We’re All Here

Format Image

Text: Romans 8:38-39, Acts 16:22-34

The first thing I want to prayerfully acknowledge this morning is that we are all entering this space from different places.
Some of you may be concerned about a family member or friend who you worry are having suicidal thoughts.
I know that some of us have lost a loved one to suicide.
And it is without a doubt that there are persons in this room who at one time or another have experienced a dark time and thought about suicide yourself…
No matter whether you have personal experience with this struggle or not, my hope and prayer is that we will all learn better how to share and offer hope and comfort to one another.

This morning as we reflect together on how we, as a faith community, can come alongside those who are considering suicide, I’m drawing heavily upon the work of Fe Anam Avis and Soul Shop. A couple of years ago, I had the opportunity to not only take their Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training, but also become a presenter for this program. Soul Shop was developed by the Pittsburgh Pastoral Institute to equip faith communities to minister to those impacted by suicidal desperation.
Notice I said “desperation” and not “depression.”
While sometimes suicide and depression are linked, that is not always the case. Not all people who are depressed have suicidal thoughts and not everyone who is suicidal is depressed.
Henry David Thoreau once wrote, “the great masses of men [and I would add women] lead lives of quiet desperation.”
There are many people in this world who are struggling just beneath the surface, invisible to the rest of us.
We might marvel at how wide their smiles are or how well they are handling the difficulties in their lives, not realizing that they feel overcome by the immensity of their situations.
And when they don’t feel like they can be honest about that desperation, they might become isolated, which leads even further down the path.
Fe Anam Avis reminded me that this is why suicide often comes as such a surprise to us. Too often, the depth of desperation in a person’s life is only visible after an irreversible tragedy.

When I was in college, one of my roommates attempted suicide.
She is and always has been a bright and bubbly person, full of energy and life. We noticed that she was a bit more sharp and stressed out, but we all were. It was college and life was full of anxiety and the drama of boyfriends and tests. We never sat down and had a real conversation about what was going on in our lives in that way… at least not until she had to be taken to the hospital and our whole friend group made the long drive in the middle of the night from Indianola to Des Moines.

I can remember feeling helpless and full of guilt and shame as I sat in the car that night.
Why didn’t I see it?
Why didn’t she tell me?
Why didn’t I ask?

The truth is, too often we feel unequipped to even begin to respond in the midst of our worry about loved ones.
But friends, we can move from a reality of others struggling with quiet desperation to one of honest conversation. We can create space right here at Immanuel, but also in the lives we live outside of this building, to be honest about the struggles in our life, for others to be honest with us, and together to and to know they are not alone.
In fact, one of the most difficult problems that people face in the midst of their quiet desperation is simply finding someone to talk to. Someone who will listen. Someone who will hear them. Someone who will be there.

And it starts with being able to talk about suicide.
I want to invite you to try something. I want to invite you to turn to the person next to you and use the word “suicide” in a sentence. Any sentence. Just practice saying the word.
Fe Anam Avis says that if you can say the word “suicide” in a sentence, you can save a life.

For too long, the church has largely been silent about this quiet desperation, instead of actually wrestling with the many different stories within our scriptures that relate to suicide.
We are quick to think of Judas, but that only further connects these kinds of thoughts with feelings of guilt, betrayal, and condemnation.
The very first thing I want to say about this is that our United Methodist position on suicide is very clear. “Suicide is not the way that a human life should end… a Christian perspective on suicide begins with an affirmation of faith that nothing, [not death or life, angels or rulers, or powers, things past or present…. NOTHING] including suicide, separates us from the love of God (Romans 8:38-39).

The reality is, our scriptures describe many instances where people struggle with suicidal desperation… Job, Elijah, Jonah, Jeremiah, Paul, and King Saul, just to name a few.
And there is a text in the Bible that describes a successful suicide intervention… a moment where a life was saved because someone was willing to talk about suicide.
Let’s turn to Acts 16 and explore that story together.
First, I want you to notice in Acts 16:24 that the jailor in this story was busy just going about his life doing his job. He received the order, put Paul and Silas in the cell, and locked them up. Fe Anam Avis calls him a First Day person – someone who may never have remotely considered suicide and was totally unprepared for how quickly life could change and desperation could show up.

