Minister at the End of the First Month

Last Sunday was the fourth Sunday of my part-time minister position (a SAM, Synod Appointed Minister position).  It's been an interesting time to start, since each Sunday has been different.  The first Sunday was regular, the second was out in the picnic shelter on the church grounds, the third was a Sunday when 2/3 of the congregation was away on vacation including the pianist/organist, and last Sunday we were back to normal again.

I am still happy to be there, and they still seem happy to have me there.  I had been a bit worried about the drive, but so far it hasn't been onerous.  I feel that the congregation deserves to have a minister who lives closer, but that decision is theirs to make more than mine to make.

Let me make a few notes about what I've learned in my first month where I've been preaching and presiding as a person paid to do it, not a volunteer:

--I need to take a highlighter with me and highlight my parts in the bulletin.  I thought it would be intuitive, but this past Sunday, I missed some cues.

--I need to start working on my sermon earlier in the week.  I want to see if that will help me sleep better on Saturday night into Sunday morning.  Or will I not sleep well because Sunday is a big work day?

--These lectionary texts have been hard ones to preach for the grown up sermon.  The children's sermon has been easier because I focus on the easy parts--God loves you like a sparrow!  But for the adults?  What does it mean when Jesus says he comes to divide families?

--I am only preaching on the Gospel text.  I understand why some pastors might prefer to preach on Romans (just kidding--I don't), but there's so much in the Gospel text.  I also worry a bit about taking the Old Testament text out of context.

--Four double spaced pages is about long enough for a sermon, even though it didn't seem to be much more than 5 minutes for preaching class.  I thought I might need to have more, but I can feel attention spans start to wander by the top of page 4.

--The congregation seems open to changes.  We moved a podium for the sparsely attended week so that I could preach closer to the congregation, and we kept it in place this past Sunday.  People seemed to like it.  We also talked about rethinking communion distribution, since the altar space is so cramped.

--I am enjoying the work, even though I know it might be easier for me because I'm temporary.  People might be more polite because I'm a guest.  In fact, in many ways, this assignment feels a bit like being an exchange student, if the exchange student went home every week.  The host family (the church) is kind and wanting me to see their best selves.  

--Of course, maybe these folks are like this all the time.  I am not likely to be the kind of minister who demands a controversial something that none of them want to do, whether I'm part-time or in charge of a parish as a full-time/post-seminary pastor.  I am far more likely to suggest gently, week after week, that we move to something that God calls us to do.  I want the congregation to discern that movement, not just me.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, July 2, 2023:

First Reading (Semi-cont.): Genesis 22:1-14


Psalm: Psalm 89:1-4, 15-18


Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 13


Second Reading: Romans 6:12-23


Gospel: Matthew 10:40-42


This week's Gospel reading has the flavor of the theme that Jesus develops more thoroughly in the 25th chapter of Matthew--that reading where Jesus reminds us that as we treat the least of our fellow humans, that is how we treat Jesus. This tiny Gospel reading reminds us of some of the themes Jesus returns to again and again: stay alert and watchful. Treat everyone as if they're God in disguise. Keep our Christian priorities always in the front of our vision, so that we know what's important.

If I wrote a modern paraphrase, I might say something like this: Why do you swoon over supermodels and superathletes? What good do they bring into the troubled world? Why are you not searching out the words of the wise ones among you? Why do you neglect your duties to the next generation?

When I was younger and not surrounded by multiple types of media, it seemed easier to ignore the siren calls of the larger world. I remember a world before cable TV: we had four channels, and when we lived in Montgomery, Alabama, we could sometimes see a snowy version of one of Ted Turner's superchannels out of Atlanta. Little did we know that we were seeing what would become one of the cornerstones of the cable world. Even in the early days of cable, one's viewing options only expanded to 10-40 channels, and then, as now, half of those were just dreadful creations formed to take advantage of cheap airwaves.

At a recent graduation, our graduation speaker told the graduates that there was no Internet 20 years ago. Of course there was. But there wasn't a widespread World Wide Web, so the medium was text based and not as user friendly. Unless we were at a university dedicated to the technology, it was slow and clunky. Therefore, we weren't as prone to let it suck away our lives.

Now we're surrounded by electronic information, media, and gadgets. Of course, in some ways, it's invaluable. It's much easier to research any subject from the comfort of my computer--unlike the old days, when I'd have to go to a library. It's easier to keep in touch and communicate, at least for those of us plugged in. I've often wondered if Christian communities online can be as valuable--even more valuable--in terms of keeping each other centered, grounded and on track. We now have churches that have as many people worshipping online as in the sanctuary, and some churches have started to hire online ministers; we're at a moment that might be transformative

But will it be for the better or worse?  I wouldn't be the first to point out all the ways the technology can lead us astray. We spend our days dealing with e-mail instead of doing real work. In our quest to be connected, we often let our connections in the real, human world slide.

The Gospel for today reminds us that there are rewards for righteous living. Traditionally, Christian communities (at least in the last 300 years) have translated those rewards as coming in the afterlife. But we shouldn't overlook that righteous, connected living has rewards for us in our lives right here and now. We will be able to recognize the prophets and disciples that Jesus promises to send. We will be able to discern the presence of the Holy Spirit. We will not neglect our duties to the young and disadvantaged. We will drink from the streams of living water and be able to know what nourishes us and what saps our strength.

John the Baptist Inspired Stanzas

My morning has gotten away from me.  You might say, "There's still plenty of morning--what are you talking about?"  But I do have grading to do, ahead of my deadline to turn in final grades tomorrow.  At some point this morning, the microwave installers will come, so I don't want to get too deeply into writing that takes much thought.

So let me do a poem process writing post here.  Yesterday, these two lines came to me.  Those of you not steeped in feast days or prophets or the early parts of New Testament Gospels may not recognize John the Baptist, whose feast day was on Saturday--shorthand for saying that I wasn't surprised when these lines floated up through my brain late yesterday as I took a walk: I have eaten your locusts and wild honey / and I am not impressed.  

This morning, I got rid of the second line, and now the stanza looks like this:

I have eaten your locusts and wild honey

And created a new menu with the bones

Of all the deer killed by carelessness.

And then I wanted to write a bit more, but I wasn't sure what.  I peered into my dirty coffee cup and the next stanza emerged:

I drink my wine out of a dirty

coffee mug and bathe in the creek

that comes from the cooling

ponds at the nuclear plant.

