An Open Letter to My Church

Dear [Church]:

I am sending this letter to the Church Council, by way of the moderator (hi, [moderator]!), though the contents actually address the whole church.

 

I realized this past Monday that it had been a year since our first (very fateful) 2020 Annual Meeting. Evidently, I was not alone in this remembrance as later in the week I received an email from the Communications account at [Church] with the news that the report for this year’s Annual Meeting was ready to go.  I read it with the usual degree of interest (which is not insignificant) and a great deal of sadness.

 

There was no sadness for the contents of the report – in fact, there was much joy at God’s provision in the past year.  There were also a lot of losses and change in the church, which is mostly how life goes.  In times of loss and pain, I have always turned to the church for a bit of shoring up.  An hour in the pews on a Sunday morning is often sufficient to keep the structural integrity of my faith life intact.  This is a funny thing to me, given how little attention I actively pay to the service, fidgeting as I do with my phone through most of any meeting in order to sit more still, listening to the goings on and shouting answers to rhetorical questions asked in the middle of a sermon because I’ve forgotten I’m in the hallowed sanctuary of church and not at the Pub Quiz of the local beer hall.

 

This past year was quite eventful for me as well.  Some of it was unexpected and joyous – as when I started a new job doing the work I love, a full time hospice chaplain; some of it was joyous and long overdue – such as finishing my ordination process at my Ecclesiastical Council and being deemed “Ordination Ready, Pending Call.”  Between the two (the new job and the readiness), I can be ordained at any time – I haven’t done so yet because it’s important to me that it be in person.  Some of this past year was quite painful as well.  And that is where my sadness bubbled up in reading the Annual Report.

 

[Church] is the only church I have known in my four and a half years of living in Minnesota.  It’s where I married Hot Husband on July 6, 2018.  Some of you were in attendance!  It’s where I had my first art exhibit from October – December that same year.  Many of you attended that as well.  [Church] has been my church since I first tried it out – Mother’s Day, May 8, 2016 – when Hot Husband (then Hot Partner) and I came to the cities to buy our house.  I knew on that day that I had found what would be my home church when we moved up later that summer.

 

I needed [Church] to be my church this past year.  The church imploded on January 26, 2020 and not one person from the current Council reached out to me.  Only one person from the entire church initiated contact.  When I finally met with them for coffee just a week before the pandemic shut everything down, I asked why I had been left in the dark about the issues at Olivet and the plans to bring it all to light at the Annual Meeting.  “It was felt that you’re too close to [Former Pastor],” was the answer.  

When asked by another person why I stayed, I answered honestly, “I made a covenant (sacred commitment to the community) in joining [Church].  Though many have violated their part of the covenant, I haven’t been released from mine.”  I have been treated with open suspicion and mistrust - bordering on hostility - ever since.  I continued to show up to the extent my abilities permitted me because I wanted [Church] to be my church.

 

I left one job and started another – I needed my church to celebrate with me.  I had my Ecclesiastical Council and passed – I needed my community to cheer me on and dance with me.  (To your credit, many of you did attend, but no one offered connection or celebration at any point following).  I had three family members (all of whom have been married for less time than Hot Husband and I) enter a time of estrangement from their own spouses – one of whom is now divorced, two of whom have very young children in the middle – and I needed my church to grieve with me.  When one of those same family members attempted suicide because of a mental health condition that is refractory to care, I needed my church to comfort me.  When another of those same family members became entangled with Child Protective Services because of a long history of substance abuse and mental illness, I needed my church to surround me with love and encourage me to continue making healthy choices and reaffirming my boundaries.

 

I am sure there are ways in which all of these pericopes seem disjointed and unconnected to one another. When Olivet hosted my art exhibit, [Well-known Church Artist] approached me after and said, “I’m so glad you’re no longer suffering.”  It was the first time that I felt seen by [Church Artist] – seen in the kinds of ways that matter and let you know that you aren’t alone in the world and that people can know the parts of your heart that make you incredible and different and that aren’t always available to be seen because they mostly like to burst forth in the middle of celebrations – like a bikini-clad stripper from a giant birthday cake or maybe candy from a piñata or confetti from helium balloons floating above a parade.

 

The important thing about my art exhibit is that it was left unfinished.  By design.  On purpose.  Because as the hobbits sing in their walking song, “The road goes ever on.”  From earliest childhood to 2020, I knew two things: 1) I wanted to be a mother more than anything and 2) I would have to create a radically different life from the one I had been given if I was going to do the first well.  The next part of my exhibit, the next stop on the journey, then next turn in the road of my life was the hope of bearing children.

