a Good Shepherd.  I am not mentally ready to hear that Jesus wants us to have life, and have life abundantly.  I am not spiritually ready to hear about the post-Pentecost community gathered, breaking bread, spending time together in person in the temple and in homes, growing in numbers day by day.  I am not emotionally, mentally, or spiritually ready because hearing those wonderfully affirming things makes me realize how far from reality those things feel right now.

Of course, Church has not always been that way.  In fact, Church used to be exactly those things.  Throughout my life, Church has been the place where the Good Shepherd, where Jesus, has been the comforting figure who brings me into the fold, who knows me by name, whose voice brings assurance and confidence.  Church has been the place where I have found a community of people who make my life whole – a people who teach me about love, about calling, and about what family really looks like.  A little over a week ago, when over thirty of us gathered around our cars, seeing each other’s faces for the first time in months, as we prepared to drive to parishioners’ homes to sing Happy Birthday wishes, I was stunned at how powerful the feelings were of just seeing those beautiful faces, of having a glimpse of why this community has been so incredibly meaningful in my life, of remembering the comfort of being together.  The experience was a shock of love, care, and affection that opened up the gaping hole in my life I had so carefully covered up to protect myself from thinking about what I was missing in this pandemic.

So, does Scripture have any chance with us to be redeeming, restorative, and refreshing when our emotions are so raw?  Is there Good News today?  I have begun to realize in order to allow Scripture to have that power for me, I have needed to switch glasses.  On the Fourth Sunday of Easter in almost every year in memory, this Sunday has been about rose-colored glasses.  We talk about the Good Shepherd romantically and abundance superficially, we sing our favorite psalm, and we gather round and cozy up together.  But today, I hear Jesus inviting us to take off those rose-colored glasses (which he would have hated anyway), and slip on some clear glasses.  In those clear glasses, we can look at the community gathered in Acts and not imagine a loving community gathered and growing and peacefully breaking bread together.  Instead, scholars remind us the post-Pentecost community represents “different regions, speaking different dialects.  Some may not have shared the native languages of others, in spite of a shared Jewish faith.  There would have been distinct food preferences and different levels of financial security.  There would have been different prejudices to navigate, different interpretations of Torah and different political proclivities.”  And for those in charge of making the bread, those numbers growing day by day represented increased stress and strain, not jubilant joy.[i]  I imagine the chaos of that time was not unlike the chaos of sheep gathered into a fold – a noisy, messy, resistant bunch that the loving Shepherd had to prod, yank, and shove into said fold.

With new glasses, we no longer look with jealousy on that early gathered Christian community or that chaotic, smelly sheep fold, but instead begin to see commonality.  Just like the early Christian community trying to make her way through the chaos, we too are making our way through chaos.  We are overcoming technological hurdles, welcoming strangers from all over the community and the globe in our worship, and finding community even in our isolation.  Our gathering now is weird and awkward and frustrating.  But our gathering is also encouraging and life-giving and hope-making.  And as we watch people’s names pop up on the screen and as we see comments of reassurance, we see beauty in this particular community, we see hope percolating up despite us, and we see that even as life feels stripped of all goodness, the Good Shepherd is indeed offering us life in abundance.  This week, the Good Shepherd is not some picture-perfect stained-glass version of a Shepherd with a lamb gently hanging over his shoulder.  This week, the Good Shepherd is standing beside us, his arm cocked over our shoulder, shaking his head with us at the immensity of this crazy reality, and simply giving us a reassuring, unspoken smile, and a nudge into some abundant life this week.  Thanks be to God.

[i] Jerusha Matsen Neal, “Commentary on Acts 2:42-47,” May 3, 2020, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=4443 on May 1, 2020.

On Grief, Grace, and God in a Pandemic…

Tags

cope, Coronavirus, emotion, freedom, God, grace, grief, Jesus, loss, lovingkindness, pandemic

Photo credit:  https://www.timeshighereducation.com/student/blogs/how-deal-grief-while-university

This week, I hopped in the car to pick up an order of food from a local restaurant.  We’ve been trying to support our local businesses, and this has become a weekly treat.  On my drive there, I suddenly felt a sense of freedom.  I was totally alone in the car, I was blasting music only I like, and I was free from the confines of our home.  The whole trip was probably only 20 minutes round trip, and I have been out of the house many times, as I am the designated person to pick up necessities, but something about this particular drive was so gloriously freeing that the release of blissful emotion almost made me cry with longing.

