"Arriving" is a continuation of the blog series "Leaving," which reflects upon my process of transitioning out of my first call and into a new call; leaving St. Timothy Lutheran (Naperville, IL) and moving to First Lutheran (Decorah, IA).
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I am preaching this weekend on texts that all have to do with newness. Peter figures out that God is heading in a new direction, opening up the movement of the Holy Spirit not just to the "insiders," but to all. Revelation talks about God's plans for a "new heaven and new earth," where death and mourning and crying will be no more. And Jesus talks about the new commandment that he gives us, his disciples: to love one another as he has loved us.
And right now, my head and heart are bearing the weight of what newness means...and what it doesn't!
What they don't tell you about leaving a congregation and beginning with a new congregation is that you will spend more time than you'd like second-guessing yourself, feeling uncertain, and feeling guilty.
Back in December, I weighed lots and lots of things in deciding whether it was time to transition from a first call into a next call. I did more soul-searching that I've ever done before (or so it seems), and I opened my ears and heart to my closest and most trusted confidantes as I sought counsel. And when all the hopes and dreams and opinions and prayers had been weighed, I trusted the feeling deep in my gut that God was drawing me to this new thing, and that God was drawing me to a new thing that was for good and not for harm.
And I feel, consistently, that this new call is good. This new home is good. This new way of life in a small town and not in a suburb is good.
But what I have a hard time fending off are the more worldly voices in my head that try to ask me, "Is all of this newness BETTER?" It's a trick question. A false pretense.
In many other careers, you make decisions based on upgrades, on moving up a ladder, on moving forward. But in this peculiar calling to ministry, you make decisions based on moving sideways and throughways and all sorts of other crazy directions, based on where you truly believe God is calling you to be, for any number of purposes and plans.
And so how do I explain to those "upward mobility" voices in my head that this new call isn't about being someplace "better" than before, or that following the movement of the Spirit isn't about making comparisons of worth or notoriety. I came from good and entered into good. I came from fulfilling expressions of ministry and have entered into new fulfilling expressions of ministry. I gave of myself and my gifts to one beautiful and appreciative congregation, and I am giving of myself and my gifts to a new beautiful and appreciative congregation.
And when those misunderstanding voices creep into my head, the ones that would want me to frame my transition in terms of "better or worse," and want me to feel uncertain or guilty, I fend them off by remembering one particular, profound, important detail:
God doesn't talk in terms of making us "better." God talks in terms of making us NEW. And God loves the pieces of us that are old, and the pieces of us that are new. God isn't interested in talking about "self-improvement," but rather calls us to love and service for the sake of our own newness and the newness of the world.
And so I am here, in a new place, to love and to serve, and to bring the light of God to this place, in this time, just as I was called to love and serve and to bring the light of God to a different place in a different time, and just as I imagine God will call me to bring light and love and service to some other, future places at some other, future times.
Because newness is mostly a matter of giving in to God's call for the sake of faithfulness. And in that mindset, there is no more guilt, or fear, or second-guessing. Just trust that I am here, exactly where I am supposed to be, exactly as God wants me to be for many and various purposes.
Showing posts with label first call. Show all posts
Showing posts with label first call. Show all posts
3.25.2013
Arriving: Gains and losses
"Arriving" is a continuation of the blog series "Leaving," which reflects upon my process of transitioning out of my first call and into a new call; leaving St. Timothy Lutheran (Naperville, IL) and moving to First Lutheran (Decorah, IA).
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I've been here at First for four weeks now, and my life here is starting to feel nice and full. I am learning names, I have been invited to dinners and hangouts and coffees, I've already fallen behind on filing papers and emails. I know the movement of the liturgy, I know how to use the copier, and I know the names of a bunch of high schoolers from my visits to youth group.
But it is through all of these gains - and the gains yet to come! - that I am also becoming more aware of my losses.
Here's what stinks about the transition process: I can only be in one place at a time.
The only way for me to serve a congregation is to build relationships on a personal level. That is to say, I can only be a good pastor if I am personally invested in the congregation and its members. And I am pleased that this process of relationship-building is happening at First. But it also means that I feel sad about the relationships I left behind at St. Timothy.
I know that I cannot be pastor to two congregations at once. But it is really hard to be out of touch with people whom I care deeply about. It's hard to look at old pictures of the St. Timothy high school group, because I miss hanging out with them. It's hard to catch word about events and activities going on at St. Timothy, because I picture the faces of all of those people whom I love, gathering to worship and to serve, and I miss being with them. I think about members who were in poor health, or who were going through difficult times, and it hurts that I'm not in a place to follow up with them or reach out to them.
And I know that it has to be that way. I absolutely want to be at First, and I am so ready to love and care for and serve everybody in this congregation. But it's a really strange exercise to just walk way from people and a place in which I invested so much time and emotion.
It's a peculiar cruelty of the pastoral role, I think. Because you have to be invested for it to work...but you also have to let go when you leave.
Such is the way with transitions, I suppose. Even to pursue good and exciting and meaningful change, you have to leave some part of yourself behind. In order to start a new life, you have to leave pieces of your old life behind. Where there are new gains, there will also be some losses.
The loving part of being a pastor is amazing. The letting go part is harder.
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I've been here at First for four weeks now, and my life here is starting to feel nice and full. I am learning names, I have been invited to dinners and hangouts and coffees, I've already fallen behind on filing papers and emails. I know the movement of the liturgy, I know how to use the copier, and I know the names of a bunch of high schoolers from my visits to youth group.
But it is through all of these gains - and the gains yet to come! - that I am also becoming more aware of my losses.
Here's what stinks about the transition process: I can only be in one place at a time.
The only way for me to serve a congregation is to build relationships on a personal level. That is to say, I can only be a good pastor if I am personally invested in the congregation and its members. And I am pleased that this process of relationship-building is happening at First. But it also means that I feel sad about the relationships I left behind at St. Timothy.
I know that I cannot be pastor to two congregations at once. But it is really hard to be out of touch with people whom I care deeply about. It's hard to look at old pictures of the St. Timothy high school group, because I miss hanging out with them. It's hard to catch word about events and activities going on at St. Timothy, because I picture the faces of all of those people whom I love, gathering to worship and to serve, and I miss being with them. I think about members who were in poor health, or who were going through difficult times, and it hurts that I'm not in a place to follow up with them or reach out to them.
And I know that it has to be that way. I absolutely want to be at First, and I am so ready to love and care for and serve everybody in this congregation. But it's a really strange exercise to just walk way from people and a place in which I invested so much time and emotion.
It's a peculiar cruelty of the pastoral role, I think. Because you have to be invested for it to work...but you also have to let go when you leave.
Such is the way with transitions, I suppose. Even to pursue good and exciting and meaningful change, you have to leave some part of yourself behind. In order to start a new life, you have to leave pieces of your old life behind. Where there are new gains, there will also be some losses.
The loving part of being a pastor is amazing. The letting go part is harder.
3.06.2013
Arriving: What little you control
"Arriving" is a continuation of the blog series "Leaving," which reflects upon my process of transitioning out of my first call and into a new call; leaving St. Timothy Lutheran (Naperville, IL) and moving to First Lutheran (Decorah, IA).
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It is Wednesday. My first duties at First Lutheran began just this past Saturday. That means that I have been "official" for all of five days.
These first five days have been a study in extremes. On the one hand, I don't know anybody, and I don't have particular responsibilities yet, and we haven't hammered out all of the details of what being a full staff looks like. And so in that respect it has been a quiet five days of watching and listening and keeping my mouth shut so that I can start to learn the heartbeat of this place. Saturday and Sunday were extremely high-energy and busy. I got a crash-course in liturgy details, poured every ounce of myself into preaching, learned what doors to unlock and when, met a couple hundred people, visited youth group, and accepted very kind invitations to meals and hang-outs. Monday was also very busy in its own right, as I spend the whole day unpacking and setting up my office.
Setting up an office is a strange exercise in control.
Because the first thing you have to do is create a big mess. Monday morning, I emptied out all of the boxes marked "desk supplies" and then started to group them and figure out which drawers to put things in. And then I decided that I didn't like how I'd arranged things, so I emptied your desk and started over with a new arrangement. Then I unpacked all of my books, and put them into piles all across my floor, reorganizing them and grouping them and fitting them on shelves, and trying to anticipate which books I'm going to use most often, so that I could put them on the closest shelf to my desk. Repeat this process for CDs and file folders and decorations and lamps and binders.
In essence, before I could get anything organized and under control, I first had to dump everything out, make a mess, and let go of control. Everything doesn't just simply fit like it did before. No matter how in-control I was when I packed up my old office, my new office had to be chaos first. And, truth be told, no matter how organized my office seems at this very moment, it will yet evolve, and my first impressions of where I want things will end up incorrect, and there will be more shuffling and settling as I get into rhythm here.
Same goes with EVERY OTHER PART of this transition. Everything I thought I knew about being a pastor is a little up in the air right now, as I try to figure out what expectations and needs and hopes this new congregation has for me. Different parts of my personality fit in or stick out in different ways in this new place. I packed up all of my knowledge and passion and expertise in a very in-control sort of when when I left, but now, the only way to make all of those fit in this new place is to dump them all out in the middle of the floor, and to let things be chaotic and messy and out of my hands until I learn the daily flow of this place.
Because, well, let's be honest. I'm in control of very little right now. I'm not yet in charge of things in the congregation, not specifically, at least. I'm learning the feel and flow, but am not in charge of it. I don't know a lot, I don't have many relationships, I don't know my way around. And so I must let myself get swept up in the current for right now. Observing, asking questions, stuffing as much information into my brain as I can make fit. Accepting lots of invitations, pushing myself to be a fake extrovert so I can meet lots more people, letting people drive me places and show me around and set my schedule for me.
What little I control right now is my demeanor, my personality, my energy; my openness to God's call to this place. Bit by bit, I will be able to grasp more pieces of my life back under my own control. But for right now, I am all dumped out on the floor, in the midst of fruitful chaos, being carried along by others (no matter how much I hate to feel so vulnerable!), and reminding myself that patience and perseverance are indeed incredible virtues.
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| New office! |
These first five days have been a study in extremes. On the one hand, I don't know anybody, and I don't have particular responsibilities yet, and we haven't hammered out all of the details of what being a full staff looks like. And so in that respect it has been a quiet five days of watching and listening and keeping my mouth shut so that I can start to learn the heartbeat of this place. Saturday and Sunday were extremely high-energy and busy. I got a crash-course in liturgy details, poured every ounce of myself into preaching, learned what doors to unlock and when, met a couple hundred people, visited youth group, and accepted very kind invitations to meals and hang-outs. Monday was also very busy in its own right, as I spend the whole day unpacking and setting up my office.
Setting up an office is a strange exercise in control.
Because the first thing you have to do is create a big mess. Monday morning, I emptied out all of the boxes marked "desk supplies" and then started to group them and figure out which drawers to put things in. And then I decided that I didn't like how I'd arranged things, so I emptied your desk and started over with a new arrangement. Then I unpacked all of my books, and put them into piles all across my floor, reorganizing them and grouping them and fitting them on shelves, and trying to anticipate which books I'm going to use most often, so that I could put them on the closest shelf to my desk. Repeat this process for CDs and file folders and decorations and lamps and binders.
In essence, before I could get anything organized and under control, I first had to dump everything out, make a mess, and let go of control. Everything doesn't just simply fit like it did before. No matter how in-control I was when I packed up my old office, my new office had to be chaos first. And, truth be told, no matter how organized my office seems at this very moment, it will yet evolve, and my first impressions of where I want things will end up incorrect, and there will be more shuffling and settling as I get into rhythm here.