But then something unexpected happens. An earthquake shakes the prison, the doors fly open and the shackles of the prisoners are broken.
In that moment, described in verse 27, the jailor finds himself in a dark night of desperation. In his case, this was a sudden change triggered by a life event. We sometimes see this with young people after a break-up or failure, but also among adults who have experienced a dramatic failure or loss or rejection.

But there is another part of this story. The community shows up and they too are desperate. They are concerned and worried for the life of this person in their midst. They notice. And they say something.
“Don’t harm yourself. We’re all here!” Paul cries out in verse 28.
In that moment, the jailor discovers he is not alone… and he chooses to live.

One of my colleagues, Heidi Carrington Heath, has written about her own experience with suicidal thoughts and what it meant when someone showed up in her life. (https://www.saltproject.org/progressive-christian-blog/2017/11/9/second-day-people-suicide-and-faith)
“I was 18 the first time I was suicidal… I don’t remember reaching out to my best friend, but I did.
I remember that she appeared at my door in what felt like moments with another friend of ours. He crawled on the floor with me… and told me that I had two choices. He told me I could leave the room walking, or he could carry me out, but the option of sitting alone in that room with a box cutter in my hand wasn’t an option anymore. I haven’t seen either of them in years, but I literally owe both of them my life.
In that moment, I became a second day person. Second day people are people like me who live through the dark night of suicidal desperation to see the resurrection of the second day. “
She goes on to write,
“People suicide primarily for two reasons: a loss of hope, and a loss of social connection. And if the Church of Jesus Christ and our faith communities cannot do something about that, we should shut our doors. Building communities where no one loses hope, and no one is alone should be the heart of our work together.”

And so to that end, I want to share with you a simple acronym for how we, as people of faith, can show up to provide hope and connection with one another.
C.A.L.L.

First… we Commit.
We commit that if we are ever experiencing desperation and thoughts of suicide that we will reach out and find someone to talk to. I am someone you can talk with – but so are so many other people in this room.
If we make this commitment, we reduce our isolation and we don’t have to carry those burdens all by ourselves.

Next, we can Ask.
If you notice that someone around you is struggling, don’t be afraid to ask if they are thinking about suicide. They may not tell us. They may not want to admit it. But simply noticing their struggle and being to say the words, “That sounds like a lot. It is a lot to carry. Sometimes, people going through what you are going through begin to think about suicide. Do you ever think about suicide?”
Simply asking the question helps someone to know they are not alone. That you are there. That you care for them… deeply.

And once we ask, we have to Listen.
Listen for their story.
Listen for their struggle.
Let them tell you about what they are going through and be willing to sit with them through that.

But then, as in the story of Heidi… and also the jailer… the final thing we can do is Lead someone to safety.
You cannot change someone’s thoughts or their struggle or desperation, but you can help them get to a safe place where they can get the help they need.
Maybe you sit with them and make a phone call.
Maybe you remove an object of harm.

You are not a professional and you don’t have to be.
Just remember that you are called.
CALL: Commit, Ask, Listen, and Lead to safety.
The apostle Paul struggled with his own life in ministry in Philippians 1:19-25, which perhaps better equipped him to notice the desperation in the life of jailer who was right in front of him.
But as people of faith, we all are equipped with love, compassion and mercy. We are all equipped with love and grace. And we know that life is not easy and that desperation is a reality for all of us.
So friends, you, too, are called…. And we are here. We are here for one another. We are here for you.

The Wilderness: Can These Bones Live?

Format Image

Yesterday was my Sabbath day.
I wore pajamas all day long.
I curled up in a chair and played video games.
I watched five episodes of Grey’s Anatomy on the DVR.
I was a sloth.
I was exhausted.
I needed to stop moving,
stop thinking,
to simply be.

But there is a fear
that when we stop moving and thinking and doing
maybe we will never want to start again.
Maybe once we stop
we cannot start again.

I got up from my chair late in the day
And my bones ached.
My muscles hurt.
Every joint felt like it was crying out.

Don’t get old, Katie,
my dad always tells me.
Don’t get old, because your body stops working.
It starts talking back.
It cries out and lets you know what aches.
It tells you that you are fragile.
You are merely bones and flesh.
You are human.
You are not invincible.
You are not wonder woman.
You cannot do it all.

Actually, maybe I need that reminder.

Maybe we need that reminder.

Maybe we need this season called Lent.
Maybe we need to call a time out.
Maybe we need to remember that life is fragile.
Life is precious.
Life is fleeting.