I have no idea where this poem is heading or if it is going anywhere.  I'll keep the document open in case anything else bubbles up.   I'm composing on the computer instead of by hand, and for the past few months, I haven't written by hand.  Hmmm--is this change permanent?

The Feast Day of John the Baptist

Some months, I’m in the mood for John the Baptist. I’m ready to go into the wilderness. I’ve got a file of recipes for locusts and wild honey. I’m in a daring mood—I’ll speak truth to the King Herods of the world, even if it means my head on a platter.

But much of the time, when John the Baptist shows up in the lectionary or when we celebrate his feast day on June 24 or when we talk about prophets in general, I’m weary. Most of the time, I'm tired of having prophets like John the Baptist call me part of a brood of vipers or comparing me to shrubbery that refuses to behave.

I know, I know, I have all these faults. Don't threaten me with that ax. I try so hard to bear good fruit, but I'm afraid it isn't enough. I'm surrounded by people who are clearly in a more crabby mood than I am, and I'm trying to be sympathetic, but it's hard. This attempt of mine to transform myself into a compassionate person is taking longer than I thought it would. I see people having meltdowns, and my response is to close my door and turn off all media.  I don't say, "What can I do to help people through this painful time?"

But let me return to the mission of the prophets. God does not send prophets because we’re all already damned. God sends prophets to call us back to the path we should be travelling.

On this day in June when we celebrate John the Baptist, it’s good to be reminded that I'm not my final, improved version of myself. I still have work to do. And I need to hear that message that the prophets bring us. I'm lazy and inclined to coast, and it's good to know that God has a vision for me that is vaster than any I could dream myself.

It’s also good to remind ourselves of who we are. I like the passages when John the Baptist is questioned about his identity. He says, “I am not the Messiah” (John 1:20). He could have hoodwinked people who were willing to believe he was the Messiah. He could have made a power grab. He could have gotten great wealth and women and audiences with powerful rulers.

Those temptations have led more than one religious leader astray.

But John knows who he is. He is not the Messiah. He has been sent to point the way to salvation, not to provide it.

Likewise, we are not called to be the Messiah, That doesn't mean we’re off the hook in terms of behavior. We can't say, "I am not the Messiah," and stay home on our sofas. We can’t decide to watch reruns of The Simpsons and do nothing about injustice in the world.

No, John the Baptist reminds us that we are called to emulate Jesus. Some days, though, I’d rather emulate somebody else. I’m so tired of working so hard to be a light to this fallen world.

When I feel that way, I need to listen to the words of John the Baptist again. I need to listen to God, who often calls to us from the wilderness. Most of us need to be reminded to listen to that call that God makes. Let the words fill our hearts with hope: "The crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways shall be made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God." (Luke 3: 5-6). Our salvation is at hand: our grieving hearts will be comforted, our anger and irritation will lift, the planet will heal itself as it always does, God will take care of us and everything we need is on its way, even if we’re not ready for deserts and locusts in our dedication.

The Feast day of Saint Etheldreda

Today is the feast day of Saint Etheldreda, also known as Ethelthryth (and variations on that name), an Anglo-Saxon saint.  You say you've never heard of her?  Neither had I, until this morning.  It's a reason I stay on various social media sites, because I pick up nuggets that enrich me.  For clarity, I'm only on Facebook and Twitter.  I'm not adding more because I don't need the distractions.

A Twitter tweet took me to this blog post, which gives rich information about Saint Etheldreda.  In some ways, it's a familiar story:  a medieval woman of some privilege, who found monastic life more appealing than married life.  That's a gross oversimplification of course.  She almost certainly had deep spiritual yearnings that led her to monastic life.  

My experience in Church History I class showed me how much I view ancient life through my own modern lens and how much of a problem that can be.  I hear about Etheldreda leaving her second husband with two other women and founding a monastery, and I assume she was escaping a bad marriage.  Perhaps it was a bad marriage or perhaps a political marriage that she wanted no part of.  Perhaps it was a turning to God, a fulfillment of a calling that she had sensed before she was ever married:  she took a vow of chastity before her first marriage, and her first husband respected that vow.  According to a Wikipedia article, her second husband wanted to have his conjugal rights, and that's why she fled.

Flee she did, and she founded a religious order which flourished for several generations, during times of great turmoil, like the Norman invasion.  In the best of times, it's no small thing, to create a religious order.  She built a monastery on a cold northern sea, in a land under assault by fierce invaders, in a time where she was a woman of some wealth, but not much in the way of rights.

I'm glad to know about her.

The Planning and Purposes of a Funeral

A week ago, we helped plan the funeral service for my spouse's younger brother, who died unexpectedly from a massive heart attack last week.  To be honest, we didn't do much.  The beauty of liturgy is that the framework is there.  We had been doing thinking about the Bible verses, and we all agreed:  an Old Testament justice prophet (Amos was the one we went with), Psalm 26, the Pastor's choice from Paul which he said was a standard at funerals, and a Gospel text about neighbors.  That last text turned out to be the Good Samaritan text, the one that talks about determining who our neighbor is.  Mr. Rogers was very important to my spouse's brother, and when we heard him preach last summer, on our way to Lutheridge, that was the text.

Choosing the hymns was more complicated.  The pastor wanted to open with "Lift High the Cross" and we knew of a justice hymn that was important to my brother-in-law.  For the last hymn, my spouse suggested "Canticle of the Turning," which has a great justice theme, along with the recognition that life is far from perfect right now.  It seemed like the perfect choice when my spouse suggested it at the planning meeting, and at the end of the service, it was.'

Unlike many funerals these days, the pastor actually knew the deceased.  The pastor was able to talk about his passion for justice and community, his volunteer activity, and how he had grown as a human during his internship at the church.  The pastor wove references to the hymns and readings into his sermon.

All of the elements worked together beautifully, which is how a worship service should function.  It was helped by having talented musicians and pastors and a sanctuary full of people who weren't afraid to sing.

I know that others might not have found it as beautiful as I did--we didn't have any eulogies, for example.  We did have greetings and condolences given from the lectern from groups of which my spouse's brother was part:  the diaconal association and the seminary.  The service was designed to be a function of the seminary community, since he had just graduated and was doing some post-MDiv work through them, and living in seminary housing.  I was touched by how many professors and students came, some of them from great distances.