Same goes with EVERY OTHER PART of this transition. Everything I thought I knew about being a pastor is a little up in the air right now, as I try to figure out what expectations and needs and hopes this new congregation has for me. Different parts of my personality fit in or stick out in different ways in this new place. I packed up all of my knowledge and passion and expertise in a very in-control sort of when when I left, but now, the only way to make all of those fit in this new place is to dump them all out in the middle of the floor, and to let things be chaotic and messy and out of my hands until I learn the daily flow of this place.
Because, well, let's be honest. I'm in control of very little right now. I'm not yet in charge of things in the congregation, not specifically, at least. I'm learning the feel and flow, but am not in charge of it. I don't know a lot, I don't have many relationships, I don't know my way around. And so I must let myself get swept up in the current for right now. Observing, asking questions, stuffing as much information into my brain as I can make fit. Accepting lots of invitations, pushing myself to be a fake extrovert so I can meet lots more people, letting people drive me places and show me around and set my schedule for me.
What little I control right now is my demeanor, my personality, my energy; my openness to God's call to this place. Bit by bit, I will be able to grasp more pieces of my life back under my own control. But for right now, I am all dumped out on the floor, in the midst of fruitful chaos, being carried along by others (no matter how much I hate to feel so vulnerable!), and reminding myself that patience and perseverance are indeed incredible virtues.
2.10.2013
Transfiguration of Our Lord: Putting down our hammers
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| "Down the mountain" by Raoul Pop, on Flickr |
He sternly ordered and commanded them not to tell anyone, saying, "The Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, chief priests, and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised." Then he said to them all, "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will save it.
Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, "Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah" — not knowing what he said. While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, "This is my Son, my Chosen listen to him!" When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen. (Luke 9:18-24; 28-36)
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It is the second semester of the school year, and our Confirmation students are taking this whole winter and spring to learn about important characters and stories in the New Testament. A week ago, we learned about the twelve disciples. We learned that they were a bunch of relative nobodies who were yet chosen by Jesus to be his followers. We also learned that they were well-meaning and eager, but prone to confusion and misunderstanding. If you read through the gospels, you will find plenty of places where the disciples simply miss the point of what Jesus tries to teach them. Far from unredeemable characters, the disciples often are stand-ins for us, as we try to follow Jesus faithfully while still hanging on to the burden of being human.
Today’s gospel is another one of those stories, where Jesus and the disciples keep speaking past each other. The disciples fixate on the glory of God while Jesus tries to teach them about sacrifice and discipleship.
Everything starts right after Jesus has done a significant miracle – feeding thousands with just a few loaves of bread. Peter, having seen the glory of this and other miracles, confesses Jesus as Messiah.
Immediately, Jesus turns the conversation away from glory and instead talks about the cross, which is the opposite of glory, and he tells the disciples that the point of his life, and the point of their discipleship, is sacrifice.
Then, they go up the mountain. Jesus prays, and while he is praying, the glory of God shines through him and he is transfigured – his face sparkles, his clothes are dazzling white, it is a picture of light and glory.
Elijah and Moses show up to talk to Jesus about his departure – he is on his way to Jerusalem, where he will be arrested and crucified and will die in an ultimate act of sacrifice. He’s on his way forward to the least glorious days of his life.
Peter and James and John are a little way away, and they can’t hear what Jesus and his companions are talking about, but they see the shininess of the moment, and Jesus’ dazzling white clothes, and the faces of Elijah and Moses, two incredibly important and revered ancestors in faith.
So Peter tries to be helpful. There is glory on that mountaintop – transcendence and safety and mystery and beauty. And he wants to believe that that this is what following Jesus is all about, even though Jesus has just told him that discipleship is about sacrifice and not about glory. So Peter says “it is good for us to be here; I’ll grab my hammer to build us some dwellings, and we can just stay up here indefinitely.”
He is interrupted by a cloud that overshadows the shininess of the moment, and the voice of God from the cloud that reminds Peter, “This is my Son, my Chosen – LISTEN TO HIM!” It’s God, saying to the disciples, “didn’t you listen to what Jesus just told you about suffering and sacrifice?” It’s God, saying to the disciples, “Instead of taking charge of the moment and figuring out how to construct the First Lutheran Church of the Transfiguration on this mountaintop, maybe you should first let Jesus talk and see what he wants you to do.” It’s God, saying to the disciples and to us, “This is Jesus, and I have given him a mission and purpose on this earth, and the way to be a part of this mission is to let Jesus take the lead, no matter how much you want to control things, no matter how much you think you might know best.” It is God, telling us, “Take a step back from the shiny, mysterious, glorious stuff for a minute, and remember that the heart of my love is found among the rough lumber and crude nails of the cross.”
Jesus keeps pulling the disciples away from glory and pushing them toward discipleship. Jesus keeps reminding them that faith isn’t just about chasing the shiny stuff and God’s grace isn’t an excuse to settle down on top of the mountain, basking in glory. Following Jesus is all about love for neighbor and service and humility and witness, about keeping on the move to find new places to share God’s hope.
Like Peter and James and John, we are so often tempted by all of the shiny stuff, even as Adam and Eve themselves were tempted by a shiny apple way back in the garden. We are tempted by the shiny stuff of this world – money, fame, power, glory. And we are tempted by the shiny, mountaintop moments in our lives of faith – worship experiences that move us to places of transcendence, intense moments of feeling God’s presence, the enlivening sensation of receiving free grace and forgiveness.
Certainly not all bad things, of course. I mean, there’s a reason that we talk about Jesus as light in the darkness; we are blessed to see God shining in all sorts of ways in our world, and the light of Christ brings hope and joy to dark corners of the world.
There’s no question that God is shining among this St. Timothy family. Have you ever stopped to consider how many projects and programs we sustain for the size of our congregation? It’s amazing. We study together at Bible studies and book groups. Our kids go to Sunday School and sing in worship, we have a huge group of Confirmation students and a super-active and leadership-oriented high school group. We care for one another, pray for each other and often reach out to one another with meals or a listening ear. We give lots of money and stuff and time to a whole host of ministry partnerships, helping those who are hungry or homeless or voiceless or sick. We worship together faithfully, creatively, and beautifully. There is music all over the place, and art. There are leaders here, and worker bees, creative types and those blessed with the gifts of understanding church budgets or driving the Bobcat or supplying us with their green thumbs.
On a day like today, when I stand at the top of this mountain with you, I am ready to raise up my hammer. And I’ll bet you are too.
But God is here in this place today, overshadowing us and removing the tools from our hands. He reminds us that faith isn’t an excuse to camp out on top of a mountain. God says to us “trust in Jesus, my chosen one, and listen to his voice; and follow him down the mountain because he is leading you forward in my name.”
And so together, we begin to take our first steps down this mountain, with Jesus as our guide.
For me, climbing down the mountain means following Jesus to a new place and a new expression of my call to ministry.
For you, climbing down the mountain means exploring again the mission and ministry of St. Timothy Lutheran Church and looking at the new doors that God is opening up; new ways of reaching out to the community, new ways of sharing Christ’s love in this neighborhood in this community in this country in this world, taking stock of your gifts and passions, and learning anew where this congregation’s passions and this world’s needs intersect.
And for each of us, climbing down the mountain means digging in deep and taking a risk on our faith. We are redeemed and beloved children of God, chosen by love and saved by grace. Jesus’ voice challenges each of us to take new steps forward in our own lives of discipleship, crossing boundaries, taking risks, doing the hard and vulnerable work of really living as disciples. Jesus’ voice asks us to wear our faith on our sleeve, to take a risk on compassion and generosity, to see everyone as beloved, to put other people’s needs ahead of our own, to shine like stars, to bear the good fruit of faith, to seek lives of service instead of lives of glory.
It’s hard work. It’s emotional work. It isn’t easy to step beyond what we know. It isn’t easy to stretch our faith beyond its comfortable boundaries. But we trust Jesus to lead us and to be with us every step of the way. In every step down the mountain, through every mile along the road, to every new challenge of faith, Jesus is with us. His voice calls to us, and we can trust it, and when we listen to it we hear Jesus say “I am the good shepherd.” We hear him say “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” We hear him say “You are the light of the world” and “Love your neighbor as yourself.” We hear him say “Blessed are you who hunger and thirst for righteousness” and “Come to me, all you who are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” We hear him say “Go, therefore, into all the world, making disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” We hear him say, “This is my body, given for you, and my blood, shed for you.”
And so, fed and nourished for the journey, we follow Jesus down the mountain, our faces shining as his beloved, ready to give ourselves as bread for the world and hope for the hopeless. May your journeys be blessed, my friends, and your steps sure. May you shine like stars in the heavens, and may God bless and protect you until we all meet again atop his holy mountain once again.
2.06.2013
Leaving: Stuff
"Leaving" is a series of blog posts having to do with my process of transitioning out of my first call and into a new call; leaving St. Timothy Lutheran (Naperville, IL) and moving to First Lutheran (Decorah, IA).
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This is what my office looks like right now:
Everything from my bookshelves and file cabinets and storage cabinet and closet and desk are is now living in boxes. My wall of artwork is now bare. I am now keenly aware of how many books I really have, and how many coffee mugs have migrated from home to office, and just how many pens and pencils I've received from conferences, organizations, colleges, and events.
I have purged my file cabinet and filled the office recycling bin. I have donated extra craft items to the Sunday School resource room and extra office supplies to the workroom. I have looked at myself in disgust when I think about how much stuff I have accumulated over the last three years, and I have gotten teary when I remember that some of that "stuff" is the stack of pictures that children and youth have drawn for me.
But what is truly interesting is that even with all of my stuff boxed up, out of reach, unavailable, I have still spent this last week doing ministry. For as much as I get sentimental over them, my books are not what make my ministry. For as particular as I can be about which brand/style/color of pen I will use to write in my day planner, my office supplies (or lack thereof) do not determine my identity as a pastor. Thoughtful cards from my ordination and my first letter of call are tucked away inside a folder, buried at the bottom of a box, and yet I am still a called and ordained pastor, living my vocation to word and sacrament ministry.
My office might be packed and I might be blocked in by stacks of boxes, but I have still led worship and opened my office to those who need to talk. I have eaten meals and shared coffee with dear people across a wide range of generations. I have been able to preach and teach and pray. And I've been able to do it apart from all of my stuff.
Sometimes I like to believe that my stuff is what makes me legitimate. I'm tempted to think, "I'm a good pastor if people know that I study and read. I'm a good pastor if I can keep my office clean. I'm a good pastor if I have artwork on my walls that makes my office feel comfortable and approachable. I'm a good pastor if I have an extra mug to offer you some tea."
But, of course, it's not about the stuff. It never was.
Ministry is about who I am. It is about what I do and what God is calling me to do. It is about my head and my heart and my soul.
And even with everything else all boxed up, even as I feel like my time here at St. Timothy has been packed away, I have been reminded all week that my ministry will stick with me until the bitter end, and probably beyond.
And I'm sure that I will remember this all over again when I move into my new office at First Lutheran. I will talk to people and visit people and lead worship and care and pray for the congregation long before I've unpacked all my boxes and put all of my artwork up on the walls.
Because faith and ministry and the things of my soul and my calling are all about the intangibles. And not about the stuff.
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This is what my office looks like right now:
Everything from my bookshelves and file cabinets and storage cabinet and closet and desk are is now living in boxes. My wall of artwork is now bare. I am now keenly aware of how many books I really have, and how many coffee mugs have migrated from home to office, and just how many pens and pencils I've received from conferences, organizations, colleges, and events.