As I thought about the drive later, I began to understand the surprising surge of emotion.  Intellectually, I know we as a world are suffering a tremendous amount of grief.  But I had not fully acknowledged my own grief – grief over seemingly small losses.  In my case, the loss of freedom to structure my day, create space without children around for contemplation or accomplishing work, to go about daily rituals (work, shopping, dropping off kids), or even the ability to just hop in the car and go wherever I want.  I suppose I had not acknowledged my grief because there is much bigger grief all around me – grief over the death of loved ones whose funerals are indefinitely postponed, grief over lost livelihoods and the threat of financial ruin, grief over the incapacitating of the body from this virus, grief over lost milestones, such as graduations, weddings, and baptisms.  In the face of such enormous grief, my feelings felt petty or unmerited.

I have counseled more families than I can count after a loved one has been lost.  We talk about how important having a funeral as soon as possible is so the grief process can begin.  With church members, we send a series of four books over the following year to help them as their grief evolves.  But in the midst of a pandemic, grief is a strange animal.  There are ways in which we are hesitant to acknowledge or give credence to our grief.  There are ways in which we stuff our grief because we are just trying to survive.  And there are ways in which our grief simply cannot be processed because of the elimination of our normal rituals.

All of that is to say, I hope that you can use this time to give yourself the same amount of grace and lovingkindness that our Lord gives us.  This time is unlike anything most of us have faced, and our normal coping mechanisms may not be sufficient.  And that is okay.  The good news is that Christ is walking with us in this time, holding our fragile selves together (and staying nearby with the fragility shatters).  Our invitation is to accept that tenderness for ourselves, and, when possible, extend that tenderness to others – our loved ones, our neighbors, and strangers.  As always, you are in my prayers.  Today I especially pray that you can feel God’s loving arms surrounding you on every side.

Sermon – Matthew 17.1-9, LE, YA, February 23, 2020

Tags

action, Calvary, emotion, God, Jesus, Lent, listen, mountain, mountaintop experiences, rollercoaster, touch, Transfiguration

On this last day of Epiphany, as we prepare to enter into Lent this week, we are given the text of Jesus’ transfiguration.  The text in and of itself is mesmerizing:  Jesus and three disciples go up a mountain, which is a hint to all of us that something dramatic is about to happen; Jesus is transfigured, his face shining like the sun and his clothes turning dazzling white; Moses and Elijah appear, two giant figures in our tradition – so giant we heard about Moses’ mountaintop experience today too; a cloud comes down around them and God speaks; and when the experience is all over, Jesus gently touches the disciples and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”  We could easily get lost in this spellbinding moment, longing to stay on the mountaintop this morning.

But as many scholars point out[i], this mountaintop story, situated at the end of the Epiphany season, is not told in isolation.  Because we tell this story when we do, we have to take a wider view today.  The end of this season is bookended by the end of the season we are about to enter:  Lent.  That season ends on a mountain, of sorts, too – the hill of Calvary, where we see a very different kind of scene.  In this Sunday of transition, we hold the two mountains in tension together.  As scholar N.T. Wright reminds us, on Transfiguration Sunday, “…on a mountain, is Jesus, revealed in glory; there, on a hill outside Jerusalem, is Jesus, revealed in shame.  Here his clothes are shining white; there, they have been stripped off, and soldiers have gambled for them.  Here he is flanked by Moses and Elijah, two of Israel’s greatest heroes, representing the law and the prophets; there, he is flanked by two brigands, representing the level to which Israel had sunk in rebellion against God.  Here, a bright cloud overshadows the scene; there, darkness comes upon the land.  Here Peter blurts out how wonderful it all is; there, he is hiding in shame after denying he even knows Jesus.  Here a voice from God himself declares that this is his wonderful son; there, a pagan soldier declares, in surprise, that this really was God’s son.”[ii]

Looking at the transfiguration of Jesus in that way as opposed to a momentous, isolated event feels like riding a rollercoaster – seeing the glorious and the disastrous all in once glance, feeling the high of sweet affirmation and comfort and the low of betrayal all in one breath, knowing the promise of victory and reality of failure all in one moment.  When you take the expanse of the mountaintop transfiguration, the journey through Lent, the culmination on the hill of Calvary, you can almost feel dizzy from the range of emotions.