 

In early 2020, Hot Husband and I learned that our marriage is infertile.  The cause of this infertility is insurmountable– no medical interventions are available to bring the next part of my art exhibit, the next stop on my journey, the next turn in the road of my life to fruition.  I learned this the same day that I learned one of my aforementioned family members was 1) getting divorced and 2) pregnant with her and her now ex-husband’s second child.  This same child was two weeks old when CPS took custody of them and their 1 year old sibling; the same week their mother relapsed and left inpatient drug treatment; the same week my other family member became estranged from their family and attempted suicide; the same week my third family member began the process of separating from their spouse.  The same week I left my previous job and started my current job.  The same week I had my Ecclesiastical Council and was unanimously determined to be Ordination Ready, Pending Call.

 

In the midst of all of this, I received the occasional e-mail from the [Interim Pastor] about what I would need in order to experience healing with the congregation of [Church] following the 2020 Annual Meeting.  When I responded that what I need is accountability, for people to simply be honest with me about their secret planning for the Annual Meeting – I was met with radio silence.  I didn’t hear from the [Interim Pastor] for six weeks – and only then because I initiated to tell him that I didn’t know what to make of his silence since making my needs known.

 

I don’t know, [Church].  There are all sorts of ways this could have gone differently.  All sorts of ways I could have asked you to be my church this last year.  But who could I have asked?  The folks at the table who looked me in the eye and lied to me, insisting that there was no planning for the Annual Meeting, that it was all a big surprise to them as well?  The folks who told me that I was too close to the former pastor to be worthy of consideration?  The folks who expressed pleasure at my decision to remain a part of the church and then treated me with a cold shoulder and inherent distrust when they learned why I have remained?  The new pastor who failed to even acknowledge that I had stated a need – even if it couldn’t be met?

 

Who could I ask to sit with me and drink tea together – if only over Zoom – while I shed tears at the death of a long-held dream?  Who could I ask to reassure me that I am not my family and I can be sad for them and still celebrate my own life?  Who could I ask to help me see that the life I created for long hoped-for children was now a life I would have (GET!) to live for myself?  Who could I ask to mourn and celebrate with me the millions of little griefs and the billions of enormous joys that we encounter in a year?

 

A few of you did send Get Well Soon cards following my bicycle accident(s) and I appreciated the kindness of this gesture.  And the pain of a torn rotator cuff and bruised femur are but a breath when measured against the weight of injury to the soul from infertility.

 

My life didn’t stop being BIG, rich, juicy, beautiful and full of JOY when the change in pastoral leadership occurred.  Terrible things didn’t stop happening in my life and the lives of my loved ones.  Instead, life continued on, just at the road goes ever on.  I just no longer had a church community with me on that journey.  I no longer had wise pastoral counsel.  I no longer had church friends I could turn to for a cup of tea and conversation.

 

My life will keep on being BIG, rich, juicy, beautiful and full of JOY.  Terrible things will continue to happen in my life and in the lives of my loved ones.  Life will continue on, just as the road goes ever on.  I need a church community that is willing to journey with me.  The fact that you choose not to be a community deeply grieves my heart and I feel sad.  I know that church can be SO MUCH MORE.  I know that [Church] can be community.  [Church], you have demonstrated that you do not want to be a part of my community and you do not genuinely want me to be a part of your community.

 

Thus, I formally request that you release me from the covenant I made to [Church] and remove me from your membership rolls.  If you have questions, please don’t hesitate to reach out.  Text first and let me know who you are.  I’m more likely to answer an incoming call if I know who to expect.

Sincerely,

Me

I'm Going to Die Today

"I'm going to die today.  How do I NOT die today?"

That was the first thought I had on my commute home Thursday night.  After three months of using my indoor training stand, I had finally gotten the rear tire on my bike swapped out for a road tire, the weather was clear and warm, the winds low.  I rode my bike to work that morning for the first time in nine months.

It was a beautiful ride.  All that indoor training had worked wonders as my first commute of the season was a full 10 minutes shorter than my final commute last autumn.  I felt good - that "exercise high" people talk about when you've moved enough with enough intensity to get the endorphins moving.

Then, I had a perfectly normal day at work, finishing my shift with a two hour stint managing the flow of people into the hospital, checking temperatures, verifying their lack of symptoms, feeling grateful that no visitors came to be turned away.

I returned to my office, shut down my work station, put on my bike shorts, strapped on my helmet and headed to the bike cage.  I retrieved my bicyle, loaded my pannier on the back, and headed out.  I was a mile into my commute, had just crossed the Martin Olav Sabo Bridge, with nothing in my mind except the cadence of my legs, "One, two.  One, two.  One two....."  And on it went.