I have purged my file cabinet and filled the office recycling bin. I have donated extra craft items to the Sunday School resource room and extra office supplies to the workroom. I have looked at myself in disgust when I think about how much stuff I have accumulated over the last three years, and I have gotten teary when I remember that some of that "stuff" is the stack of pictures that children and youth have drawn for me.
But what is truly interesting is that even with all of my stuff boxed up, out of reach, unavailable, I have still spent this last week doing ministry. For as much as I get sentimental over them, my books are not what make my ministry. For as particular as I can be about which brand/style/color of pen I will use to write in my day planner, my office supplies (or lack thereof) do not determine my identity as a pastor. Thoughtful cards from my ordination and my first letter of call are tucked away inside a folder, buried at the bottom of a box, and yet I am still a called and ordained pastor, living my vocation to word and sacrament ministry.
My office might be packed and I might be blocked in by stacks of boxes, but I have still led worship and opened my office to those who need to talk. I have eaten meals and shared coffee with dear people across a wide range of generations. I have been able to preach and teach and pray. And I've been able to do it apart from all of my stuff.
Sometimes I like to believe that my stuff is what makes me legitimate. I'm tempted to think, "I'm a good pastor if people know that I study and read. I'm a good pastor if I can keep my office clean. I'm a good pastor if I have artwork on my walls that makes my office feel comfortable and approachable. I'm a good pastor if I have an extra mug to offer you some tea."
But, of course, it's not about the stuff. It never was.
Ministry is about who I am. It is about what I do and what God is calling me to do. It is about my head and my heart and my soul.
And even with everything else all boxed up, even as I feel like my time here at St. Timothy has been packed away, I have been reminded all week that my ministry will stick with me until the bitter end, and probably beyond.
And I'm sure that I will remember this all over again when I move into my new office at First Lutheran. I will talk to people and visit people and lead worship and care and pray for the congregation long before I've unpacked all my boxes and put all of my artwork up on the walls.
Because faith and ministry and the things of my soul and my calling are all about the intangibles. And not about the stuff.
2.05.2013
Leaving: Take nothing for the journey
"Leaving" is a series of blog posts having to do with my process of transitioning out of my first call and into a new call; leaving St. Timothy Lutheran (Naperville, IL) and moving to First Lutheran (Decorah, IA).
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"I am the walking poster child for the phrase 'out of sight, out of mind.'"
I said this sentence earlier today when a few of us ladies in the office were talking about the matching bracelets that we all received as Christmas gifts. I explained that Matt and I spent the weekend cleaning and organizing in preparation for the Great Apartment Packing Adventure, and I told them how I had cleaned off my dresser, putting all my jewelry away, including said bracelet. And now, since the bracelet is tucked away inside a jewelry box instead of sitting out, I have been forgetting to wear it.
I have cleaned out all but one file drawer here in my office, and every time I open a new folder, I think one of two things:
Those are the poles of my personality, I think. Part of me has a burning desire to hold onto everything and never let go. And the other part of me is amazingly forgetful. Neither side serves me well all on its own. But I work to keep a balance. There are certainly days when I file away an email and forget to respond to it. And there are other days when I hoard control of a project and bury myself in the details. But most of the time, the collector in me and the forgetter in me balance out and I live with enough stuff/people/details/responsibility around me, not too much, not too little.
But this is also a source of anxiety for me when I think about leaving. Packing my office, I need to make decisions about what to keep and what to let go of. And when I awake next Monday morning, newly "unemployed" and facing an empty two weeks between calls, I will need to make decisions about which memories to keep and which to discard, which experiences I will carry with me and which ones I will leave behind. I will need to decide how much of my St. Timothy life I will bring with me and how much I will need to set aside to be fully present in my new call. I don't want to hold onto everything, nor should I. But I also don't want to move and leave everything behind and forget simply because it is out of my sight.
This, friends, is the struggle that we all face in the midst of transition. Because big life transitions are tests of identity. Who am I and who was I and who will I be? And how much of my identity is tied up in a particular place or a particular job or a particular set of projects and tasks? And which pieces of my identity will grow, shift, change, or diminish as I become embedded into a new time, a new place, and a new world?
I think that each of us hovers between the two poles of hoarding and forgetting. And each of us, in any time of transition, must ask, "What will I take with me, and what will I leave behind?"
And then there's Jesus, who instructs his disciples, "Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money — not even an extra tunic. Whatever house you enter, stay there, and leave from there. Wherever they do not welcome you, as you are leaving that town shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them." They departed and went through the villages, bringing the good news and curing diseases everywhere. (Luke 9:3-6)
I think that the lesson here and the hope is that we have permission to leave things behind. We have permission to leave even important things behind in good faith, leaving them to someone else's safe-keeping. We have hope to trust that our needs will be provided for, and that we are free to live out our callings - perhaps freer! - when we travel light.
So I will carry with me the best of this place, but also let go of much and open my hands to grasp the future that God is preparing for me. I do not need to hoard, and I do not need to leave everything behind. I simply need to walk forward, clothed by the experiences I've had, but without any extra baggage, and I need to trust that God will continue to provide for me on this journey.
---
"I am the walking poster child for the phrase 'out of sight, out of mind.'"
I said this sentence earlier today when a few of us ladies in the office were talking about the matching bracelets that we all received as Christmas gifts. I explained that Matt and I spent the weekend cleaning and organizing in preparation for the Great Apartment Packing Adventure, and I told them how I had cleaned off my dresser, putting all my jewelry away, including said bracelet. And now, since the bracelet is tucked away inside a jewelry box instead of sitting out, I have been forgetting to wear it.
I have cleaned out all but one file drawer here in my office, and every time I open a new folder, I think one of two things:
1. Why on earth did I bother to file this away and keep it? When was I EVER planning on using it again?Yup. Out of sight, out of mind. Dangerous for someone like me who is simultaneously inclined to keep everything.
2. Oh...I totally forgot about that interesting article/paper/resource! It would have been useful months ago for my sermon/Bible study/presentation/conversation. Why didn't I remember it was there?
Those are the poles of my personality, I think. Part of me has a burning desire to hold onto everything and never let go. And the other part of me is amazingly forgetful. Neither side serves me well all on its own. But I work to keep a balance. There are certainly days when I file away an email and forget to respond to it. And there are other days when I hoard control of a project and bury myself in the details. But most of the time, the collector in me and the forgetter in me balance out and I live with enough stuff/people/details/responsibility around me, not too much, not too little.
But this is also a source of anxiety for me when I think about leaving. Packing my office, I need to make decisions about what to keep and what to let go of. And when I awake next Monday morning, newly "unemployed" and facing an empty two weeks between calls, I will need to make decisions about which memories to keep and which to discard, which experiences I will carry with me and which ones I will leave behind. I will need to decide how much of my St. Timothy life I will bring with me and how much I will need to set aside to be fully present in my new call. I don't want to hold onto everything, nor should I. But I also don't want to move and leave everything behind and forget simply because it is out of my sight.
This, friends, is the struggle that we all face in the midst of transition. Because big life transitions are tests of identity. Who am I and who was I and who will I be? And how much of my identity is tied up in a particular place or a particular job or a particular set of projects and tasks? And which pieces of my identity will grow, shift, change, or diminish as I become embedded into a new time, a new place, and a new world?
I think that each of us hovers between the two poles of hoarding and forgetting. And each of us, in any time of transition, must ask, "What will I take with me, and what will I leave behind?"
And then there's Jesus, who instructs his disciples, "Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money — not even an extra tunic. Whatever house you enter, stay there, and leave from there. Wherever they do not welcome you, as you are leaving that town shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them." They departed and went through the villages, bringing the good news and curing diseases everywhere. (Luke 9:3-6)
I think that the lesson here and the hope is that we have permission to leave things behind. We have permission to leave even important things behind in good faith, leaving them to someone else's safe-keeping. We have hope to trust that our needs will be provided for, and that we are free to live out our callings - perhaps freer! - when we travel light.
So I will carry with me the best of this place, but also let go of much and open my hands to grasp the future that God is preparing for me. I do not need to hoard, and I do not need to leave everything behind. I simply need to walk forward, clothed by the experiences I've had, but without any extra baggage, and I need to trust that God will continue to provide for me on this journey.
1.25.2013
Leaving: Loneliness (an epilogue)
"Leaving" is a series of blog posts having to do with my process of transitioning out of my first call and into a new call; leaving St. Timothy Lutheran (Naperville, IL) and moving to First Lutheran (Decorah, IA).
I thought about adding this post to the end of my previous post, and then decided that it needed a post all its own.
---
I'm talking about loneliness, again. But different than yesterday's post, I want to talk about the heart of this transition-bred loneliness. Because I think I might have accidentally put my finger on why, exactly, the transition from one church to another feels particularly lonely. I say that I "accidentally" put my finger on it, because I wasn't actually thinking about the topic at all, and was just catching up on reading blog posts in my Google Reader feed.
I read Nadia Bolz-Weber's sermon from this past Sunday on spiritual gifts and the body of Christ, entitled "Sermon on Spiritual Gifts (which, unfairly, doesn't include snarkiness)". And it's a great sermon that talks all about how we need each other's gifts, and even somebody else's gifts of faith, when we don't have them ourselves, and the way that following Christ means being part of a community where people can rely on each other's gifts. Near the end, she says,
What it means is that all these feelings I have about my transition - I can't share them with people in my current congregation, or people in my new congregation.
The congregation can hold and lift up other members in its midst, but it cannot be the place where I, the pastor, look to be held and lifted up. I mean, I can't and shouldn't and wouldn't burden a congregation member with all of the struggles of starting at a new church, or all of the nitty-gritty details of leaving and moving, or even open up about the long and thoughtful discernment process that led me even consider a new call.
And in a time of transition, especially, I can't even look to my fellow staff members (here or there!) to hold me and lift me and carry me through this, because they need to be faithful to their ministries and congregations more than they need to babysit my transition. (Life lesson: life might have been easier right now if I'd ever actually gone out and found myself a spiritual director at some point in this first call.)
So here's the thing. I'm not complaining about my situation (even if it sounds like it). I don't regret or resent the healthy boundaries that leave me across the fence from being swept up and carried along by a congregation.
But I think that I have (finally) put my finger on the root of the loneliness that I feel in this transition. It's peculiar to pastors and those in similar positions, I think. It reflects the difficulty (and necessity) of finding support systems out beyond yourself and your congregation. The transition is lonely because you really walk it on your own.
And you hope, on the other side, to be stronger for it.
I thought about adding this post to the end of my previous post, and then decided that it needed a post all its own.
---
I'm talking about loneliness, again. But different than yesterday's post, I want to talk about the heart of this transition-bred loneliness. Because I think I might have accidentally put my finger on why, exactly, the transition from one church to another feels particularly lonely. I say that I "accidentally" put my finger on it, because I wasn't actually thinking about the topic at all, and was just catching up on reading blog posts in my Google Reader feed.
I read Nadia Bolz-Weber's sermon from this past Sunday on spiritual gifts and the body of Christ, entitled "Sermon on Spiritual Gifts (which, unfairly, doesn't include snarkiness)". And it's a great sermon that talks all about how we need each other's gifts, and even somebody else's gifts of faith, when we don't have them ourselves, and the way that following Christ means being part of a community where people can rely on each other's gifts. Near the end, she says,
This ended up being one of my more difficult weeks in recent memory and I found myself having no choice but to rely on the prayers and faith and wisdom and compassion of those brothers and sisters in Christ whom God has put in my life – because frankly I was tapped out. Which is hard because I’d so rather have all the gifts myself and not have to rely on others. But when it feels like a failure on my part that I don’t have the faith or compassion or prayer life or wisdom that I need, I just have to remember that the only real failure is when I fail to recognize that I do actually have all the faith and compassion and prayer and wisdom I need – it’s just that someone else in my life is holding it for me.So here's the catch. When you are a pastor, you care for communities of faith. And all the rule books (and all common sense) says that no matter how close you grow to the people whom you serve, you are never quite their "friends" for real, and since you as pastor are caring for the community, it's not really right or good for you to lean on the congregation to care for you in the same way.
