Prayer for Leaders and Times of Transition

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June 11, 2013 in Madison, NJ

Dear God, things are changing.  We are scared.  We are excited.  We are confused.  We are intrigued.  We are angry.  We are passionate.  We don’t even know what we feel.  Reassure us, strengthen us, calm us, enliven us.  Make us the people You hope for us to be.  Remind us that You’ll do some of that work, but that it’s up to us to respond to You.  We simply ask that You keep the conversation going, reminding us to speak the Truth and listen for Your Word.

We pray especially for those in our community who are lost or alone or suffering and for those who have been denied Your love.  Guide us to share Your love so that all may know it well.

We pray for [our outgoing senior pastor and his family] as they continue to serve You in their new church and community.  Let them find there not only work to be done, but also a home.  Give them Your strength and courage and be with them wherever they go.

We pray for [our incoming senior pastor and his family].  Let them find here not only work to be done, but also a home.  Help us to be respectful of the family’s time and space, but relentless in our support.

We pray for President Obama and all of our leaders in government; that they make wise decisions and lead with grace.

And we pray for the nation of Turkey in the midst of the turmoil there, especially these past two weeks.  We pray for the lives who have been lost and for all those left behind to pick up the pieces.  We pray for Prime Minister Erdogan, that he might hear his people; that he might fight for them and not against them.

Just and merciful God, help us to be slow to defame and vilify our leaders - political, religious, and otherwise - but quick to hold them accountable to such values as honesty and compassion.  Let us be honest and compassionate as we recognize our human leaders’ limitations and strengths, just as we recognize our own.  Let us know both justice and mercy.

And God, we trust that You have commissioned our leaders and that they are filled with the Spirit, like Moses and Joshua.  We remember that our leaders are capable of feeling fear and reluctance just as we are - just as Moses and Joshua were - but that, with Your blessing, they are also capable of leading us into the life that You promise us.

We confess that we have not always lived into that promise; we haven’t always believed it or acted like it’s true.  We confess that sometimes we feel distant from You or angry with You or don’t understand Your purposes.  Thank you for not letting that come between us.  Thank You for letting us know Your love and forgiveness even when we have done nothing to deserve them, because that is when we need You most.

In Jesus’ name and by the power of the Spirit, we pray.  Amen.

---

Pastoral Prayer offered on June 16, 2013
Chatham United Methodist Church, Chatham, NJ

Little Talks

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'Cause though the truth may vary,

this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore.

-Of Monsters and Men

Evangelism is active listening. It is not colonialism. It is not sharing my faith. It is hearing the God-story unfold in another person's life. That's what I'm learning this semester in my required-for-the-ordination-that-I-may-or-may-not-pursue-someday Evangelism course.

Active listening, no matter how active, can sneak up on you when you least expect it.

Today, as I prepared to leave work (of the nannying variety), I talked to my employer and a colleague of hers.

"This is so funny," the colleague said, as our conversation came to a close. "In the car on the way over here this morning, I was just thinking, 'I don't know if I believe in God anymore.' And now here I am, telling you about all this."

I can't blame this one squarely on occupational hazard; our chat had been just about as far as can be from the topic of God.

But one bit of conversation had led to another, and before long, the colleague recounted for us some stories about her sister who died of cancer some time ago.

The two sisters were extraordinarily linked. Numbers Eight and Nine of nine children in the family, they were raised more like twins. They shared so much - everything from sleeping spaces to daily routines.

Our storyteller described a time that she went on vacation as a young adult. While there, she had an inexplicable urge to buy her sister a pair of socks with a silly design to them. As she and her husband wandered the store, she mused frequently about how the socks reminded her of her sister. Her husband teased her for this sudden obsession with socks - the sort of gift that she had never given to her sister before - but never tried to talk her out of the strange souvenir.

Then, when they reached the cash register, she set them aside. Her husband was shocked that, after all that, she wasn't buying them.

When they returned from the trip, her family had difficult news that they hadn't wanted to share across the distance. Her sister, Kathy, had survived a car accident but had lost both of her feet. Both of her legs had been amputated just below the knees.

The same night that Kathy had been through hours of surgery, her sister, still away and unaware, did not sleep at all. This was strange to her at the time - so uncharacteristic of her. She liked to think she could sleep on a picket fence if need be. But as Kathy struggled through the accident and the aftermath, her sister kept vigil for her without even knowing it.

It was years later that Kathy was diagnosed with cancer, which eventually took her life. One day, as her sister was driving home, she thought again of her twin-soul. She didn't know whether or not Kathy had believed in God, or whether or not that should matter in what awaited her spirit, or whether or not Kathy was at peace. It bothered her - the not-knowing.

It was then that she came to a traffic light and stopped. She glanced to the side and saw a shipyard that she often saw while on this drive, many times before and many times after this day. But this was the one and only day that she saw a particular boat's name scrawled in paint along its stern:

Kathy's Fine

She is.

The Carpenter's Apprentice

A Parable by Kimberley Fais

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Manuel made his way through the woodshop that he had inherited from his father. Now himself an esteemed carpenter, Manuel found the apprentice at a workbench in the back, putting the finishing touches on a model ship about the size and weight of his own two hands.

Seeing his craftsmanship, Manuel told the apprentice, "You will build a boat fit for a journey."

The apprentice looked up in surprise. "I will?"

"You will."

"When?"