One feature of both the service and the reception afterward is that we had a chance to hear about all the amazing thing our loved one had been doing, all the connections he had made.  It was an additional comfort, especially for his parents, who hadn't been aware of the scope of his activities.  For many years when we knew him, especially just after undergraduate school, he stayed in his room and watched old movies and played video games.  But he had grown, and I'm not sure any of us who knew him from childhood realized how much.

So in a way, we had eulogies, but in a more private and personal way.  I preferred that approach; it was less brutal, both for those doing the testifying and for us hearing it.

In short, last week was a master class in how and why to have a funeral.  As I said in a Facebook post, it's what Church does well, when Church does it well.

Summer Solstice in a Time of Climate Change

We are still a few hours away from the official summer solstice, which occurs at 10:58 a.m., Eastern time.  Here in the mountains of North Carolina, it's more like chilly spring.  We have yet to turn on the AC; in fact, last week we had the heat on for a few minutes, just to take the chill off the air.

Let me be clear that I am not complaining.  My spouse complains about the lack of blazing heat and sun, but I like being able to take a walk in the afternoon without melting.  I like being able to get in the car without feeling like I'm suffocating for the whole trip because the car's AC can't get rid of the heat that builds up when a car sits in a parking space for an hour or two in the daylight.

I thought about this location that we've chosen as I read David Pogue's How to Prepare for Climate Change:  A Practical Guide to Surviving the Chaos.  Part of the book talks about deciding to move to a safer climate.  Pogue recommends the Pacific Northwest or the Great Lakes.  He also lists about 14 specific cities, all of them a bit cold for me, at this time of climate warming.  

But we've chosen a good spot.  I almost said we've accidentally chosen a good spot, but it wasn't an accident at all.  I've been thinking about this issue for at least 20 years, as it became clear that South Florida has some severe disadvantages as a spot to weather climate change or the lack of oil, which is the lens through which I first started having these thoughts.  

Pogue suggests we think about 4 things:  moving inland, moving north, being near fresh water, and finding a place with good infrastructure.  Pogue might think we're not far enough north, but it's far enough to escape the heat that worries Pogue.  We are near a huge lake and the French Broad River, plus Lutheridge itself has a lake.  So far, we also get a lot of water in the form of rain, which will be less and less true of much of the southeast in the coming years.

I am less sure about the infrastructure, but the fact that the population is less and more spread out is a good thing.  The roads seem in good shape, as do the power lines and the internet access.  The great December ice storms may have made me wonder about the water, but the city of Asheville did a great job of keeping us informed as the crisis was unfolding, and they did a great job of figuring out resources for those affected.

I read most of the book yesterday afternoon, even though a lot of it doesn't pertain to me anymore.  I have always loved disaster prepping narratives.  Even as a child, I loved books about being lost in the wilderness and needing to find a way to survive.  Hopefully, my life won't come to that, but life in Florida, particularly after a hurricane, resembled that narrative more than I wanted to live anymore, particularly as we got older.

In the past, I've written summer solstice posts about summer pleasures, in part as a way of remembering that there were some to be claimed, even as the season wore me out.  Let me think about summer pleasures in a new way this year--this season will be fleeting, I suspect, and I'll need to make the most of it while it's here.  That said, I'm looking forward to seeing how the seasons shift here in the North Carolina mountains.  Last year, I got a glimpse, but I was in D.C. for the most part.

For me, the pleasures of summer revolve around food, particularly melons and tomatoes and corn.  A week ago, I started looking at community swimming pools, and I've kept a swimsuit out of a box in the hopes that we'll get in a swim or two.  I'd like to go to an evening outside concert at the NC Arboretum.  And I'm going to have to do much of this later in July, when I'm done with the seminary class that I'm taking.

Maybe by then, it will be warmer; if last year is an indicator, that's when we get the most summerlike weather, in later July and early August.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, June 25, 2023:

Genesis 21:8-21

Psalm 86:1-10, 16-17

Romans 6:1b-11

Matthew 10:24-39

As we look at the teachings of Christ, a central theme emerges. Fear is at the root of all that keeps us from God. In this teaching, Jesus again gives us both warnings of what is coming and reminders to be of good cheer.

Again and again, Jesus yokes his teachings of what will be required with the admonition to have no fear. Here, Jesus tells us that God knows about the least little sparrow--and we're worth more than sparrows. The wisdom of the Holy Spirit invites us to new life, not to paralyzing fear. Jesus tells us that even sparrows are nurtured in God's economy. God will take care of us too.

I love this vision of God who knows me from the individual hairs of my head to the rough soles of my feet. I love this vision of God who helps me travel through the dangerous parts of the world. I want to believe that I am worth more than sparrows, and I want to believe that in God's economy, sparrows are worth more than two pennies.

But again, Jesus warns us that we can't stop with that vision. This is a God who keeps watch so that we can do the transformational work that must be done. It is work that is likely to take us to threatening places where we may have to oppose the dominant power structure. We may find ourselves crucified, in every sense of that word.

Again and again, Jesus asks if we're willing to pay the price. Again and again, Jesus offers the promise that we find at the end of this Sunday's Gospel: if we quit our obsessive clinging to those elements that we think give us life, we may indeed find true life.

We find ourselves in a time period where many of us have stopped clinging to those parts of society that diminish and demean us. May we have the courage to move towards what will nourish us and to demand that nourishment for all of us.

Funeral Week

People paying attention may have wondered what happened to me, the woman who usually writes a blog post a day, each and every day.  I haven't posted since last Wednesday.  Shortly after that posting, we got a phone call from my spouse's stepmom, who was crying.  I thought it would be bad news about my spouse's dad, but no, it was bad news about my spouse's youngest brother who had just learned that he could stay in his seminary apartment, as he did some post-MDiv work.  My spouse's stepmom and dad had driven through the night after days of not hearing from their son.  One or two days might be normal, but more than that meant that something horrible had happened.

We are only 2 hours away from Columbia, SC, so we threw some clothes and toiletries in the car and drove down, not knowing what had happened.  There was a brief moment where I hoped it would all be a terrible mistake, and that by the time we got there, we'd all go out to lunch and have a laugh about how we had all panicked.