What it means is that all these feelings I have about my transition - I can't share them with people in my current congregation, or people in my new congregation.
The congregation can hold and lift up other members in its midst, but it cannot be the place where I, the pastor, look to be held and lifted up. I mean, I can't and shouldn't and wouldn't burden a congregation member with all of the struggles of starting at a new church, or all of the nitty-gritty details of leaving and moving, or even open up about the long and thoughtful discernment process that led me even consider a new call.
And in a time of transition, especially, I can't even look to my fellow staff members (here or there!) to hold me and lift me and carry me through this, because they need to be faithful to their ministries and congregations more than they need to babysit my transition. (Life lesson: life might have been easier right now if I'd ever actually gone out and found myself a spiritual director at some point in this first call.)
So here's the thing. I'm not complaining about my situation (even if it sounds like it). I don't regret or resent the healthy boundaries that leave me across the fence from being swept up and carried along by a congregation.
But I think that I have (finally) put my finger on the root of the loneliness that I feel in this transition. It's peculiar to pastors and those in similar positions, I think. It reflects the difficulty (and necessity) of finding support systems out beyond yourself and your congregation. The transition is lonely because you really walk it on your own.
And you hope, on the other side, to be stronger for it.
1.24.2013
Leaving: Abundance and loneliness
"Leaving" is a series of blog posts having to do with my process of transitioning out of my first call and into a new call; leaving St. Timothy Lutheran (Naperville, IL) and moving to First Lutheran (Decorah, IA).
---
There is an abundance to this (and any) time of transition, as you carry the old and the new together, and ponder the excitement and blessings of doing something new.
An abundance of love and care, from both my current call and my next call. An abundance of tasks to finish and an abundance of new tasks to begin. The thought of packing and moving brings me face-to-face with my abundance of stuff, which sometimes evokes gratitude and other times evokes guilt and frustration. This time of transition is full of grief and full of expectation. It is a time of holding on tightly to this place (because you never feel fully ready to leave), and a time of holding tightly to the next place (because you are excited to grasp your new congregation and new life and new place).
But amid all of this abundance (much of which is very, very good), there is a peculiar loneliness as well.
I have one foot in two churches right now: abundance. But this stance means that I am not firmly planted in either place: loneliness.
I am fully excited to start my new position and fully sad about leaving my current position: abundance. But balancing the right emotion at the right time (and the exhaustion of those emotional gymnastics): loneliness.
There are many people here whom I love and whom I will miss dearly: abundance. But the process of letting go and saying goodbye is a process of creating distance from all of those people: loneliness.
Shopping for a first house and imagining life as something other than a transient apartment-dweller: abundance. But setting the stage for a life in a town that you do not yet live in while also disengaging yourself from the apartment and town that you currently live in, and feeling homeless or at least between homes: loneliness.
Seeing the life and ministry and history of a new congregation and being blessed to step into the flow of existing life and ministry in a new place: abundance. But having to learn the names and faces of a congregation from the ground up, and looking ahead to living in a place where you don't yet have friends or patterns of life or connections: loneliness.
If week one of this transition was the week that I told the staff and council of my departure, and if week two was the first week that the congregation knew the news and stepped up to grieve and to show their support, then it is now Thursday of week three. And if weeks one and two were defined by kindness and support and the excitement of having news, week three has thus far been defined by loneliness. It is a time for me to start counting "lasts" and to really, truly let go of things around here, task by task, event by event. I am stripping away my St. Timothy life, bit-by-bit, in preparation for clothing myself with my First Lutheran life.
There is abundance here. But it is a lonely place to live.
---
There is an abundance to this (and any) time of transition, as you carry the old and the new together, and ponder the excitement and blessings of doing something new.
An abundance of love and care, from both my current call and my next call. An abundance of tasks to finish and an abundance of new tasks to begin. The thought of packing and moving brings me face-to-face with my abundance of stuff, which sometimes evokes gratitude and other times evokes guilt and frustration. This time of transition is full of grief and full of expectation. It is a time of holding on tightly to this place (because you never feel fully ready to leave), and a time of holding tightly to the next place (because you are excited to grasp your new congregation and new life and new place).
But amid all of this abundance (much of which is very, very good), there is a peculiar loneliness as well.
I have one foot in two churches right now: abundance. But this stance means that I am not firmly planted in either place: loneliness.
I am fully excited to start my new position and fully sad about leaving my current position: abundance. But balancing the right emotion at the right time (and the exhaustion of those emotional gymnastics): loneliness.
There are many people here whom I love and whom I will miss dearly: abundance. But the process of letting go and saying goodbye is a process of creating distance from all of those people: loneliness.
Shopping for a first house and imagining life as something other than a transient apartment-dweller: abundance. But setting the stage for a life in a town that you do not yet live in while also disengaging yourself from the apartment and town that you currently live in, and feeling homeless or at least between homes: loneliness.
Seeing the life and ministry and history of a new congregation and being blessed to step into the flow of existing life and ministry in a new place: abundance. But having to learn the names and faces of a congregation from the ground up, and looking ahead to living in a place where you don't yet have friends or patterns of life or connections: loneliness.
If week one of this transition was the week that I told the staff and council of my departure, and if week two was the first week that the congregation knew the news and stepped up to grieve and to show their support, then it is now Thursday of week three. And if weeks one and two were defined by kindness and support and the excitement of having news, week three has thus far been defined by loneliness. It is a time for me to start counting "lasts" and to really, truly let go of things around here, task by task, event by event. I am stripping away my St. Timothy life, bit-by-bit, in preparation for clothing myself with my First Lutheran life.
There is abundance here. But it is a lonely place to live.
1.21.2013
Leaving: To my high schoolers
"Leaving" is a series of blog posts having to do with my process of transitioning out of my first call and into a new call; leaving St. Timothy Lutheran (Naperville, IL) and moving to First Lutheran (Decorah, IA).
This is the letter that I wrote to the high school students at St. Timothy. They were a huge part of my ministry and are a spectacular group of young people. They very much deserve their own letter of farewell.
---
High schoolers, there’s something that you need to know right up front: you guys rock. I look at you and I feel proud. You are thoughtful, faithful, hilariously funny, compassionate, talented, trusting and trustworthy, energetic, and downright fun to be with.
There have been so many times that I have said to people, “The St. Timothy high schoolers never cease to amaze me.” And it’s true. Just when I think I know how awesome you are, you find new ways of surprising me. You are a blessing. You must know that. And even though I am excited about my new adventure in Iowa, it also breaks my heart to leave St. Timothy and to leave all of you.
Leaving is a tricky business. Some of you have asked questions about what I am and am not “allowed” to do once I leave. The good news: I don’t have to cut off all ties. If you say hi on Facebook or text me, I will totally say hi back. If I’m in Chicagoland visiting my family and I run into you in downtown Naperville, I don’t have to hide under a rock. And if you are doing college visits and decide to check out Luther College, call me up so that I can take you out for coffee!
But I do have to change the boundaries a little bit. I can’t be pastor to you in the same way that I am now. There might be times when I need to say, “I can’t help you with this, but I can help you find somebody who can.” And I won’t be able to worship at St. Timothy when I’m in town. This doesn’t mean that I don’t care about your or that I don’t want to be a part of your lives. It just means that our relationship changes.
We’ve shared so much these last few years – trips, events, Sunday night activities, games, inside jokes, service projects. We’ve been through a lot together, and we’ve see God at work in so many ways.
In these last few weeks, I promise that we’ll find time and space to share these memories, not only as a way of saying goodbye, but as a way for you all to remember that you have made this high school group what it is. It is a strong, comfortable, safe place, full of close relationships, because you have made it that. And so I want you to promise me that you’ll stick together, and take care of each other, and make the commitment to each other and the group that you’ll continue to make the St. Timothy high school group an exciting and special place to be.
Also, know that you are really blessed to have an amazing high school leadership team, and they are all super-cool and kind and wonderful (but you already knew that!). You can go to them with ANYTHING, and they want nothing but the best for you. They are wise, fun, caring mentors in faith. So be good to them (and lean on them) because they are pretty darn great. ☺
Finally, remember that God is holding and guiding all of us. God has some new plans for my future, and God has lots of plans for your future, too! We are bound together in the one body of Christ, and so we step forward in faith, trusting the grace and love of God to see us through to all of the plans he has prepared for us.
In Christ’s love,
Pastor Melissa
This is the letter that I wrote to the high school students at St. Timothy. They were a huge part of my ministry and are a spectacular group of young people. They very much deserve their own letter of farewell.
---
High schoolers, there’s something that you need to know right up front: you guys rock. I look at you and I feel proud. You are thoughtful, faithful, hilariously funny, compassionate, talented, trusting and trustworthy, energetic, and downright fun to be with.
There have been so many times that I have said to people, “The St. Timothy high schoolers never cease to amaze me.” And it’s true. Just when I think I know how awesome you are, you find new ways of surprising me. You are a blessing. You must know that. And even though I am excited about my new adventure in Iowa, it also breaks my heart to leave St. Timothy and to leave all of you.
Leaving is a tricky business. Some of you have asked questions about what I am and am not “allowed” to do once I leave. The good news: I don’t have to cut off all ties. If you say hi on Facebook or text me, I will totally say hi back. If I’m in Chicagoland visiting my family and I run into you in downtown Naperville, I don’t have to hide under a rock. And if you are doing college visits and decide to check out Luther College, call me up so that I can take you out for coffee!
But I do have to change the boundaries a little bit. I can’t be pastor to you in the same way that I am now. There might be times when I need to say, “I can’t help you with this, but I can help you find somebody who can.” And I won’t be able to worship at St. Timothy when I’m in town. This doesn’t mean that I don’t care about your or that I don’t want to be a part of your lives. It just means that our relationship changes.
We’ve shared so much these last few years – trips, events, Sunday night activities, games, inside jokes, service projects. We’ve been through a lot together, and we’ve see God at work in so many ways.
In these last few weeks, I promise that we’ll find time and space to share these memories, not only as a way of saying goodbye, but as a way for you all to remember that you have made this high school group what it is. It is a strong, comfortable, safe place, full of close relationships, because you have made it that. And so I want you to promise me that you’ll stick together, and take care of each other, and make the commitment to each other and the group that you’ll continue to make the St. Timothy high school group an exciting and special place to be.
Also, know that you are really blessed to have an amazing high school leadership team, and they are all super-cool and kind and wonderful (but you already knew that!). You can go to them with ANYTHING, and they want nothing but the best for you. They are wise, fun, caring mentors in faith. So be good to them (and lean on them) because they are pretty darn great. ☺
Finally, remember that God is holding and guiding all of us. God has some new plans for my future, and God has lots of plans for your future, too! We are bound together in the one body of Christ, and so we step forward in faith, trusting the grace and love of God to see us through to all of the plans he has prepared for us.
In Christ’s love,
Pastor Melissa
1.18.2013
Leaving: What it's like to leave a church near Christmastime...
"Leaving" is a series of blog posts having to do with my process of transitioning out of my first call and into a new call; leaving St. Timothy Lutheran (Naperville, IL) and moving to First Lutheran (Decorah, IA).
This is a post that I wrote back in December, when I was in conversation with First, but before I was able to say anything about the process to anyone at St. Timothy. The call process is weird and secretive like that. I wrote it in anticipation of sharing it here on the blog once the news was out. So here it is.