We come from nothing but dust and ashes.
We will return to dust and ashes.

I say those words a few dozen times a year
As I stand with families over an open grave.
As we gently return the bodies of their loved ones to the earth.

Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.

And I find myself telling them…
Telling myself…
That in between those two bookends
We have an opportunity.
A beautiful opportunity.
To clothe ourselves with new life as well.
A life that extends beyond the valley of the shadow of death.
A life that will overcome even the grave.

Can these bones live?
That is the question on the tip of our tongue
As we watch our loved ones lowered into the earth.
Can these bones live?

The prophet Ezekiel was familiar with that question.
Can these bones live?
Can life return?
Is this really the end of it all?

He witnessed his city under siege.
He saw its walls crumble.
He saw the temple destroyed.
And then, he had to leave everything behind.
Forced against his will
To journey through the wilderness
To a strange land
A foreign land
A hostile land.

From the dust of the earth that city and temple was built.
And to dust it returned.

Ezekiel also knew…
Quite keenly he was aware
That death and dust and destruction
Were the tools of God.

He was called to name the sins of Judah
The transgressions of Jerusalem
With his very body
His bones and his flesh
He bore witness to the impending destruction.

He starved himself long before the siege.
He shaves his head long before he was taken prisoner.
He begins to experience in his very bones
The fear and trembling
That would soon be upon the people.

And part of him has to wonder…
Can these bones live?

Can this dead and lifeless people repent?
Will they see the light?
Are they able to change their ways?
Will it be too late?

Babylon arrives.
The city is destroyed.
The people are sent away.

Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.

When I find myself on my knees
Laid low in humility
Brought to nothing
I remember I am dust and ashes
I am the stuff of the earth

And in that moment
Sometimes there is a quiet acceptance.
I am dust and ashes.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
I have reaped what I have sown.

But somewhere in me there something else…
a spark.
something that dares
that yearns
Can these bones live?
Can we begin again?

Even if it way too late…
Is it ever too late?

After all,
We began as dust.

And as dust,
You, God,
You breathed life into us.

That spark I feel.
That yearning.
That calling.
That desire to live
To truly live and love and move and serve.
To do it right.
To do it well.
That is Your presence in me.

Your breath in us.
Stirring… calling… pushing.

The city was in shambles.
The people were scattered.
And there was this divine spark
Speaking in Ezekiel’s soul.
Stirring… calling… pushing…

And that spirit led him out of himself
Out of captivity
Out of complacency

Can these bones live?

It was a question Ezekiel wasn’t sure if he dared to utter.
It was a question that he longed to speak aloud but couldn’t.
It was a question of hope.
And hope was now a stranger to him.

So God asked the question instead.

Can these bones live?

Can your bones live?
Do you believe that I can breathe life into you again?
Are you willing to risk that it is not too late?

Ezekiel isn’t sure.
Lord God, only you know…
Only God can do it…
If it could be done.

And God calls him to stand.
God calls him to speak.
God calls him.
And he answers.

Out of dust and ashes.
Out of hopelessness.
Out of grief.
Out.

Ezekiel speaks.
And the bones start to shake.
The earth starts to quake.
Everything is at once falling apart and coming together.
A great transformation.
Everything changing.
Everything becoming.
Bones.
Flesh.
Sinew.
Skin.

And then there was breath.
God’s breath.
The Holy Spirit rushing like the wind.
Filling those bodies.
Standing them up.
Calling them back to life.

We are ashes.
We are dust.
We are bones.
We are sinful people, brought low by our deeds.

And yet…
There is that spark…
that breath…
that glimmer of God…

Telling us it is not too late.
It is not too late to stand.
It is not too late to live.
It is not too late to love.
It is not too late to repent.
It is not to late to act.

On my own, I can’t do it.
I will burn out.
I will falter and make mistakes.
On my own I’m not strong enough.
I am dust and ashes.

But… and… I am more than dust and ashes.
Because I am also the Lord’s.
And this body.
This flesh.
These bones.
Are filled with the Spirit.
And this body.
This flesh.
These bones.
Are part of the body of Christ.

When I stop, for just a moment.
When I let my bones and flesh rest.
It is then that I remember
God is with me.
God is in me.
God is in us.

Can these bones live? God asks.
Can this scattered and broken people live?
Can this church live?

Only you know, Lord.