Sadly, by the time we left our house, it was clear that the worst had happened; the coroner had arrived.  But we didn't know details.  By the time we arrived, we knew that it wasn't our worst fears:  a horrible crime.  Eventually we would find out that Stephen had a blocked left ventricle; he died suddenly, the way that men in their 40's and 50's so often die suddenly, by way of a massive heart attack that has no symptoms in advance.

The seminary took good care of the family.  By the time we arrived, several pastors had been there, including the bishop of the South Carolina synod and the pastor who had supervised Stephen's internship at his church, St. Andrew's in Columbia.  The seminary made reservations at a nearby hotel for us, and after eating a bit of the sandwiches that the seminary had ordered, we headed over to the hotel.  On Wednesday, we got settled, and they tried to sleep, while I logged on and attended my online class in the evening.

Thursday was a hard day, full of difficult meetings:  the funeral home, the pastor planning the memorial service, the first day we were allowed in the apartment.  But it also wasn't as gruesome as I feared.  I haven't had to deal with much death so far in my life, but I've been impressed with how kind and professional the people who deal with death are.  I was most grateful for the clean up that had happened before we were allowed in the apartment.

We still had considerable cleaning, sorting, and packing to do at the apartment.  Even a man living alone has a lot left behind.  A seminarian has papers and books to sort through.  Happily, the security guard found a great home for Stephen's large, energetic dog, the kind of dog that needs a yard and a dog friend with boundless energy; now she has those things, along with a loving new owner.

On Saturday, we had the funeral service, which celebrated a life well lived, even as it was cut short.  In some ways, it was unbearably sad, thinking of all that he had left to do; in fact, he had called all of us a night or two before he died to tell us all about the cool new job he had just gotten and was supposed to start the following week.

After the service, we went to the parlor, where there was a lovely reception that the church provided.  I wrote this Facebook post later:  "The funeral service for Carl's younger brother was beautiful and even more profound was hearing how many lives he touched. It's what Church can do well, when Church does things well."  

As I stood listening to people tell us how much Stephen had meant to them, I thought about that line from the funeral reception scene in The Big Chill:  "You'd never get this many people at my funeral."  Of course, Stephen would also likely be surprised to see the crowd at his funeral.

I thought of how many people assume that they aren't very important.  We live in a culture that likes to reinforce that feeling so that we'll buy whatever is being advertised or vote for whichever candidate needs our vote or pay money for more education/training/etc.  But a funeral is a good reminder that we touch more lives more deeply than we'll ever realize when we're alive.  It's also a good reminder that although we might feel that our efforts to make the world better are ineffectual, every bit counts and all the bits add up to quite a lot.

Library Love

Usually when we move to a new place, getting a library card is high on my list of priorities, along with getting a driver's license.  Last year, when we moved to North Carolina, we discovered that getting our driver's license would take much more effort than in any other location we had ever lived; I had a hint of that when I went online to make an appointment to avoid lines, and the nearest appointment was 5 months away.

So, I barely got my driver's license in time, and since I thought I'd be living in D.C. for the next several years, I didn't prioritize my library card.  But I've been yearning to read some books that I don't own, both light reading and some climate change texts, and the local library has them.  Yesterday I needed to escape some of the deconstruction noise at the house, so off I went to the nearest branch of the Buncombe county library.

Almost always, entering a library feels like coming home.  My earliest memories are of going to the library, and libraries haven't changed radically in appearance in my lifetime, so it makes sense.  Libraries have more stuff now--computers, meeting rooms, non-book media/items--but libraries still have books, shelves and shelves and shelves of books.

I got my card with no trouble, since I now have a North Carolina driver's license.  The librarian asked me if I'd ever had a Buncombe county library card before, and I said no.  Suddenly I realized that I've had a library card in almost every state south of the Mason-Dixon line and east of the Mississippi River.  I have no particular desire to live in the missing states (Mississippi, for example), so this might be the end of my run.

I spent some time in the stacks, wondering what I'd like to read.  Yes, I keep a list, but that list is in a box somewhere.  I ended up with Living Resistance by Kaitlin B. Curtice and Sue Monk Kidd's The Book of Longings--not the light and fluffy reading I wanted, but maybe they'll hit the spot.  I came home and went online to request the climate change books I wanted--they are at a library far away, and I'm happy to wait for them to be delivered to the branch nearer to me.

One of the cool elements of this library system is that I have borrowing privileges at many other North Carolina counties.  It's hard to imagine that I'll get to many of them, but I do live just one mile away from Henderson county.  There are no overdue fees, but after 30 days, the item will be charged to the card.  But if you bring the item back, you're good; I know this, because I heard it explained to the young child and his dad who had brought items back.  If you're charged, and you bring a new copy of the book that you got from somewhere else, you don't have to pay what the library will charge you to replace that book.  Once I lost a book from the Broward county (FL) system, and not only had to pay an exorbitant cost to replace it, but also a service fee; I ended up paying almost $50.00 for a paperback that was widely available for a few dollars elsewhere.

One feature of this library card is that I can get Zoom passes, which gets me and my group admission into a variety of educational spaces (the NC Arboretum!  the WNC Nature Center!  the Asheville Art Museum!), with one pass per place per month.  Wow.  It requires some thinking ahead because I have to get the pass at the library, but I'm fine with that.

On my way home, I heard that Cormac McCarthy died; I was surprised that he was as old as he was when he died.  I only read The Road, which had some of the most gorgeous language I've ever read, which is particularly unusual in a dystopian novel.  My reading life is short, and I'm unlikely to read more of his work, although this appreciation made me want to read more.  NPR commentator Wade Goodwyn recorded it just before he died of cancer--he died in his 60's, much younger than anyone should.

I did not waste time with news coverage of the Trump appearance at a federal court room yesterday.  This story will drag on and on and on.  In some ways, it's much like a kitchen remodel.  I did get kitchen counters ordered yesterday.  

It will take 3-7 weeks for them to be made and installed.  Sigh.  

But at least the process is underway.  I also got the tin for the backsplash ordered; happily American Tin still had some of our old pattern in stock, which we're getting in hopes of duplicating what we've had before.

In the meantime, we have a temporary sink, and we'll keep making due.  Earlier this week, standing on the deck in the morning dark, looking through the sliding glass doors, I thought, if this was a picture that I saw in a magazine, I'd want to live here--even if the kitchen doesn't have counters yet.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, June 18, 2023:

First reading and Psalm

Genesis 18:1-15, (21:1-7)

Psalm 116:1-2, 12-19

Second reading

Romans 5:1-8

Gospel

Matthew 9:35-10:8, (9-23)


In many modern churches, especially in the time around Pentecost, we spend a lot of time talking about mission, even if we're not realizing we're talking about it. Does the church exist to serve the members? Does the church exist to serve the community? And what do we mean when we talk about the church anyway?