---
As I write this, Christmas is still one week away, but Christmas cheer is in full swing. If you were wondering what it's like to be (quietly and secretly right now) preparing to leave a church, while also living life as a pastor in the Christmas season, let me tell you: it's HARD.
I feel keenly aware that the Advent season this year is just about as short as it can possibly be. We hit the fourth and final Sunday of Advent, and then immediately jump into Christmas Eve on Monday and Christmas Day on Tuesday.
This makes everything seem rushed. The worship details that need sorting out need to be sorted out before Saturday. The presents that I haven't purchased yet need to be purchased this weekend, and wrapped. The time I want to take soaking up the dark almost-winter afternoons of Advent by lighting candles and looking at Christmas lights is being taken up by sermon-writing, and Christmas preparations, and getting stuff done that can't wait until after the first of the new year.
And in the midst of all of this, my head and heart are also wrestling with the knowledge that I am doing my own secret sort of Advent waiting - waiting to tell people that I have a new call; waiting, in essence, to leave.
Knowing that you are leaving makes you all the more eager to love everyone and love them immensely. Last Sunday, I was distributing bread at communion. I realized that even though I was saying the words "The body of Christ, given for you," I was actually saying "I love you" to each and every member who came my way.
Once you know you are leaving, you say "yes" to the Christmas parties and casual invitations to events or programs or meetings that you would otherwise have passed up. You start to dig in when time runs short. There is no doubt that I love this congregation, and there is much grief yet to be had when I move on.
And the Christmas season makes it even worse. I have a basket of cookies sitting on my desk, and a Christmas card alongside it, from a dear woman who is a blessing to me in this place. A tender, hand-written note inside of the card thanks me for my listening and teaching, and for my hugs.
At Christmastime, the hands I shake after worship hold on a little longer before letting go, and the hugs that are given to me linger a few extra moments. We all feel the anticipation of the season together, and Christmas brings out our love, care, and appreciation for one another.
I feel very much loved right now, and very much in love. And my eyes are opened wide to the Holy Spirit flowing freely through this place.
I still know that God is pulling me (pushing me, dragging me, encouraging me) to this new place and this new call, and I know all of my reasons for trusting that stirring in my heart.
But it doesn't make it easy to leave.
This is a post that I wrote back in December, when I was in conversation with First, but before I was able to say anything about the process to anyone at St. Timothy. The call process is weird and secretive like that. I wrote it in anticipation of sharing it here on the blog once the news was out. So here it is.
---
As I write this, Christmas is still one week away, but Christmas cheer is in full swing. If you were wondering what it's like to be (quietly and secretly right now) preparing to leave a church, while also living life as a pastor in the Christmas season, let me tell you: it's HARD.
I feel keenly aware that the Advent season this year is just about as short as it can possibly be. We hit the fourth and final Sunday of Advent, and then immediately jump into Christmas Eve on Monday and Christmas Day on Tuesday.
This makes everything seem rushed. The worship details that need sorting out need to be sorted out before Saturday. The presents that I haven't purchased yet need to be purchased this weekend, and wrapped. The time I want to take soaking up the dark almost-winter afternoons of Advent by lighting candles and looking at Christmas lights is being taken up by sermon-writing, and Christmas preparations, and getting stuff done that can't wait until after the first of the new year.
And in the midst of all of this, my head and heart are also wrestling with the knowledge that I am doing my own secret sort of Advent waiting - waiting to tell people that I have a new call; waiting, in essence, to leave.
Knowing that you are leaving makes you all the more eager to love everyone and love them immensely. Last Sunday, I was distributing bread at communion. I realized that even though I was saying the words "The body of Christ, given for you," I was actually saying "I love you" to each and every member who came my way.
Once you know you are leaving, you say "yes" to the Christmas parties and casual invitations to events or programs or meetings that you would otherwise have passed up. You start to dig in when time runs short. There is no doubt that I love this congregation, and there is much grief yet to be had when I move on.
And the Christmas season makes it even worse. I have a basket of cookies sitting on my desk, and a Christmas card alongside it, from a dear woman who is a blessing to me in this place. A tender, hand-written note inside of the card thanks me for my listening and teaching, and for my hugs.
At Christmastime, the hands I shake after worship hold on a little longer before letting go, and the hugs that are given to me linger a few extra moments. We all feel the anticipation of the season together, and Christmas brings out our love, care, and appreciation for one another.
I feel very much loved right now, and very much in love. And my eyes are opened wide to the Holy Spirit flowing freely through this place.
I still know that God is pulling me (pushing me, dragging me, encouraging me) to this new place and this new call, and I know all of my reasons for trusting that stirring in my heart.
But it doesn't make it easy to leave.
1.17.2013
Leaving: The letter
This might be the first series I've ever done on this blog! This series is inspired by the exciting (but sad at the same time) news that I have accepted a new call and am leaving my first call here at St. Timothy Lutheran in Naperville, IL to start a new position at First Lutheran in Decorah, IA. As I navigate this transition, I thought I would spend some time writing about it.
To begin at the "beginning," today's post is simply the letter that I sent to the congregation last week, sharing my news and expressing my heartfelt gratitude for the blessing it has been to be in ministry to and with them.
---
January 9, 2013
To my dear brothers and sisters in Christ,
Today, I have a Bible verse on the brain. It is short verse, one that I committed to memory many years ago, and is a promise from God spoken through Jeremiah to the exiles in Babylon: “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the LORD, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope (Jeremiah 29:11).”
This verse rings in my head whenever I find myself taking a leap of faith into an uncharted future; when I need an assurance of God’s presence and hope.
This is one of those moments.
For it is with both great excitement and deep sadness that I must share with you the news that I have recently been extended a call to First Lutheran Church in Decorah, Iowa, and that I will be departing St. Timothy to take this new and next step in God’s call to word and sacrament ministry.
This is exceedingly difficult news to share, because I have great love in my heart for this place and for all of you.
I have said many times throughout these past three and a half years of ministry that I am blessed. It is most certainly true. There is beautiful ministry happening inside and outside the doors of St. Timothy Lutheran Church, and I am blessed to have stepped into the flow of that ministry. I am blessed in our worship together, our fellowship and study, and our ministry projects that push us beyond our doors and out into the world. I am blessed by our energetic and dedicated children and families, and I have remarked many times that the middle and high school youth never cease to surprise me with their depth of curiosity and compassion.
I am blessed by all of my partners in ministry in this place (and I hope that you know you are blessed by them as well!). For three and a half years, I have had the great pleasure of stepping into this church office each day, and collaborating with colleagues who are also dear friends. They have helped me grow, encouraged me, carried me through good and bad weeks alike. I am blessed by their faith and their willingness to serve and praise God in all circumstances.
And, my dear brothers and sisters in Christ, I am blessed by each of you. You have trusted me with your joys and concerns. You have challenged yourselves to live the love of Christ in new and deeper ways. You have given generously of your time, talents, money, and spirits. I have felt your hospitality, your friendship, and your prayers.
Each week, I look forward to Saturday evenings and Sunday mornings, when I get to stand at the sanctuary doors following worship. I shake hands and receive hugs, and I grin uncontrollably at the pleasure of catching up with each of you on the week’s doings. I feel my heart warm each time a small child passes by and asks to be picked up. I rejoice to see those who have returned to worship after travels or illnesses. I love meeting visiting family members and new neighbors. And all the while, I think to myself that if we truly do believe that the church is the people (as the old Sunday School song goes), then St. Timothy Lutheran Church is certainly a Spirit-filled, compassionate, generous, loving place, as reflected in the face of each of its members.
God has begun a good work in you and will continue to sustain you through this transition and beyond. I pray that God will continue to bring you joy in serving one another, and I trust that God will continue to deepen your faith through the ministries of this church. For surely God knows the plans he has for you, my St. Timothy brothers and sisters; plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope. Of this we can all be certain, through the new life given to us in Christ Jesus.
In these next few weeks, there will be times for tears and for hugs, for sharing coffee and meals, for telling stories and laughing together. I will cherish these moments. Together, we will do the hard but beautiful work of saying “goodbye” and commending one another to God’s many and various plans for our futures.
As both you and I step into this place of transition, it seems only right to close this letter with a prayer. Perhaps you have heard or prayed this prayer before; it is a prayer for the journey:
O God, you have called your servants to ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown. Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, amen. (ELW p. 317)
May God bless us all and keep us, and walk with us in our journey forward. May Christ’s peace be with you always.
In Christ’s love,
Pastor Melissa Bills
To begin at the "beginning," today's post is simply the letter that I sent to the congregation last week, sharing my news and expressing my heartfelt gratitude for the blessing it has been to be in ministry to and with them.
---
January 9, 2013
To my dear brothers and sisters in Christ,
Today, I have a Bible verse on the brain. It is short verse, one that I committed to memory many years ago, and is a promise from God spoken through Jeremiah to the exiles in Babylon: “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the LORD, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope (Jeremiah 29:11).”
This verse rings in my head whenever I find myself taking a leap of faith into an uncharted future; when I need an assurance of God’s presence and hope.
This is one of those moments.
For it is with both great excitement and deep sadness that I must share with you the news that I have recently been extended a call to First Lutheran Church in Decorah, Iowa, and that I will be departing St. Timothy to take this new and next step in God’s call to word and sacrament ministry.
This is exceedingly difficult news to share, because I have great love in my heart for this place and for all of you.
I have said many times throughout these past three and a half years of ministry that I am blessed. It is most certainly true. There is beautiful ministry happening inside and outside the doors of St. Timothy Lutheran Church, and I am blessed to have stepped into the flow of that ministry. I am blessed in our worship together, our fellowship and study, and our ministry projects that push us beyond our doors and out into the world. I am blessed by our energetic and dedicated children and families, and I have remarked many times that the middle and high school youth never cease to surprise me with their depth of curiosity and compassion.
I am blessed by all of my partners in ministry in this place (and I hope that you know you are blessed by them as well!). For three and a half years, I have had the great pleasure of stepping into this church office each day, and collaborating with colleagues who are also dear friends. They have helped me grow, encouraged me, carried me through good and bad weeks alike. I am blessed by their faith and their willingness to serve and praise God in all circumstances.
And, my dear brothers and sisters in Christ, I am blessed by each of you. You have trusted me with your joys and concerns. You have challenged yourselves to live the love of Christ in new and deeper ways. You have given generously of your time, talents, money, and spirits. I have felt your hospitality, your friendship, and your prayers.
Each week, I look forward to Saturday evenings and Sunday mornings, when I get to stand at the sanctuary doors following worship. I shake hands and receive hugs, and I grin uncontrollably at the pleasure of catching up with each of you on the week’s doings. I feel my heart warm each time a small child passes by and asks to be picked up. I rejoice to see those who have returned to worship after travels or illnesses. I love meeting visiting family members and new neighbors. And all the while, I think to myself that if we truly do believe that the church is the people (as the old Sunday School song goes), then St. Timothy Lutheran Church is certainly a Spirit-filled, compassionate, generous, loving place, as reflected in the face of each of its members.
God has begun a good work in you and will continue to sustain you through this transition and beyond. I pray that God will continue to bring you joy in serving one another, and I trust that God will continue to deepen your faith through the ministries of this church. For surely God knows the plans he has for you, my St. Timothy brothers and sisters; plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope. Of this we can all be certain, through the new life given to us in Christ Jesus.
In these next few weeks, there will be times for tears and for hugs, for sharing coffee and meals, for telling stories and laughing together. I will cherish these moments. Together, we will do the hard but beautiful work of saying “goodbye” and commending one another to God’s many and various plans for our futures.