So, come, Holy Spirit.
Come, Breath of God.
Come and knit us back together.
Come and fill us with your life.
Help us to stand.
Raise us up.
Send us out.

The Beginning in the End

Format Image

We spend so much of our lives looking for a savior.
In the book of Judges, chapter 3 – the Israelites cry out for a savior when the going gets tough… and God responds by lifting up individuals who would save the people… Othniel and Ehud and Deborah.
Over and over, the Psalmists cry out for a savior: “Save us!” Oh God… “Hosanna!”
“Save us by your power and answer us so that the people you love might be rescued.” (Psalm 60:5)
A savior will resolve our problems.
A savior will end our struggles and oppression.
A savior will rescue us from despair.
As the Remy Zero song, the theme for the television show, Smallville, goes, “somebody save me… I don’t care how you do it.”

But when the hero shows up… how quickly we discover that we only want a savior on our terms.
How soon do we start to question the motives, the control, the power of the one who is acting on our behalf…

<iframe width=”560″ height=”315″ src=”https://www.youtube.com/embed/Jee2O6zPxAc” frameborder=”0″ allow=”autoplay; encrypted-media” allowfullscreen></iframe>

We do care how our savior shows up.
We have ideas and expectations and want that saving to be on our terms.
And so you find pundits and politicians questioning the presence of Superman in the world in much the same way as the Pharisees question the actions of Jesus.

But it is not just the leaders who turn their backs on this savior in Jesus day…
The crowds who lined the streets to welcome Jesus to Jerusalem, riding on a donkey, cried out “Save us!” “Hosanna!” But in reality, they did care how he saved them.
They wanted a king.
They wanted an earthly victory where Rome got kicked out of their country.
They wanted a personal savior on their own terms.
And as soon as Jesus was arrested and their path to freedom started to dim, their shouts turned to “Crucify Him!”
When death looms on the horizon…
When hope starts to fade…
When our savior becomes powerless… or even dies…
Then where do we turn for help?

It is fascinating that one of the most powerful superheroes in the entire comic book world, Superman, is also one that has faced death. In the 1993 comic book series, he dies in the arms of Lois Lane after fighting a villain to death. This storyline was revisited again in the 2016 film, Batman v Superman. The entire world goes into mourning over the savior who they thought would always be there to rescue them from disaster.
Jesus, too, not only faces death, but embraces it.
Death is a part of his calling.
“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains a single grain,” he tells the crowds (John 12).
But our limited imaginations see death as the end of our stories.
Life is where we are rescued.
Death is defeat.
And if the cross is where Jesus is headed, we want no part of it.
I think this is because we want a savior who acts more like Superman than like Jesus… even if we have doubts about the extent of his power.
Matt Rawle reminds us that Superman saves us over and over again, but “I don’t really have to love my neighbor with Superman flying around. If things get bad, Superman will just swoop in and fix them. There’s not much reason to build up neighborhoods, improve education, feed the hungry, and clothe the naked. If it gets bad, Superman will know what to do.” (p. 125)
Isn’t that how some of us as Christians in this world act?
Jesus is my Savior, so I just need to believe, and I will be rescued from this world of sin and carried away to heaven where everything is perfect.
We want a savior who will save the day without us lifting a finger.
And if that savior is headed towards the defeat of death… there is no saving there for us.

This is because the crowds drastically misunderstood how Jesus saves us.
The kingdom Jesus ushers in doesn’t start in some heaven far away, but right here and right now.
The kingdom is like a mustard seed that someone took and planted in a garden.
The kingdom is like yeast, hidden in flour.
The kingdom is like a grain of sand in an oyster.
The kingdom is like a treasure that is buried.

The kingdom breaks forth out of what we thought was dead, buried, hidden away.
The kingdom is the power of new life rising out of death.
The kingdom says that in every end there is a new beginning.

Just like those crosses that we gave our children this morning in the children’s message will sprout and give birth to new life if we care and tend them, so too, does the life of Jesus unexpectedly bring forth something new out of what we thought was over and done with.
The mustard seed becomes a great tree.
The yeast causes the bread to rise.
The sand becomes a pearl.
The treasure is uncovered.
In the bulb there is a flower.
The stone that sealed the tomb has been rolled away.