"While I am away."

Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice was overwhelmed with honor and excitement. This was his chance to do something real and useful. Oh, he loved fashioning toys that would delight and entertain children and knickknacks that would adorn shelves and mantels, but never before had he been entrusted to build a true vessel.

He made the boat from a dense wood, the most extravagant he could afford. It was the kind of wood known to make exquisite furniture, and the apprentice imagined his ship transporting a king across the sea. He embellished the mast and carved a figurehead for the bow. He sanded the hull smooth and drenched the interior with varnish until it shone. He added every imaginable accent and amenity to raise the boat’s appeal.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat at the woodshop.

"It's heavy," said Manuel.

The apprentice quickly tried to reassure the carpenter. "Wait," he said, bustling around the entirety of the boat and plucking off various pieces. "I can fix that. I’ll get rid of the extras."

The carpenter shook his head. "Build again."

Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice was embarrassed about his mistake; that he had gotten so carried away, so complacent. Of course his first real ship should have been humble, simple, understated. This time, he built a boat that was lightweight and thin and very nearly bare, save for the most essential of essentials; nothing unnecessary or cumbersome to weigh it down.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat at the woodshop.

"It's light," said Manuel.

"It'll float," the apprentice said proudly.

"And crumble in the waves," said the carpenter, a regretful expression to his brow. "Build again."

Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice found just the right sort of wood for a boat, but he became self-conscious about his ability to build a ship that would not be too unwieldy or unbalanced or structurally flawed. He had failed twice already, and he desperately wanted this boat to be one fit for water. He made a sturdy little boat, one that surely could endure a bit of tossing in the waves without toppling.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat in the woodshop.

"It's small," said Manuel.

"Size doesn't matter," wailed the apprentice, "as long as the boat is balanced and strong. That's what you said!"

"You made a boat for you," said the carpenter, "a safe and simple project. This time you must build for more than yourself."

The apprentice sighed with impatience. "Come on, Manuel. Even Noah got measurements for the ark. Just how big should this thing be?"

The carpenter replied, "Big enough."

"OK," said the apprentice. "So what is that in cubits?"

The carpenter simply smiled and said, "Build again."

Then, without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice built the biggest ship he could build. If a boat for one made him seem petty and self-centered and aloof, a boat built for a massive crowd would surely be inviting and triumphant. No one would be turned away from a ship this great, and what a tribute it would be to Manuel, the mentor whose apprentice single-handedly built such a remarkable ship.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat in the woodshop.

"It's big," said Manuel.

The apprentice looked hopeful. "Big enough?"

"Too big," said Manuel.

"Whoa, whoa, wait." The apprentice leapt to the side of the boat in its defense. "Are you worried about the floating thing again? Because I know this one will float. I used the strong, lightweight wood and everything."

"Too big," said Manuel, "because there are not enough sailors to manage it."

"So we'll get more sailors."

"We will have only the sailors we will have," said Manuel.

"You know what this is all about," the apprentice insisted. "You know, but you're not telling me, and it isn't helping. How many sailors will need to board this thing?"

But the carpenter only smiled and said, "Build again." As he turned to go, the apprentice caught his arm.

"Manuel," the apprentice insisted, "I've built again and again. I need to know more. I need to know who is traveling and where they are going and how best to get them there."

"Yes," said the carpenter. "Yes, you do."

So the carpenter set out, and the apprentice went into the center of town.

He watched and listened and wandered the streets, noticing things he never noticed before. He realized then that ever since he became the carpenter’s apprentice, he tended only to notice people enjoying their handiwork—the children who had received toys built in the shop; shopkeepers using shelves and furniture and tools crafted from wood.

For the first time in a long time, the apprentice walked through town and saw and heard what people needed. The apprentice had only received his assignments from the carpenter, but it seemed that the carpenter had wanted him to surface from the woodshop so that he could talk to the townspeople himself.

But no one he met had any need of a boat.

Then he met a family just beyond the market. With some weary reluctance, the woman with a wriggling toddler in her arms explained to the apprentice that they all needed to get home, across the sea, and didn't know yet how they would make the journey.

The apprentice looked at the family; the mother and a few of her grown children would be strong and able sailors, and some smaller children would need a safe space to travel with them.

The apprentice smiled and said, "Come back to the woodshop with me to tell me more, and I will build a boat fit for the journey."

The Garden: A Revelation

When Hilary Rhodes of Woman at the Well sent me the post she wrote for this blog based on one of mine, her theological and historical exploration originally culminated in a beautiful personal testimony, which I loved even more than the insightful analysis of grace. I told Hilary that these parts' length and content (related, yet quite different) suggested to me that they should indeed be two separate pieces, so what you've seen this week is that first portion.

Because the second part is so personally meaningful, Hilary would like to make WATW its home, and I agree. It moved me, though, and so I'd like to make a point of recommending it to you and directing you over to WATW to read the full text. It's a descriptive piece about a spiritual vision she experienced; a story of depression and consolation, fear and grace.

Hilary and I differ in much of how and where we were raised and the theological and political landscapes around us. We have walked individual and intersecting paths. But I feel a sense of camaraderie in both her writing voice (particularly in her more personal writings) and in many of the issues she confronts. The blend of ideological differences and similarities between us, in fact, serves to remind me how simultaneously unique and intricately connected the parts of the Body of Christ truly are.