As both you and I step into this place of transition, it seems only right to close this letter with a prayer. Perhaps you have heard or prayed this prayer before; it is a prayer for the journey:
O God, you have called your servants to ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown. Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, amen. (ELW p. 317)
May God bless us all and keep us, and walk with us in our journey forward. May Christ’s peace be with you always.
In Christ’s love,
Pastor Melissa Bills
1.10.2013
Epiphany: Returning by a different road
 |
| "Two roads diverged in a wood..." by John Piekos, on Flickr |
'And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler
who is to shepherd my people Israel.'"
Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, "Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage." When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road. (Matthew 2:1-12)
---
The old gray station wagon was mostly packed. Suitcases were lined up in the back of the car, and the cooler of sandwiches was wedged between my parents’ seats in the front. Each of us three sisters had our own bag of markers, notebooks, and games. My mom had the important items: the little notebook where we’d keep track of gas mileage, the Super 8 and Holiday Inn books so that we could make motel reservations along the road, the atlas, and two different colored markers.
Whether our final destination was Yellowstone National Park or the far reaches of the Maine coastline, our two-week driving vacations all had something in common. We would take one scenic route to the far point of our trip, and my mom would trace it in the atlas using one color marker, and we would always take a different route home, which she would trace in the atlas in a different color.
We always took a different road home. Because there was always more to see. Taking a different road gave us more destinations, more crazy roadside sights, more towns to pass through, a fuller journey, a way to make the trip home feel like a new part of the vacation rather than just a return home.
And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, the wise men left for their own country by another road.
Today’s gospel is a story of travel.
A star rises in the sky. A bright star, perfectly aligned with all of the right planets, a clear sign to a group of astrologists in the east that a king has been born. A divine king. A king worth seeking out.
So the magi pack up and head out on the road. They travel with the star as their guide, and their road first takes them to Jerusalem, to Herod, the sitting king, who seems as good a person as any to inquire about the newborn king who has been revealed to them.
Herod, of course, knows nothing about the newborn Messiah, and is terrified. His power is threatened, his authority shaken. So he plots with his advisors, he calls the wise men in secret, he has a plan. He tells the wise men to continue along their journey until they find this baby king. Then, he says, travel home by this same road that you came in on. Swing by Jerusalem again on your way back. Tell me what you learn about this baby, and where he is, so that I too might “worship” him. And by “worship,” we know that Herod means “destroy.” Fear drives people to do despicable things.
The wise men continue on the road, following the star, traveling because stars and kings are exciting business, alluring, irresistible. They travel until the star stops over the place where the child is.
They enter the house, see Jesus, and Mary his mother, and they rejoice. Before them is the child who is called Messiah, God-in-the-flesh, prince of peace. The child who will threaten all political order by preaching a message of love instead of power, a policy of forgiveness instead of retribution, an agenda of servanthood instead of exploitation. And they rejoice. They come face-to-face with Jesus, and they are filled with joy, not fear. They meet Jesus, and they see there eternal light and life, and they know in their hearts that there is no good to be done by returning to Herod. This child needs to live. And so they set out for home once again, returning not by that same road through Jerusalem, but by a different route.
And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, the wise men left for their own country by another road.
I don’t know why you are sitting here today. Maybe it’s habit, to get up on a Sunday morning and head to church; maybe it is what you did as a child and what you mean to do for your children as well. Maybe you met Jesus years and years ago, and your heart has long trusted God’s promises of grace and mercy, and you come here to repeat your joy, week after week. Maybe you believe but are doubting, and come here for answers or assurance. Maybe you are intrigued by this Jesus-guy, but still unsure, and you are here because you are following a light toward a child who you have not yet seen, and you wonder if one day, you will meet him here.
Like those traveling magi, each of us is here because some star in the sky has captured our imagination, and we want to find the place where Jesus is, and meet him face-to-face.
We want to draw near to love and to forgiveness. We want to know that we are not past hope. We want to know that there is a power beyond our own selves, our own governments, our own international struggles and dictators and disputes. We follow the star to Jesus because we want peace and we want to be restored and we want the old, rough parts of us to be made new. And we want to know that there is life beyond life, abundant life beyond just going through the motions, life that wins out even over death.
And so we travel together, following a star in hopes that we will meet Jesus. Maybe we’ll meet him here, in the waters of baptism or in the bread at the table, or in the witness of the scriptures, or in acts of mercy and hospitality and love. And maybe we’ll meet him outside these doors, in friends who shine with divine love, or in places of hope, or even in places of fear and despair that leave us clinging to faith instead of to our own ambitions.
But you have to know something. I have to warn you. Something happens when we meet Jesus face-to-face. Something happens when the star stops over the place where Jesus is. Our hearts leap for joy, yes, but then something else happens. We are changed. We are made different. We travel home by a different road. Meeting Jesus makes all of our old roads obsolete.
When we have been forgiven so deeply and completely, we cannot walk our old roads of spite. Christ calls us to new roads of grace and mercy.
When we have been fed with holy food and drink, and bathed in cleansing, forgiving waters, we cannot walk our old roads of luxury. Christ calls us to new roads of feeding others, and giving them water when they are thirsty, and caring for their basic needs.
When we have received peace and hope that pass all understanding, we cannot walk our old roads of division and distrust and war. Christ calls us to new roads of reconciliation and unity and love.
When we have been given abundant life, we cannot walk our old roads of ignorance or greed. Christ calls us to new roads where we are dissatisfied with oppression, poverty, and death, new roads where we seek life and abundant life for all.
When we have received such great joy, we cannot walk our old roads of bashfulness or keeping quiet. Christ calls us to new roads of witness, of letting our light shine in word and deed, of making an account for the hope that is in us.
You have two markers in your possession, my friends. One has traced your steps this and every time your travels have brought you to Jesus. The other is just waiting to trace out your new path home.
Yes, this new road might be bumpier. It might be dirtier, and filled with strangers. It might take you a long way off course. But there’s a lot to see on this new road – beauty and wonder and newness - and it’s well lit.
In the words of artist and poet Jan Richardson:
We cannot show youBlessings on your journey, my friends. Blessings on your new roads. May the light of Christ that meets you in the star and in the manger accompany all of your steps. And may you shine with the light of Christ who walks with you. Amen.
the route that will
take you home;
that way is yours
and will be found
in the walking.
But we tell you
you will wonder
at how the light you thought
you had left behind
goes with you,
spilling from
your empty hands,
shimmering beneath
your homeward feet,
illuminating the road
with every step
you take.
12.25.2012
Christmas Day: The light shines in the darkness
 |
| Incarnation window at Boe Chapel, St. Olaf College |
There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.
He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.
And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth. (John 1:1-14)
---
It started here last night.
It started with the one white Christ candle standing tall in the center of the Advent wreath, flickering brightly in the dim sanctuary.
It started. One candle flame, alive and dancing. And I tipped my candle toward it, and then there were two. And Pastor Miller tipped his candle toward mine, and then there were three.
We started at the inner corners of the sanctuary, holding our light so that others could receive it. And the light began to spread. A few candles grew into many, a few flames grew into a wave of fire. The dark night of the sanctuary became like dawn, full of brightness and heat, and we sang:
“Silent night, holy night, all is calm all is bright….Glories stream from heaven afar…Radiant beams from thy holy face, with the dawn of redeeming grace.”
The light from our candles lit the way through the night, and that light has now spread into the dawning of this Christmas Day. The moon has passed away into the morning sun, and the stars and angels have faded away into the brightness of God-in-the-flesh in his first day on earth all over again.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
* * *
That night when Mary and Joseph wandered the streets of Bethlehem, looking for shelter, it must have felt very dark. They had no place to rest and no place to keep warm. They were strangers in a city that should have felt like home. Homeless, hungry, cold, and in need, the dark night pressed in upon them…
...until a stable-lamp was lit. They came in out of the cold and dark. They nestled into a corner of a safe place, where cows and sheep held vigil. In the dim light of the stable, Christ was born, the light of the world.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Out in the fields, the shepherds sat, nodding off in the black of nighttime. They kept one eye open amidst their dozing to fend off the shadows of wolves or thieves that would dare harm their flocks. Tired, overworked, exhausted, and poor, the night pressed in upon them…
…until the sky blazed with choirs of angels, praising God and singing “Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth!” The shepherds, rich in joy and wonder, danced and leaped and rushed through the brightness to gaze upon the light of the Christ child in the manger.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
After nightfall and the doings of each day, we sit on our couches, and in the dark we watch the evening news. We endure reports of violence, whether in schools or in the Middle East or on the streets of Chicago. We see the darkness of hunger and poverty. We watch news anchors on location after storms and earthquakes and rebellions and protests. And like each generation before us, we say to ourselves, “we live in a dark time…”
…until we wake on Christmas morning, and the birds herald God’s new dawn over a world that has been changed, turned upside-down, because a baby has been born. Not just any baby, but Christ our Savior. He is our long-expected Jesus, born to set his people free, the son of righteousness who is risen with healing in his wings.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
* * *
Christmas Day has awoken upon this sanctuary. And in the dawning of this day, you notice that we have kept lighting candles around us, even in the daylight, adding to the splendor of this morning, light upon light. We light candles to remind us that Christ is born and that Christ is here.
We light the candles in front of the pulpit, telling us that Christ is present in the reading of scripture and the proclamation of God’s word.
We light the altar candles, which remind us that the light of Christ is present at the table, in the bread we eat and wine we drink, which nourishes us with God’s grace and forgiveness.
We light the four blue candles of the Advent wreath, remembering that even as we celebrate Christ’s birth today, we continue to wait for the day when Christ will come again.
We light Christ candle in the center of the Advent wreath, telling us that the light of Christ is once again born in the manger and in our hearts.
And today, a rare and special Christmas Day, we also light two other candles.
We light the tall Paschal candle – that strikes the fear of God into the hearts of the shorter acolytes who have to light it – because today we will celebrate a baptism. We will tell Harper Noelle that Christ is present in those waters, in which she will die to sin and rise again as an everlasting child of God.
And soon, we will light a baptismal candle and hold it in front of her curious eyes, and tell her that Jesus is the light of the world and pray that she, too, will let the light of Christ shine in her and through her that all might see God’s image in her.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Every candle we light today says the same thing: Christ is here. But not only here. If I were to keep lighting candles in every place where Christ is present…
I would light a candle in the tents of homeless families and refugees and immigrants, for Christ, too, was a stranger in his own land.
I would light a candle at the feet of martyrs and prisoners and slaves and oppressed women, for Christ, too, suffered under the hands of unjust rulers.
I would light a candle inside every empty refrigerator and in every shelter and in every line winding out the door of a food pantry or soup kitchen, for Christ, the bread of life, is born today in Bethlehem, the aptly-named “city of bread.”
I would light a candle in office cubicles and on assembly lines, in fire houses and in police stations, in schools and in hospitals, for Christ lives in the gifts and vocations that each of us has been given.
I would light a candle by every cradle of every newborn, and by every gravestone of every saint who has gone before us, for Christ was born among us, and died, and rose again in blinding brightness.
If I were to keep lighting candles everywhere that Christ is present, the universe would look an awful lot like last night’s sanctuary.
One candle would become two, and then four, and four hundred, and then a thousand and beyond.
Because in Christ is life. And his holy life and love is the light of all people
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
The light of Christ shines in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it.
For Christ was born in deepest night, and by his birth God dawned the deepest light.
This is why we celebrate Christmas. Why we need it, again and again each year, a thousand years back and a thousand years forward. Because we need this beautiful, fragile reminder that there is no place so dark that Christ’s light cannot shine, there is no corner so hidden that Christ’s light cannot illumine it.