In some ways, that sensation of being on a rollercoaster of emotions has not been dissimilar to the experience of emotions lately at Hickory Neck.  In the course of one week recently, we said goodbye to a beloved curate, labored intensively with our homeless neighbors, and then had the Presiding Bishop rock this very Nave.  In the course of these next months, we live into the reality of switching from a staff with two full-time priests, to one full-time priest, and will discover how that will shape and shift not only our experience with our staff, but our experience with caring for one another.  In the course of these next forty-plus days, we will go from the high of pancakes and talent shows, to ashes and repentance, back to alleluias, butterflies, and Easter eggs.  I can feel viscerally that rollercoaster of Transfiguration to Calvary right here in the life and ministry of Hickory Neck.

But that is why I am also deeply grateful for Matthew’s transfiguration text today.  We get two instructions today – one from God and one from Jesus.  God speaks first, with words we heard earlier at Jesus’ baptism.  “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased.”  Those words are another declaration and reminder of Jesus’ identity.  But God adds something else today.  “Listen to him!” God says.  In those three words, God tells us what to do when caught in the whirlwind of life and transition:  listen to Jesus.  For a people who live in a culture marked by the spirit self-determination and can-do attitude, we are not necessarily the best at listening to Jesus.  Listening takes time and patience and discernment, and we just want to get on with the “doing.”  But today, God’s words are for us.  Listen to Jesus.

I used to be a part of a group who opened our gatherings with prayer.  One particular leader had a unique method of prayer.  He would introduce the prayer normally, saying, “Let us pray.”  But then he would say nothing.  For a long time.  So long was the silence, that the first time I experienced his prayer method, I kept discretely peeking through my eyelashes to make sure nothing was wrong.  I wondered if something had happened, or if he was struggling for words, or maybe even if he had fallen asleep.  But he remained sitting in a serene body posture, in silence as we waited.  When I finally conceded he must be doing this on purpose, I tried to relax and just sit in the silence.  Eventually his spoken prayer began and was lovely.  But I needed several more times praying with him before I could settle into the silence he created.  In that silence I began to stop talking in my head, and began to do what God commands today.  Listen to Jesus.  That is one of our invitations as we enter this Lent, and as we settle into this liminal time of transition at Hickory Neck.  We are to listen to Jesus.  Listening will not feel like doing.  Listening will sometimes be frustrating.  But in listening, we will be equipped to hear Jesus speaking to us and guiding us.

The other words spoken today are by Jesus.  Actually, Jesus does something powerful before he speaks.  He touches the disciples.  Jesus’ touch reminded me of a story from a priest friend of mine.  The priest was at his Diocesan Council a few years ago, an event at which he rarely speaks.  But an important issue arose, and he felt as though he could not avoid speaking.  He stood up, argued his case, and faced a heated confrontation.  In the end, the assembly agreed with him and his opinion won over.  As he sat back at his table, a friend quietly whispered in his ear, “You’re shaking.  I’m going to touch you for a little bit.”  As the friend laid his hand upon his shoulder, my friend could feel his blood pressure lowering and the tension releasing from his body.[iii]  In a world that has become extremely and wisely cautious about touch, we sometimes forget the power of touch.  We all have had powerful experiences with touch:  whether we received a similar hand on the should as reassurance that all would be well; whether we received a hug that was just slightly longer than normal, but much needed, after confessing some bad news; or whether someone just held our hand for a while, as a silent, encouraging gesture.  That is the kind of touch Jesus offers today.