And so it is my pleasure to introduce to you Hilary's visionary tale:

I can’t tell you the moment I lost my faith. Sometime when I was about 14, when I was old enough to understand how shallow and fear-based and resistant to questions and dismissive of real need my experience of it had hereunto been. This was followed with six years of becoming an increasingly angry atheist. I can, however, tell you – almost to the hour – the moment I found it again:

The night of Thursday, September 6, 2008.

It was two months before one of the most heated presidential elections in history. I’d just come off a tearingly difficult, lonely, and isolated sophomore year of college, where I’d battled depression so severe that if I didn’t have anything to do, I’d stay in bed until 3 PM with the shades shut. I was saved by a deep friendship with an absolutely wonderful guy in my psychology class. (Matt, shout-out time.) But I’d been struggling over the summer again, and although I was about to take off to Oxford University and fulfill one of my longtime dreams, I was faced with a dialogue that was (especially on the right wing) about nothing but fear and despair. About the “destruction of America.” About this scary dark-skinned guy with the scary “Muslim” name. About how there might not be time for me, and my future family and children and grandchildren.

I was lying in bed in the darkness, crying. Just so scared. So scared. I was screaming in my soul. I was in agony. I couldn’t even breathe.

I couldn’t do it alone. I just couldn’t. It was too big for me. It was too much. It was beyond my ability to bear. And so I did the only thing I could:

I asked for help.

I listened to it echo in the walls. I watched headlights pass on the ceiling.

I eventually subsided into a troubled sleep.

And that night, the Word came back.

This is what I remember...

Read more.

Mercies in Disguise

It is with great sadness that I write that our seminary community has lost a wonderful student, classmate, and friend, Esquire. She extended a warm welcome to me during my first campus visit and helped me figure out that Drew was, in fact, to be my new home. She had a beautiful smile and a strong spirit, which energized and inspired the community. Her absence will be all too noticeable as we return in the fall.

The last time that I saw Esquire was a chance meeting at Seminary Hall; I was taking an intensive course over the break. As we talked, I told her how good it was to see her and how much we missed having her there. That conversation is even more unforgettably poignant to me now; it remains a reminder to me not to leave these simple and yet important things unsaid.


This Sunday, I'll be singing the song "Blessings" in church. It's a wonderful piece that first found me at just the right time (while I was driving along the Interstate, as it were) and spoke to me loud and clear just when so much seemed confusing and unsure.

And so, at this time of mourning, I would like to offer a prayer of gratitude and hope. I believe that sometimes it is the most difficult experiences during which we are most healed, guided, and strengthened, perhaps in ways we do not even understand. And I also believe that we may, for a period, perceive distance from God or question God's will and character before we can (re-)embrace the fullness of the Spirit within us.

My prayer comes in the form of these lyrics written by Laura Story. I will share this piece now and on Sunday in memory of Esquire and in honor of all who still struggle with loss, uncertainty, and the trials of an earthly life. May we be ever more open to God's grace and healing.

(Photos above by Sungchun Ahn, posted to the Drew Worship album, Fall 2010.)




We pray for blessings, we pray for peace
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep
We pray for healing, for prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering

All the while You hear each spoken need
Yet love is way too much to give us lesser things

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near?

What if trials of this life
Are Your mercies in disguise?

We pray for wisdom, Your voice to hear
We cry in anger when we cannot feel You near
We doubt Your goodness, we doubt Your love
As if every promise from Your Word is not enough

And all the while You hear each desperate plea
And long that we'd have faith to believe

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears?
And what if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near?

And what if trials of this life
Are Your mercies in disguise?

When friends betray us, when darkness seems to win
We know that pain reminds this heart
That this is not, this is not our home
It's not our home

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears?
And what if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near?

What if my greatest disappointments
Or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst
This world can't satisfy?

And what if trials of this life
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are Your mercies in disguise?

Lyrics and music by Laura Story
© New Spring Publishing

Open Doors

One winter night during my first year of undergrad, I began to walk home from the shopping center, exasperated with the wind and cold and a few petty things that had happened while I was out.

The last utter annoyance was the way cars had twice barreled through the crosswalk just ahead of me, despite my usually successful New Yorker's "Pedestrian's Rights" mentality. I didn't so much as feel validated in my aggravation, muttering to myself with my scarf wrapped around my mouth, as I just savored the warmth of my breath remaining around my covered lips, but venting still felt good.

As I passed the bus stop, a bus picked up the one waiting passenger and left. Immediately, another bus pulled up to me and the doors opened. I explained to the driver that I wasn't waiting for the bus, but he asked if I was headed for the college and offered me a free ride. I hadn't planned on it, I didn't mean to wait for it, but there it was.

I gave him the Are-You-For-Real eyebrow, but, feeling calm and reassured, found my feet climbing the steps. He said he was going in that direction anyway, so we would both get where we needed to go and I could avoid the cold.

When I thanked him, he told me, "Don't thank me. Thank Him," and pointed above him. "He's given me so much," he said. "It's good to pass it on."

Without my prompting, he drove past the main entrance to the college and stopped at the bottom of the hill at the half-hidden entrance near the dining hall. I went straight to dinner and never enjoyed a bowl of campus soup more than I did that night.

I called my mother since she had recently had a number of similar experiences - random acts of kindness - in the midst of her father's illness, and I almost cried as I told her.