Our journey over this next week takes us from the last meal Jesus shares with his disciples, through the cross, and takes us all the way to Sunday morning.
We discover that the cry of “It is finished” on the cross is not the end, but the beginning of what is starting in your life and in mine.
A spark is lit in the world and in our hearts so that we might go out and be the hands and feet of God in this world.
At the end of “Batman vs. Superman,” the world is in mourning because they believe that one of their heroes is dead. People of all stripes are gathered holding candles around his tomb.
And there is an amazing inscription written in chalk below his symbol:
“if you seek his monument – look around you.”

That is the message of the gospel.
We don’t have to wait for heaven.
We don’t have to wait for rescue.
We are invited, encouraged, called… God is BEGGING us to get busy being a part of the work of the kingdom right here and right now.
What the world thought was an ending was only the beginning.
Now the story is YOURS to live.
You are the hero that someone is waiting for.
So go out there, in the name of Jesus, and do it.

God Prepares a Feast

Format Image

How many of you ate too much this holiday season? 

How many of you ate just enough? 

You know, the thing about family gatherings, celebrations, and joyous events is that they are feast times in our lives.

We gather around tables.

We break bread.

We share stories.

And we experience life to its fullest.

 

As the prophet, Isaiah, envisions the day of salvation, he writes about “a feast of rich food, a feast of well-matured wines, of rich food with marrow, of well-matured wines strained clear.” (Isaiah 25:6)

There will be joy on that morning. 

There will be celebration on that day.

And the table will be full.

 

Now, this would have been a powerful image of hope in the midst of Isaiah’s day.  Israel had been torn apart and God’s people had suffered violence and oppression.  There is nothing left. 

Heidi Haverkamp invites us to imagine refugees from a modern war finding a heavy banquet table in the middle of nowhere… an oasis in the midst of the desert of struggle and pain and fear.

 

The people and creatures of Narnia have known such struggle.  They are survivors of a time of oppression and violence and loss. 

But in the midst of their fear and anxiety, they also hung on to hope. 

The Pevensie children, Edmund, Susan, Peter, and Lucy, are welcomed into the home of the Beavers who set out a feast of fish and potatoes, sticky marmalade rolls, bread and butter.  They filled their bellies with food and their hearts with hope. 

And then, Father Christmas arrived.

If you were with us last week, we talked about how the cold winter of the White Witch’s power was so strong that it was always winter and never Christmas.

But the world began to thaw.

The seasons began to turn with the promise that Aslan was near.

And Father Christmas came as a symbol of hope, that the winter would soon end, that a new day was coming.

And when he came across a group of Narnians in the woods, Father Christmas set out a feast of plum pudding and wine, delicious food, and decorations.

 

It was a scene right out of Isaiah.

The day of salvation was near.

And yet.

 And yet, that day of salvation is still oh, so, far away.

As those grateful people of Narnia sat to enjoy their meal with laughter and merriment, the White Witch comes along and turns their joy into silence.  She turns them into stone.

 The promise has not yet been fulfilled.

As Haverkamp writes in her reflections for this season, “A special family meal isn’t a promise that nothing will every go wrong again.  The people of Isaiah’s time would be torn apart by war and sent away into exile.  In Narnia, the Christmas supper party would be turned to stone.  But the people of Israel knew that God was with them, no matter what, and that God’s promises to them were eternal.” 

 

Every time we gather around this table, we feast, too.

We feast on bread and wine.

We remember stories and laugh and cry.

We are re-connected by these offerings of live giving sustenance.

And we know that this meal is only a foretaste of the heavenly banquet. 

 

One of most holy moments for me every Christmas Eve is to gather around this table and around the manger and break bread together.

In this one moment, the whole story of our faith is present.

Christ was born.  Christ has died.  Christ is risen.  Christ will come again. 

 While it might seem morbid to remember on that night that the child born in the manger was born to die, for me it is a reminder of just how fully God entered our human existence.

God took on our flesh and came into our lives in one of the most vulnerable ways one could imagine. 

This child cried and was utterly dependent upon the milk from his mother and the care and protection from his earthly father.  He learned to walk and scraped his knees.  And every step of the way, as he grew into a man, he reached out and connected with the least, the last, and the lost…. And the rich and powerful. 

Our God fully took on our flesh and reached out to welcome children and talked with women and taught men what it meant to truly be the people of God. 

He was praised and he was ridiculed.  He wept.  He was angry.  God became one of us.

And then our God died for us.

 

In the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, there is a moment when all hope appears lost.  In order to save the life of one of the Pevensie children, Edmund, the one who betrayed the rest of his siblings,   Aslan gives up his own life to the White Witch.