I turned the curve, began shifting up, reached the highest gear halfway down the east side descent, and felt my body relax into the joy of accomplishment.  "I can do this again tomorrow," I thought, as the ease of my commute infused me with confidence.

I was nearing the end of the descent, I looked ahead on the path, the sharp turn to the left so much closer than I had known, my lane covered in loose sand, a clump of bikers in the oncoming lane.  I'm traveling at least 16mph and I know that I cannot navigate the turn, on sand, at that speed; I cannot cross into the oncoming lane.

"I'm going to die today.  How do I NOT die today?"

I aim for the grass and find myself heading straight at two light poles, firmly planted on either side of a utility box, without clearance between the obstacles.  Aiming to go wide, around these items, I find myself barreling headlong toward a small tree.  I veer left to clear it - there's enough space between it and the next tree immediately to my left - and I am airborne, flying over my handlebars, and I know, "I am not going to survive this."

I hit the ground.  Hard.  My right shoulder makes impact along with my head.  My head bounces and my face makes contact.  The right half of my body is stationary and I feel the left half continuing to slide forward in the hard earth.  My neck, back, and hips shift and move in ways I am confident they are not really built to move.  I feel dirt and grit in my teeth.  My right shoulder hurts.  My upper lip got caugt between my top and bottom teeth on impact - I can feel the swelling.  My teeth are undamaged.

"Are you okay?" a passing cyclists asks.

"Yes," I say.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks again, slowing down.  "That was bad."

"I'm fine.  I'm going to call my husband," I respond, pushing up, noting that this is probably the last time in awhile I'm going to be able to move my arm like this.

"That looked really bad," he says, watching me sit up and begin fumbling for my pannier, which has dislodged from my rack.  I look around for my bicyle and see it lying several feet beyond me.  The passing cyclist, perhaps assured by the fact that I'm moving about, continues on his ride.  Several more cyclists pass on the trail.

My arms are shaking so bad I can barely manage to hold my phone.  I cannot move my right arm at all.  I begin texting with my left hand - repeatedly deleting mistyped letters. 

"Crashed.  Need ride."  "Hiawatha and 28th"

"Ok.  I'm coming.  Are you ok?"

"Probably."  "I can't really tell."  "No blood."  "My right arm is useless.  Bad headache.  Road rash on my mouth."

"Ow.  Which corner?"

"South west."  I know that if I gather my things, I can walk my bike over to opposite side of the road and sit in a bus bench while I wait.

When Husband arrives, he pulls the bike rack out of the trunk and begins affixing it.  "Can you open my door?" I ask him.

"It should be open," he says, pausing to pull his key fob from his pocket and hitting the unlock button.  "There you go."

I start to tear up.  "I mean, literally," I say to him, "can you literally open my door for me?"

"Oh, shit.  Yes," he says, pausing to open the back passenger door.  I drop my pannier and helmet on the back seat.  He opens the front door and I climb in, using my left hand to pull the door closed behind me and put my seatbelt on, cradling my right forearm against my belly, trying to keep my should from moving.  It hurts all the time, but every slight move causes the pain to skyrocket.

Husband insists on medical care.  He mentions the emergency department.  I have no compound fractures and only a slight amount of blood pooling in my nostrils.  I bargain for the urgent care.  We swing by the house, as it's on our way, and secure my beautiful bicycle in the garage.

After a brief wait with an ice pack, I am seen by the nurse practioner who evaluates me for a concussion, orders a shot of Toradol and X-rays.  I cry through the entire process of having films taken, grateful that I have to hold my breath when the technician takes the images, as it is the only time my ribs are not moving and less of me hurts just slightly less, despite the fact that my shoulder hurts infinitely more.

I have no concussion.  Nothing is broken.  I am given a sling to help keep my shoulder immobile and ordered to take ibuprofen on schedule - 800mg every 8 hours OR 600mg every 6 hours.  When we get home, I realize that my house keys are NOT in the front pocket of my pannier where they ought to be.

Husband and I eat dinner and then head back out to look for them in the grassy area where I crashed my bike.  I start to notice the scraped on my elbows, knees, and face.  I have a scrape above my right eyebrow where the visor of my helmet slid down and cut into my head upon impact.  We see my tire tracks in the dirt where I left the path.  The bent grass is just barely discernible in my path to the crash. 

"Oh, my god," I keep saying over and over and over again.  "I can't believe I didn't die."

"I know," Husband says.  "I'm really glad you're still here and it's incredible that you have so few injuries, considering."

I look down.  "Hey, look!  There's my keys!"  I gingerly bend down to pick them up, tuck them in my pocket, and we begin walking back to the car.  I'm confident that I will not be riding my bike in the next couple of days, but maybe next week, I think.  If my shoulder starts feelings better.