The true light, which enlightens everyone, has come into the world.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will never overcome it.
And we have seen the Word-made-flesh who lived among us, and we have seen his brilliant shining glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth and light.
12.23.2012
Advent 4: Nothing is impossible
 |
| "THE VISITATION" by Fergal of Claddagh, on Flickr |
"My soul magnifies the Lord,---
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.
His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants forever."
(Luke 1:39-55)
Today, we begin at the end. The end of Advent, the end of winter days getting shorter, the end of our Christmas preparations, and the end of the intertwined stories of Mary and Elizabeth. In today’s gospel as they finally meet together, two cousins, two servants of the Lord, two miraculous pregnancies. Mary, the young cousin, is carrying in her womb the son of God, and Elizabeth, the old cousin, is carrying in her once-barren womb the prophet John, who would later be called the Baptizer.
We know Mary’s story – about Gabriel’s visit and Mary’s willingness to say, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” Mary is our vision of expectant waiting, a pregnant woman awaiting the birth of her child with anxious excitement, because this is the child who will change the world.
In today’s gospel, Mary sings about a world turned head-over-foot at Christ’s birth. She sings about how God’s mercy will prevail over an unjust world. Power will be shifted. The poor and lowly will be raised up. The hungry will be filled. The weak will be made strong. The forgotten will be remembered. God’s promise to his people will be fulfilled, that they shall live secure, and Christ the Messiah will be great to the ends of earth, and shall be the bringer of peace.
Now maybe I’m a little cynical, or at least a little despairing, but this new world, filled with justice and mercy and peace, seems pretty impossible to me sometimes. I long for it, desperately. I grieve for it. And I wait for it, even though my heart often wavers and has difficulty believing that I will ever see this restored world for which I wait.
As we close out this Advent, as we grieve our slain children, as we stare cancer straight in the eye, as we lament wars and rumors of wars, and as we bear the weight of unanswered prayers, for us, I am more and more convinced that it is not Mary’s story that we need to hear. No, in the darkest days of our Advent waiting, we need Elizabeth’s story. Elizabeth, who holds company with Sarah, Rebekah, and Hannah, and all of us who have ever felt barren and unfulfilled, who have waited on a God who seems far off.
Elizabeth’s story is very different than Mary’s. Elizabeth is not young. She is long married. She is barren, without children and without a future. Elizabeth is righteous before God and blameless, faithful and of priestly lineage. And still, for the better part of her life, her faithfulness had proven fruitless to accomplish the deepest desire of her heart. It takes a whole lifetime of waiting and disappointment for God, at the chosen time, to do the impossible and to bring her a child.
Elizabeth gives us permission to admit that waiting is hard. Elizabeth knows that it is hard to wait when there are no guarantees. She knows that waiting is not always expectant, and that waiting sometimes feels like being trapped between impatience and impossibility.
Elizabeth is a character for any of us who have learned that we cannot always draw a straight line between prayers offered and prayers fulfilled. Hers is a story for any of us who feel stuck and stale and tired as we wait for impossible things:
- Impossible things like the questions we have about our ordinary lives for which we have no answers: why we fall ill or why loved ones suffer, or why unthinkable tragedies unfold before our eyes;
- Impossible things like the big things in our future that seem insurmountable: discerning where we will work or live, big expenses like houses or cars or healthcare, facing chronic or terminal illness;
- Impossible things like the dreams and hopes that seem to frivolous to consider or too difficult to attain: getting your fifteen minutes of fame, earning a promotion or landing your dream job, going back to school to finish your degree – or to earn another one, miracle cures, defying the odds.
Elizabeth challenges each of us to believe that this one simple statement might actually be true. And not true in a trite sort of way - you know, trivializing our own hopes or the hopes of others with a quick "Nothing's impossible for God" and a shoulder shrug. I'm talking about really really believing it.
Believing that the God who did crazy and miraculous things back in Bible days still does crazy and miraculous things in our world. Having the audacity to believe that things can change, that our world can be different, that God really acts in our lives, even when things seem improbable, crazy, or downright hopeless. Having the guts to trust God even when things don’t go our way. Having the peace of spirit to ask in prayer, “What impossibility is God seeking to make possible in me and in my life?” and “What is God seeking to birth through me?”
The good news that Elizabeth gives us is the assurance of God’s possibility in our current state of impossibility. She points to a God who is unhindered by human limitation, a God who draws blessings out of barren places. We need Elizabeth’s story because it reminds us that closed doors aren’t always locked doors. Elizabeth’s story gives us strength to keep believing that God can work miracles for us, even if he hasn’t yet, or even if they aren’t the miracles we’d have chosen for ourselves.
See, the miracle in Elizabeth’s story is not that she got what she wanted. It’s not that God answered her prayer just like she had hoped for. The miracle in Elizabeth’s story is that God chose to birth his possibility through her own human impossibility. God brought his life out of human barrenness. God gave Elizabeth a new story in place of her old one, and God in Christ offers each of us a new story as well, in place of our old stories. Our old stories of brokenness are replaced with God’s story of wholeness. Our old stories of discontent are replaced with God’s story of peace. Our old stories of death are replaced with God’s story of life.
And so we find ourselves right back at Mary’s Magnificat, singing about new worlds and new stories and a new vision of God’s justice and mercy being born in a stable and God’s grace and peace sleeping quietly in a manger.
With Mary, we sing, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for the Mighty One has done great things, and holy is his name.” And with Elizabeth, we feel joy leap within us as Christ comes to visit us. We have hope for ourselves and for our world, because two unlikely women conceived two unlikely children. Two unlikely women said “yes” to God’s possibilities. Two beautiful, unlikely, blessed women meet us here and embrace each of us, and whisper into our ear, “Nothing is impossible for God.”
And so, to the impossible, to the unlikely, to the miraculous, to God himself, we say “yes.”
Yes, Lord. Be born again to our hearts. Bring your possibility to birth in us. You are the Mighty One. You have done great things. And holy is your name.
11.04.2012
All Saints Day: Love, salvation, fear of death
[Sermon title TOTALLY ripped off from the Sixpence None the Richer song, "Love, Salvation, the Fear of Death"]
On this mountain 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."
(Isaiah 25:6-9)
Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away." And the one who was seated on the throne said, "See, I am making all things new." Also he said, "Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true." Then he said to me, "It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life. (Revelation 21:1-6)
When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, "Where have you laid him?" They said to him, "Lord, come and see." Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, "See how he loved him!" But some of them said, "Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?" Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, "Take away the stone." Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, "Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days." Jesus said to her, "Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?" So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, "Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me." When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out!" The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, "Unbind him, and let him go." (John 11:32-44)
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There have been a number of stories recently that have captured media attention about people seeing to the far side of death. Newsweek recently featured the testimony of Dr. Eben Alexander, a neurosurgeon whose brain was attacked by a rare illness, sending him into deep a coma where the parts of his brain that controlled thought and emotion completely shut down. During this essentially dead state, Dr. Alexander reports catching a dazzling glimpse of a life beyond life, an existence beyond body and brain, something that he could only describe in terms of heaven and afterlife.
And then there is the book, Heaven is for Real, the account of a young boy’s near-death experience, where he came to and described a world beyond anything he would have had the power to imagine on his own. He described an experience of being with family members who had passed away and sitting on the lap of Jesus. He talked about angels singing to him, and seeing the Virgin Mary standing next to Jesus in heaven.
These stories are so attractive and intriguing to us because they seem to lift the veil on life’s greatest mystery: death. Nestled in there between public speaking, snakes, spiders, and heights, fear of death ranks among humanity’s most common anxieties, precisely because death is something that we cannot truly understand, something that will remain a mystery until we ourselves experience it, something so final and haunting and mysterious.
Fear of death is part of the history and origins of All Hallows Eve, or Halloween, which we celebrated earlier this week. A medieval understanding of All Hallows Eve, the night before All Saints Day, was that all those souls who had died would not be released until All Saints Day, and that these restless souls viewed All Hallows Eve as their last chance for vengeance or retribution against the living. And so people wore masks and costumes and disguises so that they would not be recognized by any restless soul seeking them harm.
We fear death because we do not understand it. We work so hard to prolong our lives, through diet and exercise and medical interventions and anti-aging face creams. We each put up our own masks and put on our own disguises, hoping that death might not recognize us, fearful because we do not know what it will be like to breathe our last breath.
On this All Saints weekend, we praise God for all of the saints who have gone before us, those who have crossed to the far side of death, those who see beyond the veil, whom we remember, and grieve, and bless, and lift up to God.
And on this and every All Saints Day, we are reminded that because of Christ, we no longer need to fear death, because Christ has defeated the power of death once and for all. Now let me be clear about something. When I say that Christ’s death and resurrection destroyed the power of death, I do not mean that he destroyed the inevitability of dying, at least not until he comes again. But I mean that Christ has destroyed the power that death has over us, that is, the paralyzing fear of death that can imprison our living.
Today’s readings assure us that because of Christ, we can already see beyond the veil, and that we already know what stands on the far side of death, and that we have no need to fear the unknown, because God has made the far side of death known to us already, even as we stand on this side of life.
Isaiah gives us an image of a heavenly banquet on the far side of all tears and all anguish. God promises to destroy the shroud that is cast over all peoples and to swallow up death forever. And so, on the far side of death, do we have a vision of nourishment, fulfillment, peace, and joy; a banquet of life and love in the presence of God, along with a multitude of all of the saints, past and future.
Our reading from Revelation builds on this image from Isaiah, describing a time when weeping and crying will be no more, when all creation will live in the eternal presence of God. Peeking beneath the veil, this passage shows us a vision of a new creation, where we no longer have any hunger or thirst – physical or emotional or spiritual – and the assurance that God chooses us for all eternity.
And then we look at John’s gospel, and the story of the raising of Lazarus. Martha weeps, Mary weeps, the crowds weep, and Jesus weeps. This story begins on the near side of death, the grief and longing that each of us knows so well, as we have grieved loved ones at the time of their death, and as the news tells us of tragedies in our own backyard and across the world.
But then Jesus stands at the mouth of the tomb and opens the cave. He moves the stone, lifts the veil, opens the door separating humans from the mystery of death, and calls forth, “Lazarus, come out!”
And out of real death, real grief, and real tears, comes real resurrection.
Images of holy banquets and new creation are beautiful, true, and sustaining. But the raising of Lazarus tells us the ultimate truth of what we need to know about death: that God has the power and the desire to raise each of us up from the grave, that death is not final, that it is not only Jesus who gets to rise from the dead, but that this promise is given to each and every one of us who belongs to Christ.
And this, my friends, is why we no longer need to fear death. Because there is no longer any mystery to it. God has lifted the veil, and the truth about what happens when we die is that we live again, in the eternal presence of God, in whom we already live and move and have our being.
Because wholeness, restoration of life, feasting with the saints – these are things that do not only come to us on the far side of death. We already have access to these things here and now, even incompletely, on this side of life, because Jesus has already broken down the power of death.
Every time we join together at this table, we are nourished with a heavenly feast that strengthens us and brings us life. It is a meal that offers real grace and real forgiveness. We break bread with people very like us and very different from us, even as others break bread around this same table all across the world. In this meal, we eat and drink with the whole communion of saints, past, present, and future. This meal is truly our foretaste of the feast to come.
And every time we eat this meal, we lift the veil. We see God’s hope for us and promise to us. We see a vision of eternal life won for us by Jesus Christ. We stomp down the power of death as we eat and drink Christ’s blood. This meal reminds us that there is nothing left to fear, for God will be in all and through all, the alpha and omega, the beginning, the end.