It's the same feeling as receiving a visit or a note from a friend, or sharing a mutual embrace, or seeing a student I've never met smile at me in passing and wondering if they've confused me with someone they do know or if they just felt like smiling. It's cheesy or corny or whatever cynicism and too-coolness makes us think about it, but it's the kind of thing that lifts us before we hit bottom.

Good things come back to us. They even come to us when we aren't sure that we deserve them. Look for them and you'll see.


Some of you may remember this story from January 2007, years before AmenAbility was even a twinkle in my eye, but I wanted to tell it again. I will also refer back to it in an upcoming post and decided that this was simplest.

Spiritual Complacency and Fear

Homily delivered at Kidlington Methodist Church, England, in November 2008, based upon 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11 and Matthew 25:14-30.

Granted, this was only the second homily I've ever delivered, and I still haven't studied sermonizing, so please try to forgive it its trespasses, but do feel absolutely welcome to offer criticism.

All images used (in blog post form only) link to their sources; no infringement intended. Please note: I do not necessarily agree with or affirm the content of the sites to which I have linked.

The hymn All Praise to Our Redeeming Lord, cited below, had been sung earlier in the service. Also cited: The Screwtape Letters (novel) and V for Vendetta (film).

Why yes, Don Feder, I did refer positively to what you considered the "most explicitly anti-Christian movie to date" during a Christian worship service. But look on the bright side. At least Avatar (2009) hadn't come out yet.

*************************

"Rise and Shine: Spiritual Complacency and Fear"

Wake up!

It's time to get ready! Brush your teeth. What do you mean your shirt and trousers are in that war zone? Find them! Hurry!

Have you done your homework?

Sound familiar? The parents, children, and university students are nodding.

In preparing and rousing the Thessalonians, Paul wrote:

"You are all sons of the light and sons of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness. So then, let us not be like others, who are asleep, but let us be alert and self-controlled" (1 Thess. 5.5-6).

Paul founded the Christian church of Thessalonica on his second missionary journey, and he was eager to know how the people were progressing in their new faith. One of their concerns was the second coming of Jesus, the Parousia, but Paul did not aim to overwhelm them with doctrine. Rather, 1 Thessalonians was primarily meant to encourage them. He even ended this section not only urging them to support one another, but commending them for having done so.

So on a topic that sometimes gets a bad rap in our present world – Judgment Day, the End Times, the Apocalypse – Paul wrote to tell them that the second coming was actually an inspiration and a comfort, a stimulus for Christians to serve God, an incentive to live holy lives. Paul blesses them:

"May God himself, the God of peace, sanctify you through and through. May your whole spirit, soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ" (1 Thess. 5.23).

He warns them that "the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night" (1 Thess. 5.2), but tells them that this will not surprise them because they are not of the darkness, but children of light. He adds:

"Since we belong to the day, let us be self-controlled, putting on faith and love as a breastplate, and the hope of salvation as a helmet" (1 Thess. 5.8).

Such imagery gives us strength and hope; it reinforces to us that our faith will fortify us, that God will save us from peril. Yet there is temptation, even in a Christian life, to sleep, to fall into spiritual lethargy; to assume that our relationship with God is fine if we go through the motions. In his novel, The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis shares with us the advice from a senior devil to a junior devil. The senior devil once says, 'Some ages are lukewarm and complacent, and then it is our business to soothe them yet faster asleep’ (Lewis, 40). The inaction and lethargy of God's people is where sin can thrive.

Matthew 25 tells of Jesus' Parable of the Talents, though for now I would venture to call it the Parable of the Timid Servant. A master, before going away, leaves talents – a unit of money – with each of three servants: to one, five talents; to another three talents; and to the last, one talent, each according to his ability. Now that isn't to say that the last servant is given nothing of value -

A single talent weighed in at 33 kg, or 73 lbs. For a visual reference, think of your average 10-year-old, or, barring that, 33 1kg packages of Miracle-Gro. We're speaking in terms of great potential all around. And for those of you inclined to maths, that means 165 packages of Miracle-Gro to your first servant there. That's a lot of plants.

So servants #1 and 2 each invest what they have and double it. But the third servant is paralyzed in fear of his master's return – so afraid of wrath and blame or even his own humble failure that he refrains from acting at all except to bury the talent in the ground (which may have worked more in his favor if the talent actually had been Miracle-Gro). When their master returns, he invites the first two servants to partake in the joy of their master, but he goes so far as to call the last servant "wicked." Clearly he is not being blamed simply for poor financial planning; his error was inaction, burying all he had away from the light.

God is not a conniving thief or malicious slave master wishing us despair and harm, but God's works and timing and demands are often unexpected; they often surprise us. God wants you, the entirety and whole of you – all you've been given and all you can do with it. When your soul enters heaven; when Jesus comes again; but also right now, in this moment, on this day. God wants you.


Remember, remember, the 5th of November: Guy Fawkes Day, just recently. Many of you may be well familiar with the story and film, "V for Vendetta." If you don't know it, suffice it to say that there is a beautiful line in the film delivered in a scene of courage, desperation and trial.


Evey (Natalie Portman) reads a moving letter in V for Vendetta (2006).

The speaker says: "I don't remember much of those early years, but I do remember the rain. My grandmother owned a farm in Tottle Brook and she used to tell me that God was in the rain."