We climb into the car and again, I get my door closed and seat belt buckled using only my left hand and arm.  "You should stay off your bike until your tune-up," Husband says.  My tune up is in 13 days.  "And, you need to replace your helmet."

He is right, of course.

"I'm glad you're alive.  I hope this will remind you to be more careful on future rides," he says, squeezing my leg.

Future rides.  Yes.  I love my bicyle.  I love riding.  I want to climb into the saddle again.  I managed to not die that day.  For that, I am grateful.

Tomorrow is My Birthday

Content Warning:  Lots of self-pity ahead....

*****

For the past several years (since 2009 in fact), I have veered a little toward depression on my birthday.  Feelings of failure have plagued me.  Back in 2009, the downward spiral was begun by the fact that I was on a two-year medical leave from grad school (initiated by a bout of depression, which included a suicide attempts) and though I knew that I would returning that autumn, in that moment, on that birthday, I felt like everything I had wanted in life was simply out of reach and would never be achievable.

This year, it seems, isn't much different.  I don't know if the dead-end, unfulfilling, way-too-easy job I'm working with no prospects for advancement or even lateral movement into a different role with a more interesting set of expectations or if the infertility thing or the fact there's a pandemic raging out my front door and I'm being furloughed from work (which honestly doesn't bother me all that much; it's the fact that my employer has dictated that all furloughed employees who have paid time off available to them are OBLIGATED to use that paid time off to cover their furlough, and I'd take the furlough unpaid because I'm saving that PTO for a vacation, to Budapest, that isn't going to happen this year either, because, you know, there's a pandemic raging outside my front door - and yours, too!).

You know, as I think about, I didn't go through the whole, "Woe is me, I'm a failure, my life has not followed the plans I set at the age of five and I'll never accomplish anything or be good enough" last year.  I actually had a great birthday.  I celebrated at work with friends.  Then, after, I celebrated again at church with other friends.

All of my friends have left my work place.  I've made new friends and I'll be celebrating with them tomorrow, but I miss the folks I celebrated with last year - with a trio of cupcakes that I named after volcanoes.  Three different flavors.  Three different volcanoes.

With work that is not at all taxing and which does not, generally (at least until this morning), spark massive amounts of impotent rage and resentment, I have had a reasonable bit of brain space emptied of anything other than creative ideas.

So, this year, I'm making cupcakes again.  This year, I'm making one flavor of cupcakes.  I'm only sharing with people at work (my often willing culinary guinea pigs) because I won't be anywhere near the people at my church and because the people from church I want to share my cupcakes with are no longer a part of the church I serve as an at-large member of the council.

Social distancing, physical distancing, COVID containment....  Whatever you call it, there will be few opportunities to celebrate much of anything tomorrow.  Not a terrible thing - I don't like big parties and I'd rather celebrate with 47 smaller parties (tea with a friend, lunch with another, cupcakes with colleagues, dinner with hot hot Husband, an accidental encounter with someone I love), but even that is limited this year.

Maybe I did it wrong.  Life.  Maybe I shouldn't have planned.  Maybe I shouldn't have tried to make something of my life.  Maybe I shouldn't have tried to have a meaningful existence.  Maybe....  Maybe I should stop wanting to make a difference, stop wanting to matter.  I'm halfway through my life - maybe more.  And all I have to show for that ridiculous master's degree and the years of therapy is another idea for a cupcake.

So, I cry about the whole no babies thing and I fantasize about quitting my job for ... something more (as if that's even a possibility) ... and I fry sage in butter until the butter is browned and the sage is crispy which I will turn it into cupcakes, with a blackberry cream filling, lime buttercream icing, and blackberry and crispy sage accent on top.  I will take those cupcakes to my new friends who are work colleagues.  And I will ask them to celebrate with me - from at least six feet away - because, after all, tomorrow is my birthday.

On Dying Dreams

Last night I dreamt that I was lying in bed, curled in a fetal position, crying inconsolably.

This is not an uncommon dream these days.  I've had it about six times since January 15, 2020.

We had just returned from vacation the day before and our only real task that morning was a visit to the urologist.  (In fairness, Husband had a LOT of tasks on his list in preparation for the coming semester and I had laundry and cooking on my list, but the only really IMPORTANT thing, so far as I was concerned, was that visit to the urologist).

It's strange, sitting or standing in the exam room of a urology clinic, looking at charts and models of male and female urogenital anatomy and reading little blurbs and numbers about things like how many couples face infertility and whose body contributes at what rates, while my husband produces a sample for the doctor and I try to offer him privacy, knowing that I want to peak through the microscope at what's on the slide and that this happens in such short order I can't exactly wait in the lobby and hope to be called back when things are prepared.