In this Sunday's Gospel, we get a very different vision of the early church than we'll get in parts of Acts. In Acts, we often see the early believers arguing about doctrine, like who gets to belong and who doesn't--and once we've decided who gets to participate, there are debates about how to participate, like what can be eaten and when it should be eaten.

In this Sunday's Gospel, we see a vision of the early church in the way that Paul will practice it. Jesus gives instructions to his disciples to go out taking very little with them: no food, no money, not even a change of clothes. Their mission: "Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons."

And what will they get for their troubles? They will be flogged in the synagogues and drug before rulers, where we assume a gruesome death will follow. Their message will divide families, but they are to persevere, to endure.

I think about those early disciples and our current time. The early disciples lived in a time of upheaval, and Jesus had fomented even more unrest. We, too, inhabit a time of social unrest with threats both familiar and new. We, too, sense we are at a hinge moment in history, when the time before us will be completely different to the time we lived in not too long ago.

In these days when we can't budget in the ways we once did, how can we possibly plan for our mission in the coming months and years? We have spent years and decades learning to make plans and budgets, skills which seem useless now.  Each day, if we listen to news and social media platforms, we get news of how the church seems increasingly irrelevant to the larger world.

Yet our mission remains the same: to care for the outcast of society, to speak truth to the ones who rule, to cast out the demons that oppress society. Jesus sends his disciples out into the world without a plan, without a budget, without supplies, without a script. He trusts them to be able to think on their feet, to react to the circumstances that they actually encounter, instead of planning for encounters that may never happen.

Jesus ends with one last piece of instruction: "See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves" (Matthew 10: 16). 

Let us all be wise as serpents and innocent as doves, a mission that is as important now as it ever was.

Church at the Pavilion

 Yesterday, we got up and headed off across the mountains to Faith Lutheran in Bristol, Tennessee, where I will be the Synod Appointed Minister (SAM) for the next 9 months.  We did this last Sunday too, but yesterday was different--for one thing, I remembered to take some pictures.

Yesterday was the day of the church cook out and picnic at the pavilion down the hill from the church building.  As is their custom, they had the church service down in the pavilion too.

As I got ready for the service (we try to arrive an hour early), I tried to remember if I had ever led an outdoor service.  I've participated in plenty of them, usually at retreats, but I haven't been a worship leader outdoors.  Overall, it went well.

I had arrived with vague ideas for the children's sermon.  Faith Lutheran has the children's sermon before the Bible readings, and the readings for yesterday were particularly tough for a children's sermon.  With a group of children so new to me, I didn't want to talk about feeling like an outcast or all the ways our bodies can betray us, two approaches suggested by the Gospel for yesterday, Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26.

I stood at the pavilion, looking at the view of the huge pine trees to one side, and the vast, unmowed field to another side.  I decided on a completely new children's sermon.  I talked about the field and asked if any of them knew any of the plants.  We heard birds chirping, and could we name them?  I admitted that I couldn't.

But good news!  God can.  God knows every element of creation, each single one--and God knows each one of us too.  God loves each of us deeply. 

Then I turned our attention to the pine trees and talked about the root system that keeps them from falling over.  And recent research tells us that trees communicate through their root structures.  I talked about how God's love can support us, even when we don't feel strong.  It's our own root system, strengthened by the love of our families and what we learn from our scripture reading.

I enjoyed being there, and I enjoyed the picnic afterward.  It was a great way to get to know each other better.  It was a delightful day, and a reminder of one of the benefits of being part of a small congregation who can know each other more deeply than a huge congregation.

I Feed the Birds, and the Birds Feed Me

 I am late to the world of smart phones and the apps that go with them.  We just got smart phones in August, and so far, I've mainly used mine as a phone and a camera, which didn't seem revolutionary to me.  I've been grateful to be able to access a map and directions a few times.  I send a text here and there.  But the Merlin Bird ID app gives me a window into the ways that a smart phone might be a game changer in so many ways.

I haven't downloaded any apps until this one; my phone did come with apps, but I haven't used them.  We don't have unlimited data, but more than that, I don't want the phone sucking my attention away.  But unlike many other apps, the Merlin app helps me pay attention.  Yesterday on my morning walk, without a phone, I could identify the song of the cardinals.

Of course, birdseed helps me pay attention too.  We've been spreading birdseed along the deck rail, and the birds come to visit in the evening.  It feels magical, but I realize it's not.  It's a basic principle of hospitality--offer food and see what happens:

The other night, I tried to sketch these cardinals.  

I didn't want to try to add color, although I was tempted.  But my markers are imprecise, and many of them are dried out.  I made the sketch using the photo.  At some point, maybe I'll try a more impressionistic sketch.  Or maybe I'll just continue trying to snap pictures:

The birds are tough to capture as they zip down, grab a seed and go.  Last night, we didn't have the seeds spread out, and one landed and stared at us as we sat there with our cheese and crackers.  I didn't have my phone with me to capture that one, but it looked a bit like this bird:

We haven't seen any fireflies yet.  I'm too much of an early bird for that--I often go to bed before it's completely dark, in these days heading to the Summer Solstice.  

Each day, I wonder if I can last until that moment that the birds are most likely to feed, as the sun sinks.  Most days, I can.  After all, I'm getting fed too.  Feeding the birds has reminded me of a basic of hospitality: set out food, and the miraculous can happen (or the mundane will seem miraculous). 

Bishop Elections

I am a seminary candidate housed in the Florida-Bahamas Synod of the ELCA (the larger branch of the Lutheran church, the one that is less conservative and more inclusive).  I wasn't able to go to Synod Assembly, which ended yesterday, because I have a part-time preaching job Sundays at a church in Bristol, Tennessee, and that's too much driving, even for me.

It was the Synod Assembly when we elect a bishop, which only happens every 6 years, so I knew that it would be packed, if past assemblies are any indication.  I also had heard that our current bishop would run for another term, so it didn't feel vital that I be there for the election, unlike past assemblies.  In short, I felt good about my decision not to attend.