I myself vividly remember once walking with a friend through a light rainstorm in New York. The conversation turned to the extent that we minded the weather, and I expressed a vague feeling of it's-nice-but-I-don't-exactly-want-it-on-me. She was more optimistic about it than I, looking up for a moment to let the droplets seek refuge in the curves of her face. "'God is in the rain,'" she quoted.

Of course, we also once traipsed through the storm of the century that eventually flooded numerous towns in the area. Taking our typical route to church, we crossed a bridge over what was usually the most modest of streams and water was absolutely gushing below in great currents.

By the time we arrived, we were so drenched with God that at first I was reluctant to let my waterlogged shoes squeak down the aisle, let alone sit my soaked soul on the pew. That week, Sunday best was not a viable option. We were both layered in the most waterproof clothing we owned. Already two of my umbrellas had become casualties of other recent storms, and I had none to bring with me. We were dripping wet, and we were late for Mass. Two things I, as a Protestant, was not ready to see how the Roman Catholic Church would tolerate.

But no one so much as frowned at us. We attended the service, recognizing no one but joining in worship and the passing of the peace with people who'd had to journey through that same storm. Whether they came on foot or by car, many of them probably knew what it was to look out the window that day in a moment of "maybe we can catch the next one...?" and found themselves on the way there nonetheless.

Perhaps like the third servant, I too was so distracted by my own fear of being shunned for arriving in such horrendous shape that I never even thought about what it really took for each person to arrive there; what it meant that, whether out of obligation or personal will, they were able to do everything necessary to get there, and so had we. Maybe the point was not that we were soaking wet, that we had "weather on us" – but that, God being in all things and guiding our paths, we were so full of Spirit in that moment that we could wring it out, fill a bucket to share and still have plenty remaining.

Living a Christian life does not mean only believing that God's Spirit exists any more than living on Earth means believing in the concept of rain – that it comes from time to time and that, in some form or another, it will come again. To be a Christian, a child of light, is to let God drench you with the Holy Spirit inside and out, so that even if Jesus is not physically present on the earth, everything that his life, death and resurrection meant is still represented here in each one of us and all the greater in a fortified Christian community.

"He bids us build each other up" or, should we say, "Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing" (1 Thess. 5.11) – "And, gathered into one, to our high calling's glorious hope, we hand in hand go on. The gift which He on one bestows, we all delight to prove. The grace through every vessel flows, in purest streams of love" (All Praise to Our Redeeming Lord, Charles Wesley, 1747).

You have the ability to invest time, resources, money, skills, talents – and the decisions about these things are important; they shouldn't be taken lightly and are best managed under God's direction. But looking further, what else might this parable mean for Christians, for children of light? What if we put ourselves in the place of that last servant, who also received something very valuable? What if we were to bury Truth, or our Christianity, our very spirituality, our relationship with Creator and Redeemer? Whether we are afraid of God, society, persecution, failure... none of these fears validate hiding our faith in God, our hope in Christ, our strength in the Spirit. If none of these things permeate our daily lives, we may as well bury our heads in the sand, too.

Should we not declare: "Lord, you have been our refuge; from one generation to another, before the mountains were born, or the earth and the world were brought to be; from eternity to eternity you are God" (Psalm 90.1-2)? Should we not find solace in the immensity and magnitude of our God? Should we not invest each bit of the dust from which we're made and bring something greater than ourselves to the world? "Our years pass away like a sigh" (Psalm 90.9) – should we not call upon our Lord: "Teach us so to number our days; that we may apply our hearts to wisdom" (Psalm 90.12)?

You have the power to demonstrate what it means to follow Christ; to exemplify that he lived and died that we might be better people and more complete souls; that Christ will come again and that, in trusting him, we do not need to fear; that the Day of the Lord will be beautiful: not merely a day to be judged but a day to witness justice. God will set all right.

But until that day, God is calling us to live as the children of light. We must not hold back in fear or complacency. Rise and shine. Let God surprise you with what you can do – with the Christian you can be – through the One who strengthens you (Phil. 4:13).

Cleaning the Lamp Posts

Grandpa's Wisdom in the Midst of Parkinson's

Last week, while I was home for a few days with my parents and grandparents, my grandfather took a spill. It was only when we had already helped him up that we realized he had a large, bruising bump on his head and required immediate care.

Parkinson's disease makes too many everyday tasks for my grandpa more difficult than they have ever been before: walking, moving, standing, sitting, eating, talking. His hands shake, his limbs are stiff, and his mind seems perpetually clouded. He has always been an exceptionally brilliant man. If everyone has but one thing they personally consider self-identifying, Grandpa's intelligence is his. And he is now often unaware, or dazed, or seemingly incoherent, but frequently he seems frustrated as well, as though he is not only in a haze but confused as to how he got there when he knows - he knows - that he is a bright, strong, competent person.

It's difficult for him to understand us - not that his children or grandchildren have ever really been all that easy to understand - but he finds it difficult to know our intentions, answer questions, and follow conversational threads. It's difficult to understand him, too, though sometimes he makes himself especially clear.

One day this past summer, he stood before me and looked me square in the eye. "Enjoy life," he said, his expressive eyes compensating for the brevity. He doesn't always know who I am, but some things are too important to say no matter who says them and to whom.

This time, as I was icing his bruise, Grandpa told me, complete with its anecdote-esque dialogue tag, "He said, 'Merry Christmas, Nancy.'"