The slide looks empty at first, and then I see one and then another - sperm that are wiggling with all their might, going nowhere.

This isn't right.  The last time we went through this, there were sperm everywhere and they were swimming across that slide like champions - our own little storehouse of Michael Phelpses.  "So, your numbers and motility are both down substantially in the last three months," the urologist says.

We return to the exam room and all take seats.  "I mean, we got back from vacation yesterday," I say, holding onto anything that might offer a glimmer of hope.  "Between the hot tubs, cases of wine, and blackberry gummy edibles...."

"It's possible," says the urologist.  "What's probable when we see unproductive motility is the presence of Anti-Sperm Antibodies (ASAs).  They grab onto the tails and prevent them from propelling forward."

I'm a married to a guy who does statistical modeling for a living because he finds it fun.  Okay, fun is an overstatement.  I don't get it and when I ask, he tells me, "It's really, really interesting and when something works, it's really, really cool."  When the urologist says, "probable," I know what that means.

The glimmer of hope I had been holding onto is extinguished.

"So," I ask, already anticipating an answer in the negative, "would that mean IUI?"

"No," the urologist says.  "That means IVF would be your only option.  If that's something you're open to exploring, I can give you a referral for more testing, but at this point, if you're not considering IVF, there's not much point."

We headed home with a referral for more testing, though I had already drawn my line in the sand.  I knew that IVF would not be an option for me.

Still, we did more testing and by the end of January learned that, yes, ASAs were the culprit.  Yes, IVF would be our only option for a biological child.  For me to become pregnant, to generate life, to carry and birth a new human.

I don't actually know anything about the experience of IVF.  I have a general knowledge of how it works, but I don't actually know the nitty-gritty details.  So, reconsidering my line in the sand and wanting to have all the information before making a decision, I registered Husband and myself for a "Demystifying IVF" seminar.  February 13, 2020, we had the sexiest, most depressing Valentine's date in the history of the multiverse.

As it turns out, IVF is even more horrifying than I had imagined.  On top of that, with ASA factor infertility, standard IVF is not an option.  We would be looking at ICSI and IVF - where they pick the single best sperm available and inject that single sperm in the the single best egg available and hope for the best - with significantly increased risk to the resulting embryo.  Fortunately, I do not have to even consider this.  We are ruled out of IVF for other medical reasons.

So, that's it.  The end of the options.

I have spent my entire life doing the necessary internal healing work with one goal in mind - to create a life that was conducive to generating life, to raising children in a safe and health home.

Now, I know.  It took too long, the obstacles were too many, and the amount of trauma that needed to be transformed was just too much.

It appears that in building a life for children I will never have, I managed to build an extraordinary life for myself.  And I am not a hedonist.  I do not want to live exclusively for my own pleasure and comfort.

Whenever I stop to think about these things, something like hope and joy come bubbling up to the surface.  "Grace abounds," is the refrain filling my entire being.  "Even in this, grace abounds."

Still, when I sleep and the world falls away and my mind has space to feel the loss and grief, I dream about the grief of dying dreams.  And I weep.

On Earth as It Is in Heaven

-->

From Luke 11:1-13

*****

In today’s translation of the Lord’s Prayer, we read it simply:

God:

Reveal who you are.

Set the world right.

Keep us alive with three square meals.

Keep us forgiven with you and forgiving others.

Keep us save from ourselves and the Devil.

If this prayer isn’t clear enough, Jesus tells a parable.  You’ve finally gotten your kids to bed and they’ve stopped with the “one more story,” “a last sip of water,” “a final hug,” “I need to pee,” “but I love you so much” routine and they’re asleep.  You’ve shut off the lights, brushed your teeth, collapsed into bed.  Exhausted from the day’s routine of work and family life – there’s never enough time for it all – you’ve fallen into a deep and sound sleep.

The doorbell rings.  Blearily, you open your eyes.  You glance at your clock.  It’s 2:00am.  With every fiber of your being, you despise, utterly hate the person ringing your doorbell.  And you ignore it.  If they don’t know they’ve woken you, perhaps they’ll go away.

Listen – I get it.  I don’t have kids and I love my job, but let me tell you a story.  For those of you who don’t know, our house is a small and lovely little Cape Cod in a charming neighborhood just a couple of block from the college.  It has a delightful three season porch on the front with side-by-side windows on all three sides.  Even better, the porch not only has a door with glass panels that opens into the living room, but that same wall has three massive windows that open between the living room and porch as well.