But then, Jesus speaks.  Jesus says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”  For those of us who are doers, these words are anchoring today.  God tells us to listen to Jesus, Jesus gives us a reassuring touch, and then Jesus tells us to get up and not be afraid.  In other words, Jesus is speaking to us, Jesus is reassuring us, and then Jesus is telling us to get up and get going.  I hear in Jesus’ words today more modern words for Hickory Neck, “You’ve got this!”  As we enter into the season of Lent, we commit to what we always do in this season – to returning and repenting, to listening and discerning, to seeking comfort and renewal, and then getting back in there.  In what can feel like a rollercoaster of emotions, today’s lesson offers us grounding, comfort, and encouragement.  In a season of journeying from one mountain to another, we have the promise of a comforting hand, soothing words, and inspiring action.  We are not off the rollercoaster yet, but we have each other, and the promise of those unknown to us who join us in this journey.  As we stand here on our hill in Toano, I am grateful for good companions on what promises to be an awesome ride.  Amen.

[i] Thomas G. Long, Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Pres, 1997), 194; also, Rolf Jacobson, Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#708 – Transfiguration Sunday,” February 15, 2020,  http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=1232, as found on February 20, 2020.

[ii] N.T. Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 14.

[iii] Steve Pankey, “The Power of Touch,” as found at http://draughtingtheology.wordpress.com/2014/02/27/the-power-of-touch/ on February 27, 2014.

On Cultivating Empathy…

Tags

boundaries, crying, emotion, empathy, fear, give, God, Jesus, receive, teach, weakness

Photo credit:  https://www.raisingboysandgirls.com/raisingboysandgirls-blog/girls-boys-empathy

This weekend, I watched the live-action version of Beauty and the Beast with our children.  They have seen the animated version many times, but the differences in storyline in the live version made them feel like they were seeing the story for the first time, no longer trusting the outcome to be the same.  As we watched the film, we were spread across the living room in our favorite watching spots.  At the point where the beast releases Belle to go help her father, the Beast sings a sad song not found in the animated version.  In the midst of the song, my younger daughter jumped up from her seat, her eyes overflowing with tears and ran to jump in my lap.

I was surprised by her strong reaction to the scene, and quickly began to comfort her and ask what was upsetting her so much.  She was devastated Belle might not come back and was weeping for the beast.  We whispered quietly and I tried to reassure her so she could keep watching.  Meanwhile, my older daughter was completely confused by her sister’s reaction.  Perhaps she felt her sister should remember the ending, or maybe she just thought crying over a movie was silly (as she has told me so many a time as I have wiped my own tears at various movies).

Later that night, I talked with my younger daughter about the movie and her reaction.  She said she was glad she had not seen the movie at school because she wouldn’t want her friends to see her cry.  As we talked about her fear, she recalled that I had once told her it was okay to cry when something is really sad.

I have been thinking since that night how we teach our children and what lessons adult internalize about emotions.  I am not suggesting we need to walk around crying all the time, but I do think we have internalized some messaging about how crying connotes weakness instead of a deep sense of empathy.  And the good Lord know we need a lot more empathy these days – for our friends, for our enemies, for strangers.

As I think about Jesus’ ministry, one of the things he always showed was a sense of empathy without boundaries:  for women and the powerless, for the sick and ostracized, for those who are slow to understand, for those who follow rules but forget grace, for those who have let fear and anger harden their hearts.  This week, I invite you to consider where you have lost touch with empathy.  If you need some prodding, I suspect just reading or listening to the news will give you ample opportunity for occasions for empathy.  But I imagine you already know where you have separated yourself from empathy.  It will not be easy work, and others might look at you askance when you show empathy.  But I suspect the more you work on empathy, the more you might receive it in return.

 

 

On Food, Tears, and God…

Tags

comfort, community, emotion, familiar, food, God, intimacy, memory, power, relationship, taste, tears, worship

About ten years ago, I traveled with a group of seven seminarians to Myanmar, or Burma.  The purpose was to learn about, develop relationships with, and support the Anglican Church in Myanmar.  I could talk for days about that four-week trip, but one of the experiences that lingered with me was the food.  Part of why the cuisine lingered with me was because each of my three years in seminary we had one or two Burmese students at the seminary.  After the trip, we took to having reunions at a local Burmese Restaurant.  We found the meals reminded us of the flavors of that trip, the food comforted our Burmese friends, and the fellowship kept the experience vivid and meaningful for years to come.