 He willing hands himself over to her in a scene that brings to my mind memories of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. 

And he is killed.

 The two girls, Lucy and Susan, weep over his body… like the women who went to the tomb early on Easter morning.

 And as they walk to catch a glimpse of sunrise, they hear a loud crack.  The stone on which Aslan had been killed cracked in two.  He rose and stood behind them triumphant. 

 And then, Aslan shared that resurrected life with the creatures of Narnia.  He flew to all those who had been turned to stone and breathed upon them, setting them free from the curse of the White Witch.

 

Today, we remember that in the very beginning our God breathed into us the breath of life.

We remember that our God took on human flesh and lived among us.

We remember that our God in Christ freely gave up his life so that we might have life and life abundant.

And today, we remember … every time we eat this bread and drink this cup, the promise of salvation. 

Rev. Mindi Welton-Mitchell wrote in her reflection upon the Isaiah passage that the “prophet’s message of hope [is]for the day when God invites everyone to the banquet table, and death’s power is destroyed forever. The veil will be torn away and God will end our mourning by wiping away our tears. This is the God we have waited for. This is the moment we have waited for. This is the invitation we have waited for.”

This is the invitation we have waited for.

Come. 

God has prepared a feast. 

 

Remembering Our Place #growrule

Format Image

This Lent, I have been using a tool called “Growing a Rule of Life.”  Each day there is a video and a prompt question to engage with.  And of course, I’m behind already.

 

Friday’s video reminded me that we need structure, we need planning, we need the framework in place before we start these kinds of disciplines, and the very fact that I didn’t schedule time for my days off and for Sunday (which is always a hectic day in my world) proves the point.

The question we were left with that day is simple: when you connect with nature, what is meaningful about it?

When I truly connect with nature, I find that I, myself, my ego, is diminished.  So much of my life is spent working and relating and living my life and everything revolves around myself and my calling and what I’m supposed to do or not do.

Yet when I truly connect with nature, all of that ceases.

I still my soul.

I stop.

And I am humbled by the reminder that there is so much else going on in the world that is not me.

The falling of snow flakes. The robins in the trees. The buds already forming. The hawk gliding overhead. The slow decomposition of the leaves that are life and death all wrapped into one.

And all of it continues without me.

In fact, all of this life probably would do a lot better without our human interference and selfish use and abuse of the world.

When I truly connect with nature, I am overcome with how small I am, and how beautiful the world is.

My soul cannot help but be awed by our Creator.

 

So much of the time, I’m rushing here and there, from meeting to project, to home and back.

Without creating space to stop and pause and connect with the world around us, I will forget who I am.  I will forget how insignificant these tasks are in the grand scheme of things.  I will forget that it is not about me… but my Creator.

Unrecognizeable

As we sit here this morning and think about feasting with the saints, I’m thinking about eating a honey and butter sandwich with my grandpa, my Deda.  I’m Czech, you know, and my Babi and Deda were big parts of my life growing up.

He was a really quiet sort of guy.  He didn’t say much unless you had spent an hour or two shelling walnuts with him at the kitchen table.  Every so often, you would get a story out of him about peeling potatoes in the Korean War or about a neighbor down the street.  He also loved to make up stories and when I was little he had all sorts of silly tales that he would tell us.

In October of 2006, my dad’s dad, my grandpa, my Deda, passed away. It was a long and slow and painful process – with diabetes doing a number on his body and its ability to heal itself. I was living in Nashville at the time, attending seminary, but it was fall break and he was still with us, so I went home to see him.

I got to spend an entire day in the hospital with Deda. It was probably the best day that he had had in a long time. The Hawkeyes were playing that morning and he was aware of the game and together we watched them win. Five or six of us were gathered in the room and he would try to talk, but his throat was sore and ravaged from the breathing tube that had been there. He grunted and moaned, tried to tell us things, but mostly we just held his hand and tried our best to understand. The next day wasn’t nearly so good and the next evening he passed away. Because of my break from school, I was able to be there not only for the funeral, but also stay farther into the week.

Because I was, you know, the seminary student, I did a lot of care-giving during that time.  I gave one of the eulogies at the funeral.  I sat in with my dad and uncles and aunt as they planned the service. I helped to decorate the funeral home ( complete with stalks of corn, pumpkins and gourds). I sat with my Babi.