I like my quiet life and I’ll freely admit that I know exactly none of my neighbors by name and fewer than three of them by sight.  There may or may not be children living on my street, but I can say with high confidence that there are children in – or who visit – the larger neighborhood.

Not long after we’d moved here (probably in the 14-16 month time frame – maybe 20 months), the Boy Scouts were once again selling popcorn.  The boys (who looked at most to be in 3^rd or 4^th grade) were wandering through the neighborhood in pairs, carrying their brochures and order slips, and pulling a red wagon of available product behind them.  I swear to you, Normal Rockwell once painted this scene.

I have just finished a walk around the closest college campus – and I had a lovely time.  Husband has wandered off to his campus office at the University.  The house will be empty except for the cats.  And because those charming little creatures like to see more of the outside world, Husband has left the door between the three season porch and the living room open.  The shades have been pulled up.  The windows are open.  Light is streaming into the house as I walk up the street and I’m looking forward to getting home and resting in the peace and quiet.

And then, I see them.  The Boy Scouts.  Five houses down and headed in the wrong direction.  I know that if I enter the front door, they’ll see him.  I begin to panic.  This wasn’t part of the plan.  This isn’t how I wanted to spend my afternoon.  So, I keep walking.  To the end of the block.  And around.  To the alley.  And I walk carefully through the backyard.  And I slowly, and as quietly as possible, slip my key in to the back door.  I unlock it.  I turn the knob.  I slide the door open just enough to enter.

And then I hit the floor on all fours as the doorbell begins to ring.  I slide the back door closed.  I army crawl into the kitchen – being careful to remain behind the dining room table and the living room couch.  Once in the kitchen, I roll to a sitting position with my back resting against a cupboard.  “How long, oh Lord!?” I silently plead, as the doorbell rings and rings.  A mystical windchime that serves as the harbinger of death.

The cats have disappeared entirely.  I swear the Boy Scouts stand there ringing the bell for 45 minutes.  (It’s probably more like 45 seconds).  “Deliver me from evil, Lord!” I pray.

Eventually the Boy Scouts left and I spent my afternoon doing what I had hoped to do all along – avoid all contact with human kind.

So, back to our story – it’s not 2:00pm, it’s 2:00am.  It’s not the faceless, nameless Boy Scouts who might living nearby; it’s your next-door neighbor and good friend Bob.  He isn’t there selling the devil’s snack that will inevitably got stuck in your gums and requires industrial dental floss and minor surgical instruments to remove; he’s in desperate need of a loaf (or three) of bread.  An old friend from his neighborhood has shown up – in dire straights – and Bob is delighted by the opportunity to lend a hand, but he doesn’t have enough on hand.  Can you please just help a guy out?

And because he’s now been ringing the doorbell and calling out loudly for 45 minutes, you know he isn’t going away.  The rest of the neighborhood is beginning to rouse.  And everyone knows that you are the generous, reliable, helpful, good Christian in the neighborhood – the person everyone counts on.  You’ve built your entire life on this reputation.  So, you get up; you welcome Bob in; you invite him to your kitchen; and together you pick out a couple of loaves of bread, a quart of milk, a half a dozen eggs, and a slice or two of ham.  You wish Bob well and after shutting the door, locking the deadbolt, cutting the electricity to the doorbell, and collapsing back into bed.

Here’s the thing – Jesus isn’t telling us, “God is just like you in this story!  If you keep knocking and asking and seeking, God will get up and give you bread to save God’s reputation!”  No!  Jesus is telling us, “God is the one who is knocking and this is what it means for God to reveal Godself – on earth as it is in heaven:

“Open your door!”

“This is what it means for God to set the world straight:

“Show hospitality to your neighbor and the stranger!”

“This is how God meets our daily needs:

“You feed the hungry among you!”

“This is how we know and understand God’s limitless forgiveness of our sins:

“Only in the measure by which we show forgiveness to others will be experience the forgiveness of God.”

“This is how God makes the world a safer place:

“Our choosing to live in community keeps us all safer together.”

God’s love is never conditional – so why is ours?  Why do we ask for full forgiveness from God, yet dole out piecemeal forgiveness to others?  Why are we surprised when we experience God’s forgiveness only in the same measure by which we extend forgiveness to others?  Why do we ask God to meet all of our needs, yet we only meet the needs of those we’ve deemed “worthy,” or “good,” or “legal”?

The whole world is watching us as God knocks at our doors, pleading with us to care for the stranger.  Will we continue to hunker down in imagined safety, pleading with God to keep the rest of the world’s needs at bay?  Will we continue to claim that we simply do not have the resources to do what is right?  Will we continue to close our doors to the Kingdom of God, refusing to let it into our lives today – just as it is in heaven?