His wife's name. We attributed the rest of the sentence to the fact that my mother and grandmother had just been listening to a CD that I'd compiled for my parents last Christmas, which included a couple of seasonal tunes.

We were fairly sure that Grandpa's difficulty conversing and general quietness were more due to the Parkinson's itself than to the fall, but we needed to be sure that he remained conscious until the EMTs arrived.

"Were you listening to the music?" I asked.

"Of course."

"What's your favorite song, Grandpa?"

"Beef." He threw me for a loop on that one. His expression hadn't changed and it was impossible to gauge whether he was being humorous or serious or had misheard me or had simply chimed in with a nonsequitur.

"Beef?"

"Beef!" More animated this time; not coarse, but strangely energized if just for a moment.

It reminded me of Stone Soup, because we'd recently been talking about that story, so I quoted a line from it about beef and used it as a segue. "Did you like being a butcher?"

"Not particularly." This a conversational tone; honest, not detached, but without great lament or disappointment.

"Well, what's your favorite thing to do?"

"To do?"

"Yeah. In the whole wide world."

"Ah," he said. "Cleaning the lamp posts."

I'm not entirely sure why, but this struck me as significant, poignant.

An unexpected answer, to say the least, though I know Grandpa to be a hard worker who has always valued diligence. A man who, for years, labored lovingly over his own garden in addition to the time and energy he devoted to his business. So the idea of him cleaning lamp posts - even enjoying it - does not radically stun me.

But the imagery did.

Immediately I thought of illuminated paths in the dark, a guiding light in the midst of unfamiliar ground.

I thought of the tall poles that in daylight appear meaningless, or else only aesthetically interesting - shapes and hues of wrought iron suspending a glass encasement in the air. At night, these works of craftmanship may all but disappear in the darkness despite themselves. Certainly their structure and technical mechanisms are integral to their effectiveness, yet sometimes all that can be seen is the light at work.

In a fantastic irony, as a young child my brother used to say that our grandfather made the streetlights come on. I'm not sure where he came up with that tale - surely my parents' twisted influence - but I still think of Grandpa whenever I travel by the glow of streetlights, and especially whenever they first go on for their night shift.

Today I attended a talk during which the ever-inspirational speaker, Dr. Lynne Westfield, mentioned that artists depict us with lightbulbs shining above our heads to signify new ideas, seeing something illuminated in a new way.

My grandfather may occasionally confuse his meats and his music, but to this day, at 89 years of age, he can open my eyes to see life in a new light.


All photos above are my own, taken from 2007-2010. Their locations, in order:

Vienna, Austria. Vassar College, New York. Madison, New Jersey. London, England. Sarah Lawrence College, New York. Arboretum in Hamptonburgh, New York. Central Park, New York. Sarah Lawrence College, New York. Florence, Italy. Nice, France. Venice, Italy.

Ask Yourself

One of my close friends passed this on a while back, and I'd like to share it. Meditate on the following questions. You need not write or discuss them with anyone unless you so choose. Their sole purpose is personal reflection and growth.

What do I like about myself?

What do I dislike about myself?

What do others like about me?

What do others dislike about me?

What do I need to do to make myself a better person?

What do I need to stop doing to make myself a better person?

Do You Have A Decision To Make?

Life is a series of decisions, and some of us are decisively-challenged. Fortunately, they've made reliable compensatory tools for us.



As you and anyone who has ever shaken an 8 Ball have already sorted out, you can't depend solely on others to make difficult decisions for you. Difficult decisions, by nature, demand of us time and energy and reasoning and in general more patience than we are keen to maintain.

You can, however, continue to seek support - not support for one choice or another, but literally support for YOU. Who do you know is on your side, even when you don't know which side you're on? Talk to those people about your decision - or don't. Just be with them. They may not have the answers, but whether in word or deed, they can help to provide the framework you need as you work at the decision at-hand, something that may have significant implications for one change or another in your life.

And sometimes, seek time alone. It is perhaps one of the most conflicting feelings of humanity to feel alone while surrounded by people, even one's own loved ones. But, based upon my humble sample size, it is a common one; ultimately, you are not alone in that. Purposely withdrawing and allowing time for reflection, meditation, or simply taking time apart from hubbub and distraction - be it a few minutes in the shower or an organized month-long retreat - can help you to refocus and prevent you from feeling fragmented.



Which of those many voices telling you what to do or how to approach an issue is your voice? Have you been speaking all along, unable to hear what you wanted to say beneath the din of many well-intentioned advisors? Were you silent? Do you still not know what your say in the matter is? At this time, what further information or understanding would better help you to formulate and clarify your perspective?

If you pray, keep praying. Not just to get an answer from God, but also to get an answer from yourself. Then see if God has more to say. Let it be a conversation.

I say it this way not to diminish God's input or to rationalize what seem to be unanswered prayers, but to emphasize that no part of living is a spectator sport, and some even less so than others.



Blessed are the submarine racers, for they shall have all the fun.

At times, I thought that if God wanted something for me, God would make it work - not that God would make everything mysteriously fall into place and I wouldn't have to put in any effort, but that God would at least make it obvious to me as to what was the way it was all Supposed to Be. Because I have felt that God's guidance was so clear in some matters, I came to expect such clarity more often. I made demands of God that were not mine to make and felt indignant when they seemed unfulfilled. Instead of continuing to trust that God would direct me on a Need-to-Know basis, I wanted to know why I was being left in the dark.