It felt so good to be home and surrounded by my family during that time, but I remember the hardest part of it was going back to Nashville. Going back to a place where no one knew my grandfather, or even that he had been that sick. Going back to a place where no one knew that he had died or what a gaping hole was left in my life.

But I hadn’t missed any classes because of how the break fell. I didn’t have to call any professors about making up a test or getting the notes from lecture. Everyone had been gone, so there was no reason to notice I was gone.

And so I didn’t tell anyone. I kept my grief to myself. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to put myself out there and be greeted by all of the condolences and “I’m sorry’s” right then, so I hid it all. I don’t think I really wanted to be left alone – but I was somehow embarrassed by my grief.  I felt like I had done an okay job of caring for everyone else and I could probably care for myself too.  I guess I thought that I could handle it on my own.

As long as I’m being honest, I’ve always had this attitude that says, “I can do it myself!” Whether it is putting something together or cooking a new recipe, or, as it turns out, grieving – I’ve always wanted to figure out my own way of doing something. Like I know better than how countless people have done it in the past or will continue to do it in the future.

Our whole culture it seems has that do-it-yourself mentality. We are expected to be strong, resourceful, and even if we don’t have it all figured out – with the right tools, or YouTube video, we should be able to do-it-ourselves.

But you see, the problem is, we were not made to do things ourselves.

It is exactly when we are down and out that we are more in tune with what it really means to be part of the body of Christ.

Christ tells us that it is precisely our places of vulnerability that we will find the promise of God being fulfilled.

The world may think that being vulnerable means you are weak and you can’t cut it, but in the strange and wonderful ways of God, our vunerability is the source of our greatest blessings.

Hear again some those very familiar words of the Beatitudes, but through the Message translation of the bible:

You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.

You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.

You’re blessed when you’re content with just who you are-no more, no less. That’s the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can’t be bought.

You’re blessed when you care. At the moment of being ‘care-full,’ you find yourselves cared for.

You’re blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That’s when you discover who you really are, and your place in God’s family.

Not only that-count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable.

The world gets uncomfortable around us, because they don’t understand the Kingdom that Jesus came to proclaim, the kingdom full of good news for the poor, freedom for captives, and comfort for those that mourn.

We have been blessed, precisely because of our vulnerability. We have been the poor, the down and out, we have grieved, we have struggled for peace. And we are blessed, because every step of the way, Jesus has been by our side.

The world can’t comprehend the love God has for us and the love we have for one another. And a big part of that love we share is the trust and belief that we can be vulnerable with one another. Our love is the most powerful, when we share our lives with one another, when we are honest about our weaknesses and our need for healing and love and grace.

And yet, that is precisely why the world doesn’t recognize Jesus. It is why the world doesn’t know him. Caught up in our bravado, believing we can do it on our own, John writes in his letter that the world can’t see the love God has for us. If the world can’t understand that love, they it can’t understand why the poor and the brokenhearted would be blessed.

And I experienced this. I tried to grieve on my own when my grandfather died. But I realized I couldn’t do it myself when I back our car into a parking barrier after church the first Sunday I returned to Nashville.

I was actually so anxious about getting away from the church where everyone seemed so happy and whose lives seemed to be so together that I wasn’t paying attention and clipped the parking barrier.

If I had been just an ordinary person of the world, I probably would never have gone back into that church. I would have backed my car out, gone straight to the repair shop, and would have continued quietly carrying my burden. I wouldn’t have known, I wouldn’t have recognized the love God has for us. I would have believed all of those happy people inside of that church building were strange and out of touch and in my grief, I didn’t belong.

But, I worked in that church and for half a second remembered that it was exactly because it was full of strange people that I loved it and them. Those peope inside that building were not perfect. They were happy and blessed precisely because they refused to handle their problems on their own.

I carefully shifted the car back into drive and parked it back in the spot. I got out and I walked back inside. I would deal with the car later. I sat down on the couch in my friend’s office and I just cried. And I finally let someone else be there for me. And I was overwhelmed by the love that community demonstrated.

The church – this body of Christ – should be a place where any and all of us can stand up at any time and freely share our lives with one another. It should be a place where each of us can trust that those joys and concerns and struggles will be heard faithfully and held onto sacredly – that they will be gently placed into God’s hands and that together we will weep, together we will laugh, together we will learn to forgive and live a new way.