Sometimes, when I think back that fine, late summer day when the Boy Scouts came knocking on our door, I wonder if I made the wrong choice.  Honestly, I know I did.

I trust that if Jesus actually lived in my house (or in my heart) all the time (instead of only the times when it’s most convenient and expedient for me), he would have answered the door.  And if he’d had the cash or a checkbook available, he’d have bought a bit of popcorn, to boot.  But even if he hadn’t, he’d have welcomed the people at the door and treated them like they were part of his community – because they are, whether they live in the neighborhood or not.

I think that if I fully realized who Jesus is, I would have known that in answering the door, I was welcoming him.

And I guess that’s the lesson in the Lord’s Prayer for me – I need to stop hiding behind the counter, thinking about what it means to follow Jesus, and debating with others who is truly deserving of the love of God.  I need to stop hiding and start living.  And frankly, that takes work.  The work of loving the world, of living the kingdom of God on earth, of providing for the needs of the whole human family – regardless of whether or not we deem them worthy – is work worth doing – and I hope you’ll join me in doing it.

Amen.

Following Jesus

Preached from the Lectionary texts, The Message translation:

Galatians 5:1, 13-25 

Luke 9:51-62

*****

It’s an unfortunate reality that we don’t always get what we want.  This is often, especially, the case when it comes to how other people treat us.  I generally meander through life desiring that others treat me with the most basic degree of respect.  It’s certainly not unwelcome if they also happen to recognize my natural and radiant brilliance and defer to me in all matters in which I have both knowledge and experience – but while these latter two are desirable, I don’t actually expect them.  I have to tell you, I am rather often disappointed on all three fronts – particularly when engaging in everyone’s favorite pastime – social media. It seems the rules and norms around social engagement simply are not respected anymore.

Which, it appears from our gospel lesson today, isn’t all that new a phenomenon.  Let me give you a little context from Luke’s Gospel:

·     A couple of chapters back, Peter declared that Jesus is the Messiah

·     Jesus immediately predicts his own death

·     8 days after this dire prediction, Jesus is transfigured

·     Following this, in last week’s Gospel, Jesus heals a demon-possessed boy, killing a herd of swine in the process, and the locals chase him out of town

·     At which point, Jesus predicts (again) that he is going to die

It’s not terribly surprising, in context, that Jesus is headed for death.  He’s breaking a lot of rules – eating with sinners; hanging out with unclean folk; being declared the Messiah – who is believed to the one who will overthrow Roman oppression and free the Jews from an unjust, violent, oppressive, and dehumanizing government; causing trouble and threatening the livelihood of those he meets out in the countryside.

So, having been chased off by the locals, who want nothing to do with this swine-killing, demon-exorcising, itinerant healer and his band of unemployed fishermen, Jesus begins his journey south.  He leaves Capernaum, at the northern edge of the Sea of Galilee and likely walks along the Jordan River until reaches the southern border where it empties into the Dead Sea, before veering right and heading to Jerusalem.

Now this is approximately an 85 mile journey, done on foot, with a whole caravan of people with him.  And unlike ultra-marathon runners today who pack 100 mile journeys in 27 hours, Jesus didn’t have 2 liters of Coca-Cola and a backpack full of energy bars readily available to him.  However, like the 100 milers of today, there was an expectation of the spirit of community – the socio-cultural rules and norms of Jesus’s time included giving food, shelter, and care to strangers in their midst, regardless of where or not you agree with their reasons for being there.

It’s not just a cultural expectation – it’s biblical Law.  And Samaritans held to the same scriptures as the Jews.  The people of God are required to give food to the hungry, shelter the poor, welcome the stranger, protect the travelers in our midst.  It was customary in the first century to provide water for washing – a symbol of acceptance and an indication that the host bears no ill intentions.  So, it is quite the act not just of inhospitableness but also of hostility that the Samaritans, learning that Jesus is headed to Jerusalem, refuse him hospitality.

And it is perhaps this line, more than any other in the entire bible, that speaks to my heart of heart and tells me that I am at home within the Christian tradition:  “When the disciples James and John learned of it, they said, ‘Master, do you want us to call a bolt of lightning down out of the sky and incinerate them!?’”  Seriously, these are my people!  If only removing my opponents from the field of battle were so easy.  *sigh*

Jesus’s disciples want justice.  They want retribution.  They want to right the wrong done to them when they were rejected because of their destination.  “These Samaritans aren’t going to follow the Law?  Well, we’ll show them what happens to people who don’t do things the right way!” And perhaps, having been refused hospitality, they saw hostility instead.  “Let us protect ourselves from these enemies!  Strike first!  Jesus just told us that he is going to be delivered into the hands of men, that he must suffer, and that he will be killed.  This impending crisis is all theirfault!”