In faith and prayer, it is sometimes easy to want to give everything up to God and forget that we are beings of free will, and that God wanted that for us; gave that to us. Understand that the point is not for God to force us into what, in hindsight, we will consider to have been the best decision. While I believe God guides us and helps us to discern many of our paths, I wonder if perhaps God occasionally withdraws to let us come to a new level of self-awareness and self-motivation; to discover the incredible strength of our convictions, even when we are not fueled by their perceived divine importance; and to allow us the opportunity to chart our course with the understanding that God is going to be there no matter which way we choose - even in difficult situations, and even when we wonder if things would have turned out differently if we had decided otherwise.

Mutually Bound

Recently we have talked and read at length about inter-religious connections and ecumenism. This has long been an interest of mine and I wish to explore it much more during my time at Drew.

What follows is an excerpt from something I wrote earlier this year. I share it now as a background as to where I'm coming from - part of why I am here and some of the questions I have brought with me. Perhaps it will be something to refer back to as I learn more over the next few years.

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How do religions interconnect, and how do we rectify their intellectual aspects? Is it possible for people of different backgrounds to maintain their spiritual strength without breaking down that of their counterparts? This is the theological dilemma which I find most pertinent both spiritually and academically, particularly in the past four years while I studied at Sarah Lawrence, a religiously diverse college. In the final year, I conducted an oral history project on students’ beliefs, faith, and experience. I hoped to encourage both academic and personal dialogue between students and provide a relaxed and respectful atmosphere in which they can explore and express their beliefs. Diverse in every possible way, no two interviewees professed precisely the same faith, yet all shared much in common.

Such is true, I find, of Christian denominations. Can Christians be both spiritually catholic and protestant, if not nominally, socially, or politically? Catholic: broad or wide-ranging; having sympathies with all; universal. Protestant: protesting injustice and corruption; striving for improvement, reform, and objectivity; from the word meaning "to bear public witness." Did Christ not represent all of these qualities?

A Roman Catholic priest once told me that "God does not check your denomination like an I.D. card." In the past decade, the Vatican, the Lutheran World Federation, and the World Methodist Council came together in the Joint Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification, stating that "by grace alone, in faith in Christ's saving work and not because of any merit on our part, we are accepted by God and receive the Holy Spirit, who renews our hearts while equipping and calling us to good works." In our doctrine and our divides, how do we differentiate the human from the divine? How does Christ bring unity and peace to a world in which Christianity creates further divisions and categories? Most significantly, must we erase these categories – must we be a reconciled Catholic church, or a Unitarian Universalist church, or a nondenominational church – or is it possible to respect human individuality while honoring the universality of the Divine?

As my project progressed I found inspiration and assurance that, though the journey for peace may be a long one, it is possible. It requires a willingness to speak and to be silent, a willingness to listen. With each interview, I learned not only to listen better but to listen to what cannot be heard.

Lilla Watson said, "If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together." Her words transformed my entire perspective of outreach; although I had not reduced it to charity or good deeds, I had not fully comprehended the interconnectedness of humanity, our sufferings and our hopes. And not only has it affected my approach to serving the poor, the hungry, and the outcast, but it has convinced me that peace in every sense is a matter in which our liberation is mutually bound.

The War of Art

Before one of the last races of the Christ Church regatta (fall 2008), our team warmed up, rowing south along the Isis toward the starting line.

My legs became stiff, locked, almost physically unable to move. Part of me, a very athletically- and physiologically-ignorant part, worried that I had overdone it and that if I continued I could do some sort of irreparable damage. It seems silly to say it, but the fear was real enough. I finally confessed to the captain, who cycled along the shore to cheer us on and, when necessary, communicate with the marshalls on our behalf.

She told me to work through it, to use it, and I did. I put more force into my legs than ever, driving hard through the water if just to spite them. Each time I have trouble writing or working or doing anything, I remember that moment, that triumph - not just the victory, but the fight for it.

During that same year my writing prof realized that my creative energy was beginning to dwindle. I think if one day we ever meet again and decide to play Pictionary or Charades, I want her to be on my team:

"This" - she said; I don't even remember what nondescript noun she called it - "is it light or heavy?"

Stuck. Honestly had no idea. Whatever it was, it felt like nothingness to me. Is nothingness light or heavy?

"To me it feels like the heaviest thing," she said so earnestly, almost forlornly, gazing out the window of her study to the vast meadows across the street. And so the questions continued. "What does it smell like? Does it have a taste?" I didn't know. I must have conjured up something unappetizing to satiate her curiosity. "Give it a name," she said finally.

I felt my skin flush. I eyed the door. I remembered the feeling of being cornered and remembered I didn't really like it.

"A name!" she said. "Give it a name, like..." [Here insert a nonsensical name for a fictional character in the 2088 Novel of the Year, or the name of your favorite circus troupe's star clown. Either one.]

I sputtered uncertainly, "Stan?"

"Stan! Good. What does he look like?"

Perhaps it was only colored by my own discomfiture, but this interaction was nearing bizarre, and I was not responding all that creatively. I summed up what I called the Archetypal Emo Guy, upon her confusion as to what that actually meant. And then for specificity's sake I doodled him, pretty black tresses hiding his little eyes and all.