According to the few accounts I saw, Bishop Pedro Suarez was re-elected with no drama.  Hurrah!  I wasn't expecting drama, but still one never knows.

I am selfishly glad for continuity.  I have heard horror stories of new bishops who come in and change much in the lives of their seminary candidates, for better and for worse.  I don't know if it still happens as much as it once did, but I have heard of bishops who decided not to ordain entire categories of people:  certain ages, divorced people, and then there's the LGBTQIA+ categories that are under more threat from a bishop change than I am (almost 60 year old, white female).

The Florida-Bahamas synod is much older and whiter than many synods.  I do wonder how the synod might change if a different person was elected bishop.  If the past is any indication, probably not radically.  I do wonder at what point climate change will impact the synod more than it has and whether or not a bishop will need to address it in different ways.  There may be issues that feel much more immediate, and that scares me too.

But for now, I'm celebrating the re-election of a bishop who seems to be working well in the position, and I'm praying for his continued renewal and inspiration--and for the continued renewal and inspiration of us all.

Trinity Sunday Sermon for Adults

For my preaching at Faith Lutheran, I've decided to write a new (newish) sermon for each Sunday.  I do give myself permission to borrow from myself, and I have two sermons that I wrote for my Women and the Preaching Life that I will use because they were written with the church in mind.  But for the most part, I'm trying to do some new thinking each week.  I will also preach from a manuscript, so that I stay on topic.  I'm still sorting out how long the sermon should be.

It also makes some sense to post the sermon manuscript here on this blog, which has become an archive for all sorts of ministry ideas.  Here is last week's manuscript, preached on June 4, 2023, Trinity Sunday:

June 4, 2023

 

          When I started seminary, I had pastor friends who told me that I should expect that my faith would be shaken.  I heard stories of people who had been challenged by Systematic Theology classes or by meeting people from deeply different faith backgrounds.  However, I did not expect my faith to be shaken by Church History class, particularly not in learning about the earlier centuries of the Christian Church, a time period I knew very little about.  Throughout that class, I learned about all the divisions that led to schisms between Christians, schisms and sometimes worse, like wars and massacres.

          As I prepared for this sermon, for Holy Trinity Sunday, I thought about one of the earliest schisms, the one that led to the Nicene creed.  In the years before the adoption of the creed in the year 325, early Christians bitterly disagreed about whether or not God the Creator was equal to Jesus or existed before Jesus—were they both created of the same Divine substance or was the Creator elevated?

          Modern people might be surprised to learn that this controversy wasn’t resolved by the adoption of the Nicene Creed.  Over and over again, this issue caused controversy and schism—and worse. 

          So why have a Sunday that celebrates the Trinity?  Why poke at this old wound?  You might also wonder why we celebrate the Trinity so soon after Pentecost.  Can’t the Holy Spirit be the focus for a bit longer?  It’s not a new festival—we’ve been celebrating it in some parts of the Church since the 1300s.  By now, most of us don’t need Trinity Sunday to help keep us from heresies like the ones that disavow the Trinity—that could be the subject for a different sermon.  But since it would probably be more like a Church History lecture than a sermon, let’s go in a different direction.

          Let’s think about what Trinity Sunday has to offer us here in the 21^st century.  First, let’s return to our readings for the day, particularly the reading from Genesis.  In the words of that song from The Sound of Music, let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.  Let’s go back to one of my favorite creation stories.

          I won’t read the whole thing out loud here again—it’s quite lengthy.  But go back and take a look and see if you immediately notice what’s missing from this story.   Correct—there’s no snake, no forbidden fruit, no casting out from the garden.  Maybe you think we just haven’t gotten to this part.  But if you go back and read further in Genesis—homework?—you’ll notice that the story we have for this morning is complete.  It’s the first creation story, and it ends here—and then the next one starts, and that’s the one that’s more familiar, the one with humans misbehaving and expulsion from Paradise.

          So let’s look at this one again.  It’s become one of my favorite depictions of God, God as creator, God in full creation mode.  God creates and creates—such a variety of creations--and declares everything “good” and “Very good.”  Unlike many of us, God the creator in this version doesn’t say, “This attempt was stupid.  I am so stupid.  I am putting away all my creative materials that bring me joy and I will never create again.”

          No, God takes joy in creating and the next day, God finds more joy in creating.  We don’t see a God of hellfire and damnation here, no God of punishment, no God of disappointment.  It’s a very different picture of God than the one that many of us think we know.

          This past year in seminary, my Preaching professor said this on our last day of class.  She said that one of the most prophetic things we can do is to tell people that God loves them just as they are.  She said that we might be surprised how many people have never heard that God loves them.  I don’t think she’s wrong.

          If you look at Church history, you’ll see that the church has emphasized a very different picture of God than the one we see in this first chapter of Genesis.  It’s not always a very loving picture.  And it’s not limited to the past.  I’ve been to many a retreat and heard people talk about God sending them all sorts of tribulations as some sort of test.  While I admire the ability of people to try to find the good in the most awful situation, I have to wonder why people would worship a God like that.

          Happily, that’s not the version of the Trinity that we meet today.  In addition to God the Creator, we meet the Redeemer, and we even get a sense of the Holy Spirit.  This brings me to the other way that I think that the Triune God is so important, still important, for us today.  From the very beginning, God shows us, and keeps trying to show us, how to live in community.

          The early Church was asking the wrong questions when it spent so much time trying to discern which part of the Divinity was in charge, who was most important, who came first.  The science fiction writer Octavia Butler has a scene in one of her books where a space alien notes that humans have a lot going for them, but what will doom them is their need for hierarchy.  That character wasn’t entirely wrong—but God works to try to save us from our doomed need to put people in rigid hierarchal structures.  God does this by showing us a new way of being in community, even though humans through the ages have resisted following God’s model of the Trinity.

          I also wonder how much our received views of the Triune God limit us from experiencing the new ideas that could come if we think of the Trinity differently.  For many of us, some of the traditional aspects of the Trinity problematic.  I think of this each year when Pentecost approaches, and I wonder for those of us who live in places that are susceptible to the damaging force of wind and fire (and that’s more and more of us these days), if this vision of the arrival of the Holy Spirit means we’ll be less receptive.

          As I’ve spent time broadening my image of God from one of God as a father (and not always a patient father) to God as a creator, I’ve experimented with other aspects of the Trinity too.  I’ve thought about communities I’ve been part of, communities where we are so much stronger together than we are as individual units.  A few years ago, I explored this idea a bit in an article for Gather magazine, an article that envisioned the Triune God as a quilt group.