That is why our lives are unrecognizeable. It is why we seem so strange to the rest of the world.

So many of the saints that we lift up this morning were those strange and unrecognizeable and wonderful people. They gave so much of their lives to this church and to other people.

You know their stories far better than I do.

You know how they loved one another.

You know how they shepherded the church through adversity.

You know how they leaned on one another in difficult times.

You learned from them what it means to be strange and unrecognizeable… what it means to be blessed.

And from them, we have learned how to share those blessings to others.

I’ve heard this saying many times in my life – when you share joy, you double it, when you share a burden, you cut it in half.

That is what community is for, that is what the body of Christ is for – to help you to carry your burdens and your joys.

Being a part of community means being vulnerable with one another, but the strength of the body of Christ is shown when we do whatever we can through God’s power to overcome that weakness.

And we can do so because we know death is not the end. Because we believe that sickness is not a curse. Because we have faith in the power of the resurrection and because we have seen miracles. We have felt the power of prayer. We know what hope truly is.

The saints we celebrate today are part of the people of God and present with us in this very room as we break bread and feast at the heavenly banquet.

And that is why this place and this people are so strange and wonderful.

Winter is Coming

As an introvert,  I dont often make small talk with fellow passengers on a flight. Now that you can use a kindle during taxi and takeoff, my nose is often in a book or playing a game on my phone.  But today, even my game of “caveman story” couldn’t save me from a conversation with a new single-serving friend. And I’m grateful.

It turns out we both went to seminary. And are currently in non traditional sorts of ministry.  We had a great conversation about mission and development and empowering local communities.  We also talked about how messed up the church can be.

At one point,  he said we need to do as much as we can to serve God before the winter of our lives.  In many ways,  he was talking about the life cycle of churches… and how many of our congregations are living in their winter days. Or at least approaching them. What good can we do before we die and fade away?

On the first leg of my flight, I had been reading the “Game of Thrones” books ( book 2, in fact) and there, “winter is coming” has a slightly different meaning.  We know how seasons work, with their cycle of life and death and life again.  However,  in Martin’s world, the seasons go on for years and are unpredictable in their length.  The world is in the midst of a long summer… around a decade in length.  But as the lords of the north often say, “winter is coming. ”  It always does. So you must prepare.

The world as we know it is changing.  Whether we are actively dying or merely adjusting to a change in the climate,  we have to pay attention and we must act.

Bullard’s life cycle of  churches describes how a congregation is born, matures and dies. He talks about vision, relationships, programs,  and structure being the driving forces in various stages of that cycle.  Unlike our physical human lives,  however,  churches can begin a new cycle if only they allow vision to take the reigns.

We need to not only believe winter is coming,  we need to see what kind of life is required of us to make it through.  If we don’t… if we keep pretending that the good old days of summer will last forever, we will die before the thaw.

May our churches see… and may they chose to live differently.

Imagine 31 Birthdays…

A gravedigger walks among dozens of fresh graves in the children's section of the Penga Penga Cemetery in Lubumbashi, Democratic Republic of the Congo. Only one in five children in this city of 3 million survives to age five due to malaria. A UMNS photo by Mike DuBose.
A gravedigger walks among dozens of fresh graves in the children’s section of the Penga Penga Cemetery in Lubumbashi, Democratic Republic of the Congo. Only one in five children in this city of 3 million survives to age five due to malaria. A UMNS photo by Mike DuBose.

Today is my thirty-first birthday.

My work with Imagine No Malaria has introduced me to the faces and stories of children all across the continent of Africa who will never live to see their fifth birthday, much less thirty-one.

In fact, of the 655,000 lives lost each year, 85% of those who die are children under the age of five.

In this photograph, a man walks through a graveyard in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.  This community has a practice of not giving their children names until they reach the age of five… in part to keep from forming attachments to children who are so unlikely to survive.  Those tombstones that are simply empty wooden crosses… those are the graves of children who died without a name.

What if you could do something to change that picture?  What if you could help a child to have another birthday?  What if you could buy a bed net to prevent them from getting this terrible disease that will take their life?

It’s as simple as giving $10.  Ten bucks saves a life.

For my birthday, I want to help save the lives of thirty-one children.  I want to help provide a future, hope, life, and health for these little ones.

Will you help?

Visit Imagine 31 Birthdays…  to celebrate my birthday this year by helping 31 children to have another.