Apparently the purpose of all this was to give me something to work against. I wonder if fiction requires an extent of friction, both inside (the story itself) and out. Conflict, driving force, motivation. So my perpetual task from the prof throughout the year was this: to fight Stan. It was like playing a video game with my own badly conceived villain, made slightly better with my own shuffled music collection for a soundtrack.

But she had quite a point. Naming it - even naming it Stan (or Juggernaut... but more on that tomorrow) - that's the first step.

I fought Stan. I fought him hard, but never entirely defeated him. Stan fancied himself a stowaway and traveled home with me. He has since popped his hairy little head in now and then, and I'm devoting the first year of grad school to squishing him between my frenetically-typing fingers.

When I was about six, I drew a picture of Superman flexing his graphite biceps and captioned it with a phrase that had caught my eye: "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." My mother kept it on her bulletin board, and I think seeing it there made an impression on me. It wasn't just a display of her kid's art. It was a statement of conviction. It was a battle cry. It earned a notable place in her own work area, her own Stress Central.

So cue the music. Something to play while Superman kicks Stan's butt.



Or something like that.

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Battling your own creative blocks? Fighting resistance? Be it in writing, art, business, sport, or anything at all, I wholeheartedly recommend the book The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. Check it out at StevenPressfield.com or find it on Amazon.

Can I Get An Amen?

It has seemed, throughout my own experience, that God teaches and shapes and transforms someone all the more not in times of great human brilliance but in moments of meekness, humility, and even confusion. If theology - religious discourse, God-talk - were solely a matter of intellect, what could a student of theology ultimately strive to attain but the omniscience of God alone?

And so it is in the spirit of not-knowing, of accepting the immense magnitude of an omniscient God, that I embark on my seminary career. Now at Drew Theological School, just a few days before the beginning of the semester, I realize that even as I seek knowledge, I do not seek concrete answers as much as I seek peace - the acceptance of not having them - and thus a balance between intellectual activity and all other growth.

This morning I seized the opportunity to take a writing exam using a computer. A child of the late twentieth century, my hands are seemingly incapable of handwritten decrees. Having come to accept this as both circumstance and personal identity, the thought of organizing an essay by hand strikes fear into my heart. It seems inevitable that many students planning to pursue ministry have certain roles and places to which they plead with God not to send them. As Dr. Westfield said earlier this week in advising students how best to select a cross-cultural program, sometimes we must go to the last place in which we envision ourselves. And though it may seem a weak comparison, for me, a handwritten exam is much that place. When my computer seemed less ready for the writing test than I was, and I watched as it processed, simply processed, I took out my pen.

I spoke the other day with Larry, an alumnus of Drew. Larry has worked in prison ministry for many years, a vocation he discovered through his wife, who had been set on this particular form of ministry long before it ever struck Larry himself as "suitable" for him - or rather before he believed himself suitable for prison ministry. He spoke about his reluctance and concerns, but also about the dismal place in which he found the inmates. The incredible crossroads that brought them together came out of something seemingly hopeless, and although many found it difficult to persevere, many lives were transformed entirely.

Larry and I discussed being grateful for times of concern because of the growth there. It is being thankful for the flood washing over the earth, for the despair beneath the juniper tree, for the agony of the cross, that in all these things there may be new life. It is the "amen" of assent and approval, the acknowledgment of truth and divine providence, shouted in times of apparent disorder and uncertainty and suffering; the faith that something great is happening beyond the grief, the hurt, the hopelessness, even if the greatness is yet unseen by human eyes. I pray that God will take who I am and do something despite the tohu vbohu, the mishmash, of who I would be - not without my knowledge of God but rather without the presence of God's own wisdom and peace.

Arriving at the threshold of theological education is rather like waiting for my computer to "wake up" beyond the point at which even the computer itself seems baffled. As I set out by hand, still eyeing the stagnant screen, I knew that eventually the computer would find focus and move on, but I knew, too, that I haven't all the necessary wisdom to understand how it works - or why it does not. And so I waited, and adjusted to a method of working that makes me incredibly and wonderfully uncomfortable, adjusted to the idea that perhaps it is easier to set about something along the best course one can find than to fear that the way is not familiar or safe or well-lit, and never take a step.

And when both I and the computer were ready, I began to type.

Suncatcher

A reflection written during senior year (2009-2010) as I considered seminary.

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I often find that the small, seamless moments of daily life are among the most inspiring and truth-bearing. When I opened the shades of the wide window in my final undergraduate dorm, the panes filled with the hues of leaves, and the narrow stretch of wooded wilderness behind the building seemed to pour into the room. I welcomed the natural shade, but nonetheless hung a sun-catcher in the window. It dangled in the only available place – centered on the thick frame rather than within the clarity of the windowpanes, so it seemed doubly impossible that it should ever reflect rays of sunlight, but there it stayed. Its presence seemed to suffice.

One afternoon, I arrived home – everything peaceful, the shades still drawn. But when I stepped into the dimly lit room, I found myself immersed in scattered rainbows. Even with the sun high in the sky, even with patchwork foliage obscuring the view of all beyond it, even as my covered windows seemed to shut out the outside world – light and color filled the room because of a simple glass ornament, in itself barely beautiful to behold. This moment, in its own simplicity, transfixed and transformed me.

I'd like to catch the sunlight in unexpected places – to trust the Lord's will and to embrace the truth that God is there in every moment, whether illuminating the entire sky or peeking between the shades.