As you come to this table today, eat and drink and let go of your fears. Eat and drink and let God fill the places in your soul that are empty with grief. Remember that gathered around this very table are all of God’s saints, lights in this world, courageous and confident witnesses to the faith. This table is a thin space, always, and especially today. So receive the bread and wine, and touch through to the other side. There is only life to be found. And there is nothing left to fear.
On this mountain 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."
(Isaiah 25:6-9)
Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away." And the one who was seated on the throne said, "See, I am making all things new." Also he said, "Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true." Then he said to me, "It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life. (Revelation 21:1-6)
When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, "Where have you laid him?" They said to him, "Lord, come and see." Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, "See how he loved him!" But some of them said, "Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?" Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, "Take away the stone." Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, "Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days." Jesus said to her, "Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?" So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, "Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me." When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out!" The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, "Unbind him, and let him go." (John 11:32-44)
---
There have been a number of stories recently that have captured media attention about people seeing to the far side of death. Newsweek recently featured the testimony of Dr. Eben Alexander, a neurosurgeon whose brain was attacked by a rare illness, sending him into deep a coma where the parts of his brain that controlled thought and emotion completely shut down. During this essentially dead state, Dr. Alexander reports catching a dazzling glimpse of a life beyond life, an existence beyond body and brain, something that he could only describe in terms of heaven and afterlife.
And then there is the book, Heaven is for Real, the account of a young boy’s near-death experience, where he came to and described a world beyond anything he would have had the power to imagine on his own. He described an experience of being with family members who had passed away and sitting on the lap of Jesus. He talked about angels singing to him, and seeing the Virgin Mary standing next to Jesus in heaven.
These stories are so attractive and intriguing to us because they seem to lift the veil on life’s greatest mystery: death. Nestled in there between public speaking, snakes, spiders, and heights, fear of death ranks among humanity’s most common anxieties, precisely because death is something that we cannot truly understand, something that will remain a mystery until we ourselves experience it, something so final and haunting and mysterious.
Fear of death is part of the history and origins of All Hallows Eve, or Halloween, which we celebrated earlier this week. A medieval understanding of All Hallows Eve, the night before All Saints Day, was that all those souls who had died would not be released until All Saints Day, and that these restless souls viewed All Hallows Eve as their last chance for vengeance or retribution against the living. And so people wore masks and costumes and disguises so that they would not be recognized by any restless soul seeking them harm.
We fear death because we do not understand it. We work so hard to prolong our lives, through diet and exercise and medical interventions and anti-aging face creams. We each put up our own masks and put on our own disguises, hoping that death might not recognize us, fearful because we do not know what it will be like to breathe our last breath.
On this All Saints weekend, we praise God for all of the saints who have gone before us, those who have crossed to the far side of death, those who see beyond the veil, whom we remember, and grieve, and bless, and lift up to God.
And on this and every All Saints Day, we are reminded that because of Christ, we no longer need to fear death, because Christ has defeated the power of death once and for all. Now let me be clear about something. When I say that Christ’s death and resurrection destroyed the power of death, I do not mean that he destroyed the inevitability of dying, at least not until he comes again. But I mean that Christ has destroyed the power that death has over us, that is, the paralyzing fear of death that can imprison our living.
Today’s readings assure us that because of Christ, we can already see beyond the veil, and that we already know what stands on the far side of death, and that we have no need to fear the unknown, because God has made the far side of death known to us already, even as we stand on this side of life.
Isaiah gives us an image of a heavenly banquet on the far side of all tears and all anguish. God promises to destroy the shroud that is cast over all peoples and to swallow up death forever. And so, on the far side of death, do we have a vision of nourishment, fulfillment, peace, and joy; a banquet of life and love in the presence of God, along with a multitude of all of the saints, past and future.
Our reading from Revelation builds on this image from Isaiah, describing a time when weeping and crying will be no more, when all creation will live in the eternal presence of God. Peeking beneath the veil, this passage shows us a vision of a new creation, where we no longer have any hunger or thirst – physical or emotional or spiritual – and the assurance that God chooses us for all eternity.
And then we look at John’s gospel, and the story of the raising of Lazarus. Martha weeps, Mary weeps, the crowds weep, and Jesus weeps. This story begins on the near side of death, the grief and longing that each of us knows so well, as we have grieved loved ones at the time of their death, and as the news tells us of tragedies in our own backyard and across the world.
But then Jesus stands at the mouth of the tomb and opens the cave. He moves the stone, lifts the veil, opens the door separating humans from the mystery of death, and calls forth, “Lazarus, come out!”
And out of real death, real grief, and real tears, comes real resurrection.
Images of holy banquets and new creation are beautiful, true, and sustaining. But the raising of Lazarus tells us the ultimate truth of what we need to know about death: that God has the power and the desire to raise each of us up from the grave, that death is not final, that it is not only Jesus who gets to rise from the dead, but that this promise is given to each and every one of us who belongs to Christ.
And this, my friends, is why we no longer need to fear death. Because there is no longer any mystery to it. God has lifted the veil, and the truth about what happens when we die is that we live again, in the eternal presence of God, in whom we already live and move and have our being.
Because wholeness, restoration of life, feasting with the saints – these are things that do not only come to us on the far side of death. We already have access to these things here and now, even incompletely, on this side of life, because Jesus has already broken down the power of death.
Every time we join together at this table, we are nourished with a heavenly feast that strengthens us and brings us life. It is a meal that offers real grace and real forgiveness. We break bread with people very like us and very different from us, even as others break bread around this same table all across the world. In this meal, we eat and drink with the whole communion of saints, past, present, and future. This meal is truly our foretaste of the feast to come.
And every time we eat this meal, we lift the veil. We see God’s hope for us and promise to us. We see a vision of eternal life won for us by Jesus Christ. We stomp down the power of death as we eat and drink Christ’s blood. This meal reminds us that there is nothing left to fear, for God will be in all and through all, the alpha and omega, the beginning, the end.
As you come to this table today, eat and drink and let go of your fears. Eat and drink and let God fill the places in your soul that are empty with grief. Remember that gathered around this very table are all of God’s saints, lights in this world, courageous and confident witnesses to the faith. This table is a thin space, always, and especially today. So receive the bread and wine, and touch through to the other side. There is only life to be found. And there is nothing left to fear.
10.28.2012
Reformation Day (& Confirmation): Baptized and set free
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| "Baptism Announcement" by bluekdesign, on Flickr |
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Well here we are again. Reformation weekend. One of those weekends when we dress the church up in red and remember the power of the Holy Spirit to gather and renew the church. Reformation is a weekend, in particular, when we remember Martin Luther, and give thanks for all people throughout the ages who have reformed and transformed the church, bringing new life to the body of Christ in this world.
On a day like today, I wonder if you’ve ever noticed something peculiar about us Lutherans, something distinctive that I’ve recognized about how we worship and how we talk about faith. I wonder if you’ve ever happened to notice that we Lutherans have a pretty serious tendency to talk about baptism.
For starters, we really like to baptize people. And we’ll baptize anybody, really. We baptize babies, who have no idea what’s going on, whose parents and sponsors make promises on their behalf. And we also baptize children or teens or even adults, who come to baptism to make public the faith that God has put in their hearts. And maybe this doesn’t make us all that different than Presbyterians or Episcopalians or Methodists or many other Christian denominations.
But here’s what is peculiar: the thing about us Lutherans is that don’t stop talking about baptism once you’re done being baptized. We keep talking about it. ALL. THE. TIME. Sometimes we start our worship with a thanksgiving for baptism instead of a confession and forgiveness, because it reminds us that through the waters of baptism, we have been washed and redeemed. At Easter time, we focus on the image of being joined to Christ’s death and resurrection through our “burial” under the water of baptism. Our funeral liturgy is full of references to baptism, Pastor Miller and I talk about baptism lots and lots in our sermons, the font hangs out in the middle of the sanctuary so you are always looking at it and walking past it and even dipping your fingers in the water, and for Lutherans, this big milestone that we celebrate tonight called “Confirmation,” is actually named “Affirmation of Baptism,” if you look it up in the hymnal.
So what’s the deal? Why do we focus so much on baptism? What’s so important about that water that it shows up over and over again in our Lutheran vocabulary?
“You will know the truth,” Jesus says in our gospel reading, “and the truth will set you free.”
I would say that baptism is such a strong focus for us because baptism has everything to do with truth and freedom.
First, baptism tells us the truth about who God is and who we are.
In our first reading from Jeremiah, we heard God say, “The days are surely coming when I will make a new covenant with [my people]. I will write it on their hearts. I will be their God and they shall by my people. They shall all know me, from the least to the greatest, for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.”
Baptism is the covenant, or promise, that God makes with us. God promises to forgive our sins and to claim us as children of God. Paul writes in his letter to the Romans that we are “justified by God’s grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus.” In baptism, we learn the truth about who God is: gracious and merciful. And in baptism, we learn the truth about who are are: forgiven and beloved children of God.
To all of you young men and women who are about to affirm your baptism, to claim for yourselves God’s promises, to profess the faith that is in your hearts, I want you to know the truth about who you are in Christ:
You belong to God. You are forgiven, no matter how messed-up you might feel sometimes. You are loved. You are cherished. You are blessed. You are a unique soul created in the image of God. You are free from all fears or doubts that would bind you.. You are a part of the body of Christ, and you have God-given gifts that will transform the world.
And if ever you forget the truth about who you are in God’s eyes, whenever you ever feel trapped or bound or broken, I want you to come back to this font, and remember these waters, and cling to your baptism, just like Martin Luther did.
Because what you might not know about brother Luther is that he was an absolutely tortured soul. He sometimes had a hard time remembering his own belovedness and sometimes struggled to trust that God would be merciful to him. His demons sometimes got the better of him, and he was sometimes full of fear and doubt. It was in those moments that he would make the sign of the cross and say, defiantly, “I am baptized! I am baptized!” Because remembering his baptism reminded him of the truth of his belovedness, and the truth of his redemption through Christ, and the truth of God’s mercy. And just like Luther, each of us can cling to our baptisms to remember the truth of God’s mercy and forgiveness.
But baptism isn’t just about truth. Baptism is also about freedom.
Every image that we attach to baptism – death and resurrection, burial and rising, being washed of our sins, being clothed and covered by the waters of grace – every image we use is an image of freedom. Free from sin, free from death, free from labels, free to live as unique, beloved children of God, free to serve one another in love.
We’ve spent the fall talking in-depth about the promises that you will make as you affirm you baptisms tonight: to live among God’s faithful people, to hear the word of God and share in the holy supper, to proclaim the good news of God in Christ through word and deed, to serve all people, following the example of Jesus, and to strive for justice and peace in all the earth. But I don’t want you to think about these promises as obligations or as your faith homework assignment. I want you to think about these promises through the lens of freedom.
As forgiven and beloved children of God, you are free to be a part of God’s family. You are free to worship and praise the God who has saved you. You are free to share the good news, and free to serve, and free to stand up for the underdog and to be peacemakers.
The author David Foster Wallace writes, “The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, ever day.” (This is Water)
This is the life of faith. A life of attention and awareness, of caring for others and serving them. A life of doing lots of small but transformative things in the world, each and every day. It is a life of freedom. And it is a life of blessing.
So friends, THIS is why we talk about baptism so much around here. Because the simple and mysterious waters of baptism give us both an identity and a God-given purpose…and in those waters we know that we are both blessed and beloved.
I want you to take ten seconds, right now, to turn to the person next to you, to trace the sign of the cross on their forehead, and to say to them, “you are a blessed and beloved child of God.”
Yes, children of God gathered here, each one of you has been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever. You are beloved and you are called to show God’s grace to the world.
May you know this truth each and every day of your life, and may it always set your spirit free.
Amen.
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