But Jesus rebukes them.  “That’s not how we treat people!” he declares.  Jesus wants a different kind of justice.  And he leads them to the next village.  Things only get better from here.

Continuing their journey, Jesus unveiling the kingdom of God everywhere he goes, and along the way, more people want to be his disciples, to join his movement, to follow him wherever he’s going to go.  And Jesus gets super real with them – you’re going to have to give up all your comforts if you want to follow me.  We’re roughing it and result of hanging out with me is that people are going to reject you and deny you aid when you need it.”  

And yet, Jesus is open to more people joining his mission.  “Follow me!” he cries.  But those invited have a few loose ends to tie up – one has a father to bury, another has a family to sort out.  Jesus calls the bluff of the man who needs a few days to arrange his father’s funeral – it was expected that burial would take place within a day of death – “Leave it all behind,” Jesus tells them.  “This is too important, and too urgent, to wait while you procrastinate and waver.  Now or never!”

Sounds like, fun, right?  A different kind of justice - give up all of your worldly possessions, leave your family behind, travel miles and miles and miles without food, water, shelter, or care, all the while knowing that if you make it to your destination, you’ll probably be rejected there as well – and if what Jesus has said is true, you’re also going to witness the death of the person to whom you’ve devoted your life.  Who’s with me!?

Listen, I just have to say, I’m kind of confused as to how this marketing campaign managed the kind of success it’s seen. This company has survived for 2,000 years and currently has two billion loyalists, including more than 70% of Americans.

Or does it?

When Adolf Hitler ascended to power in post-WWI Germany, he united the local and regional churches under a new national church.  In marrying the church and state, propaganda was used to install Nazi sympathizers at the highest levels of church governance – who in turn make systematic and systemic changes to disenfranchise particular groups of people – beginning with those of Jewish descent.  This was enacted through passing the “Aryan Paragraph” which reserved right of residency and participation in organizations, federations, parties, and public life exclusively for those of Aryan descent.

In response to this, several German clergypersons formed the “Confessing Church” which stood in opposition to the Nazi regime on moral and theological principals – the state could not have total and unchecked control over persons as ultimate sovereignty, according to Christian orthodoxy, belongs to God.  People are not slaves to the state – they are made free by God’s Spirit, through Christ’s sacrifice.  A different kind of justice.  This opposition included Dietrich Bonhoeffer, widely known for his modern classic The Cost of Discipleship, who declared that the church must not simply “bandage the victims under the wheel, but jam the spoke in the wheel itself.”  

Bonhoeffer’s opposition to injustice and his commitment to living out the Gospel resulted in his imprisonment in a Nazi concentration camp and eventual execution.

Two thousand years later, Jesus’s dire warnings about the cost of following him continue to ring true.  We are at a crossroads in our own time and in this place – where one arm of the church has married itself to political power, leading credibility to claims that the government has the right to determine to what individuals can do to their own bodies, who qualifies for due process, which borders can be crossed by whom, who is at fault for allthat troubles our communities today, and just how high the body count has to grow before declare that profits are less important than people.

This doesn’t sound that far off from Paul’s charge that the root of sinful self-interest leads to “a stinking accumulation of mental and emotional garbage; frenzied and joyless grabs for happiness; trinket gods; magic-show religion; paranoid loneliness; cutthroat competition; all-consuming-yet-never-satisfied wants; a brutal temper; the inability to love or be loved; small-minded and lopsided pursuits; the vicious habit of depersonalizing everyone into a rival; ugly parodies of community.”

There is another option.  There is a different kind of justice – one based on the fair distribution of God’s resources.  There is the possibility of living within the kingdom of God today.  When we live into the free life given to us by God and motivated by God’s Spirit, we will demonstrate affection for the “other” in our midst; we’ll have an exuberance for life; serenity in our hearts; we will hold to the convictions of our faith – that everyone and everything is permeated by the divine; we’ll hold a sense of compassion deep within our hearts.  And these won’t be merely intellectual exercises that tease or torment us when faced with annoying coworkers and frustrating family members.  We will work out the implications of this freedom in every single detail of our lives!

The kingdom of God will be within us and all around us.  And it will bring us unwanted attention and make us unpopular and make us the targets of the vitriol and hatred of our contemporary culture.  And it is the only way to follow Jesus.  Only you can decide which church aligns with your own values. But know this:  the Kingdom of God cannot be put off until tomorrow.  If following Jesus is what you want to do, seize the day!