This past weekend I was traveling in the area of my seminary and made a trip to the restaurant for lunch.  I ordered my two favorite, most potent memory-invoking dishes:  mohingar, a fish-based soup, and pickled tea leaf salad.  I had been looking forward to the food for weeks – so much so that I was salivating by the time I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant.  What I was not expecting was the wave of emotion that accompanied the food.  As the heat of the salad opened my sinuses, I was reminded of multiple episodes on our trip where funny food-related experiences happened – a too-hot pepper eaten, the presentation of tiny birds as an appetizer, an avocado milkshake.  As I sipped the mohingar, the warmth in my belly reminded me of all the times the food, though foreign, was exceptionally comforting – like discovering a comfort food you never knew you missed.  As those memories and feelings emerged, I became overwhelmed and found myself fighting back tears.  The rush of emotions was completely unexpected and disorienting, and I could not be sure whether I was sad or profoundly happy.

I have talked a couple of times about the power of food, taste, and memory (both here and here) to connect with our spiritual life.  But what I realized this weekend (as I tried not to cry into my mohingar) is that food and taste point to the powerful experiences that can happen in faith communities.  For the team that traveled to Burma, the food was a tool for bringing us together and sharing memories.  For our Burmese friends and fellow students, the food was an opportunity to experience intimacy and trust that I do not think would have happened in the classroom alone.  The taste of the familiar dishes were not simply familiar tastes.  They were also tools for creating and sustaining community, and honoring that community through the senses.

This week, we will be starting a new summertime worship service at Hickory Neck.   Though rooted in our Episcopal and Anglican identity, the service is a departure from our Sunday morning services.  We are using different prayers and music; we are settling into a more casual style of worship and preaching; and we are even changing small things like the type of bread we eat for communion.  Part of the changes are certainly meant to shift the sensory experiences of worship.  But another part of the changes is meant to shape community a bit differently – to create a sense of intimacy, familiarity, shared spiritual journey.  I am not sure if pita bread will be able to accomplish all of that, but I hope you will come out and give this new offering a try.  Who knows what memories, relationships, and encounters with God you will create?!

On hope…

Tags

baby, emotion, Epiphany, God, hope, incarnation, infant, Jesus

One of the things I had forgotten about having babies is how incredibly transformative they can be.  People totally change around babies.  They ooh and ahh around babies.  Their faces light up and they seem uncontrollably drawn toward infants.  Their whole demeanor shifts at the sight of a baby.  I have even brought my infant to meetings before, and I am amazed about how the whole mood of the room changes.  Work still gets done, but not without laughter, smiles, and joy.  Even a crying child makes people sympathetic and tender.

Courtesy of http://danielleshroyer.com/2014/12/01/moltmann-monday-hope-poor-advent-hope/

For a long time, I wondered what it was about babies that could turn even the sternest person to mush.  Then I realized what it was:  hope.  Because babies have little control or ability to assert their own (often contradictory) will, there is hope for all that the baby can be.  Their innocence and simplicity are a refreshing break from the complicated nature of life.  They truly are a gift to families, communities, and even strangers who sometimes have truly lost what it means to be a people of hope.

When our little one played baby Jesus in the Epiphany Pageant this year, I was not surprised at all then that the adult playing Mary teared up during the pageant.  I have not spoken to her about what was going on that made her teary, but watching the emotion bubble up in her was something that I knew only an infant could do.  Her emotional response made me see and hear the entire pageant differently – seeing the children in a different way, hearing the words of scripture in a different way, and singing the familiar Christmas songs in a different way.

In that moment of emotion, something else also became clear to me in a totally different way.  The human reality of Jesus as a baby became much more tangible in that moment.  It suddenly made sense to me how angels, shepherd, and wise men could reverence a child.  It made sense to me how Mary and Joseph were completely perplexed, but also completely hopeful about this new thing that was happening through their child.  It made sense to me the tremendous gift and miracle of God taking on flesh for us truly was.

Those moments of utter clarity are a bit rare in my life.  I know the biblical stories and our liturgies so well that sometimes they become rote.  I believe them all; I just do not always feel them.  That morning, I felt it.  I felt the wonder.  I felt the overwhelming gratitude.  I felt the hope.  My guess is that opportunities for those feelings are more present than we ever recognize.  Our challenge is honing the skill of perceiving when God is breaking into our routines and giving us hope.