          I wrote:  If we thought of the Holy Spirit as a quilt group, perhaps we could transform our relationship with this part of the Trinity.  Once I saw God as an angry judge.  Now I see God as the ultimate quilt designer who invites us to contribute ideas, fabric, thread, effort.  Once I saw Jesus as the college student who could get us all into trouble, good trouble, as John Lewis would say.  Now I see Jesus as  one who comes to our tattered quilt of existence, to introduce us to new fabric and more interesting patterns and vibrant colors, all stitched together with much stronger threads than any we’ve had before.  The Holy Spirit is the quilt group member who comes to us with complex quilt patterns or information about quilt shows that we should enter.  The Holy Spirit is the one who believes in our creative powers, even when we’re less sure ourselves.  It’s a wake up call, to be sure, but not the kind of wake up call that natural disasters bring.  It’s the insistence that we can be better versions of ourselves, that we already are better versions if we could just believe it.

          In the coming week, I encourage us all to think about the example of community offered by our Triune God, the image of a Triune God that has been so important through the ages.  I encourage us to think about what elements of the Triune God are most important to us and what those elements say to us as we nurture the communities that are important to us and to the larger world.

          I encourage us to return to the words of Jesus in Matthew, the words that he gives after the resurrection.  He makes it clear that his mission is not complete, that he’s relying on us.  He invites us to continue the work and promises always to be with us.  He invites us to be part of the community that the Triune God has already begun to create.

          Today and every day, I hope we say yes to that invitation.

          

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, June 11, 2023: 

First reading and Psalm

Genesis 12:1-9
Psalm 33:1-12

Alternate First reading and Psalm

Hosea 5:15-6:6
Psalm 50:7-15

Second reading

Romans 4:13-25

Gospel

Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

     In this Sunday's Gospel, we have a strange assortment of stories that don't seem to go together. We have a story about a tax collector being called to follow Jesus, and then a discussion about who should be eating with who, and a mysterious passage about who needs a doctor and mercy vs. sacrifice. And then we get to the bleeding woman who gets healing and a dead daughter. What on earth do these passages have to do with the first passage?  But when I go back to look at the reading again, I begin to see what unifies it. I begin to see a larger pattern of healing. But it may not be healing in the form we expect.
     Across all of these verses in today’s reading, we see outcasts of all kinds. There are the two women at the end of today’s text, the most obvious outsiders, one bleeding, one dead—both conditions making them beyond the borders of acceptance in an ancient culture. There’s Matthew the tax collector, whose profession puts him outside of acceptability to both Jews and Romans. Jews would hate him because he worked for the occupying empire and made money off their misery; Romans would despise him because he was Jewish. The leader of the synagogue is outside of acceptability; his daughter’s death has compelled him to seek out Jesus, which would not have been OK with his colleagues back at the synagogue. Bible scholars would want us to note that he kneels before Jesus, signifying his inferiority to Jesus. Even the pharisees who want to know why Jesus shares a meal with sinners have cast themselves out from the society gathered around Jesus in this passage.
     But what does this have to do with us?
     The truth is that we live in a society that is rigid and stratified in similar ways to first century Rome. We live in an empire that is still in thrall to the military-industrial complex, and so we live under a current state of war and preparation for the next war. We live with traumatized survivors of past wars and families ripped apart. We take money that could be used to feed people to feed the war machine. War weapons are used against civilians: every week brings another school shooting, massacres of all sorts. And even if we can maintain a healthy distance from the military-industrial complex, we live in a capitalist empire that wants us to buy more, more, more, and so we are bombarded with messages of how we are inadequate in the hopes that we will buy more and more. And to make matters worse, we willingly carry the tools of empire’s oppression with us all the time. How long can you go without looking at your phone? How often is your phone sending you the message that you are a beloved creation of God? Not often, I bet.
     Maybe in our focus on the healing miracles, we’ve missed the point. We’ve focused on the individual healings and lost sight of the larger resurrection Jesus offers. Jesus came to heal our communities, to raise the larger society from the dead. And this healing happens by inclusion, outsiders made insiders, the realization that we are all outsiders desperately in need of inclusion. Jesus announces a kingdom of God that will be very different than the kingdoms of earthly empires.
     As a society, we’ve been hemorrhaging our very life force for much too long. Many of our communities are as dead as the daughter of the synagogue leader. Like the Pharisees, we ask questions about who is eating with who instead of asking essential questions about the best way to live our lives, the most life-giving ways to order our societies. We are in desperate need of a physician.
     I suspect that many of us feel Matthew. We do work that doesn’t feel essential—or worse, we do work that helps an empire repress the people we claim as our own. But the Gospels remind us again and again, that God offers us an invitation to a life that can come in the middle of our living death. Jesus invites us to put down our cell phones and follow. Jesus invites us into a new community built on inclusion. The ways we create an inclusive community are as vast and varied as we are. When in doubt follow Jesus’ lead: invite people to dinner. Reach out to women with chronic health problems; reach out to anyone with a chronic condition. Jesus invites us to follow him.
     I hope you will say yes to the call of Jesus in the ways that only you can.
     Will you?

The Trinity and the Children's Sermon

I have given one or two children's sermons, but very few, all things considered.  I remember doing one that involved sprouting mustard seeds and maybe one about the Good Samaritan.  I've worked with children in Vacation Bible School, but that's different than the children's sermon.

What better place to start than Holy Trinity Sunday?

I was a child that had no problem understanding the concept of the Trinity, but I know it can be a difficult concept for children and adults alike.  I thought the task of the children's sermon should be to illustrate how it's not as difficult as we might think.

I thought about those pictures like the duck-bunny or the old woman-young woman;  a change in perspective and we're seeing something else in the same drawing.  My spouse suggested a puzzle.  But it was during a morning walk that I came up with my plan.

I knew that I could put ice in my Yeti mug and it would stay frozen.  I have an electric kettle that heats quickly.  I thought about handing each child an ice cube to let it melt, but I decided that would be too messy.

I held the ice over the electric kettle as it started melting, and we talked about how the transformation of ice into water.  I dropped the ice into the kettle and voila!  Steam!  Hurrah for fast heating kettles and for extension cords that stretch to where we need them.

The group for the children's sermon were older--no toddlers, no pre-schoolers.  They seemed engaged.  I was happy with how the sermon went.  I do worry that I talked too much, in part because parishioners told me that these children will never talk, or at least not very loudly.  I think I would rather have that kind of group than the kind that is rambunctious and upstaging of the pastor/sermon.

This week's Gospel is the bleeding woman and the dead daughter of the Temple official.  Hmm.  Not easy material for a children's sermon--the Holy Trinity is much easier.  Happily, I still have a few days for inspiration.

First Day as Synod Authorized Minister

Yesterday was my first day as a Synod Authorized Minister, which is a position where I am allowed to do/have all the responsibilities and duties of a minister in a church, but only in one specific church that the Synod designates.  So, I can consecrate bread and wine, but only in that one church.  I can officiate a funeral, but perhaps not a wedding, since there might be state laws about that.  It's different from being an ordained minister, but much of the work looks the same.

Yesterday, we got in the car and drove over the mountains to Bristol, Tennessee.  We had no trouble finding the church, and we pulled in at the same time as one of the church leaders was walking across the parking lot.  I had 45 minutes to meet people and to get oriented to the building and the worship service I was about to lead (I had the bulletin in advance, so there weren't any unpleasant surprises).

I had wondered if any of my relatives still went to the church, and sure enough, a cousin introduced himself to me.  That led to me explaining my family connection to the other early arrivals at the church, and they knew my grandmother's sister, Martha, who worshipped at that church her whole life.  So, at the beginning of the service, when I introduced myself, I explained the family connection.

The worship service went smoothly.  The altar sits flush against the back wall, an older style.  I decided not to turn my back to the congregation as much as possible, and I asked how the previous pastor had located herself in the worship space.  She did much of the service down close to the congregation, which works for me.

I preached 2 sermons on the Trinity, since it was Trinity Sunday.  My children's sermon used ice, water, and steam from an electric kettle--hurrah for quick heating kettles that did produce steam.  My adult sermon focused on God the Creator who we meet in Genesis and God as Community.  I may say more about these sermons later.   I woke up thinking about how I could have made each better, but that tendency probably comes with the sermon territory.

After church, I talked to more parishioners and then de-robed and figured out the exiting process; I don't have a key for the door to the sanctuary (two other doors have a code for entry), but the person who does have the key stays to lock up.  People spent time lingering in the sanctuary to talk to each other after the worship service, a coffee hour of sorts, but without coffee and treats to eat.

We got in the car and drove back over the mountain, and the drive back seemed even easier/quicker than the drive there.  We didn't eat before the drive, and on the way home we saw a sign for a brewery called the Thirsty Monk.  We speculated about monasteries and breweries and followed more signs.  Alas, it wasn't a monastery, and the brewery was actually off site.  Still, we stayed for a flight of beers and fried pickles.  It was spontaneous and tasty and didn't take us too far off our itinerary.

One of our neighbors had an impromptu late afternoon neighborhood gathering in their beautiful backyard, which was a great way to end the day. Several of our neighbors are retired pastors, and they said, "It's a shame you're not further along in ordination" and told me about other churches that have also not had a full-time minister.  These are churches in the mountains of North Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia--not unpleasant places to live.  I know that there could be many reasons for vacancies, but it does seem a bit troubling (and also not my problem to solve, not exactly).

We finished the evening on our own deck, overlooking our own beautiful back yard.  My spouse spread birdseed along a deck rail, and we watched the birds approach, eat, and fly away, over and over again.  I said, "It's like we're sitting in a cathedral made of birds!"  It was mystical and awe inspiring.

Mystical and awe inspiring--in many ways, key words to describe the whole day.  

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

 The readings for Sunday, June 4, 2023:

First Reading: Genesis 1:1--2:4a

Psalm: Psalm 8

Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 13:11-13

Gospel: Matthew 28:16-20


This Sunday is Holy Trinity Sunday, one of those festival Sundays that seem a bit baffling, at first (like Christ the King Sunday, which comes at the end of the liturgical year). We understand the significance of Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost. But what exactly do we celebrate on Holy Trinity Sunday?

At first reading, the Gospel doesn't seem to help. And Jesus certainly didn't spend any time indoctrinating his disciples on these matters which would later split the church. He alludes to the Triune God: we see him pray to God and he tells the disciples that he will send a Comforter. But he spends far more time instructing the disciples on how they should treat the poor and destitute, about their relationship to the larger culture, about their role in creating the Kingdom in the here and now.

You get a much better understanding of the Trinity by reading all the lessons together (thanks to my campus pastor from days of old, Jan Setzler, who pointed this out in his church's newsletter over a decade ago). These aren't unfamiliar aspects: God as creator of the world, God as lover of humans, Christ who came to create community, the Holy Spirit who moves and breathes within us and enables us to create community.

Notice that we have a God who lives in community, both with the various aspects of God (Creator, Savior, Spirit) and with us. It's an image that baffles our rational minds. It's akin to contemplating the infinity of space. Our brains aren't large enough or we don't know how to use them in that way.

But maybe it's not helpful to spend time trying to understand these matters with our intellects.  Maybe we should focus on what the Triune God does, not what the Triune God is.

The God that we see in our Scriptures is a God of action. We see God creating in any number of arenas. We are called to do the same. This is not a God who saves us so that we can flip through TV channels. Our God is a God who became incarnate to show us how to be people of action: Go. Make disciples. Teach. Baptize. Keep the commandments. We do this by loving each other and God. We love not just by experiencing an emotion. Love moves us to action.

And that action doesn't have to have the boldness of those first, male disciples. They went very far when Jesus said to them "Go and make disciples."  But many of us don't need to travel more than a mile or two before we will find someone who needs us, someone we need, someone with whom we could form community.

How do we do that?  Here again, we can find many possibilities in our stories about our creator and our savior and our Holy Spirit Comforter:  rescuing captives out of bondage, teaching, eating meals together in a variety of ways, fishing, healing, going on retreat, praying, having conversations with both the popular people and the outcast, sharing resources, cleaning up messes, telling truth to power, on and on I could go.

We live in a time when the world offers us so many opportunities to act in the way that God acts.  How can we love our neighbor?  There are so many ways to do that.  Theologian Frederick Buechner reminds us in his book Wishful Thinking: "The place God calls you to is where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet." Jesus promises to meet us there.