In Hope of Resurrection

I grew up in a tradition where Easter was more about crucifixion than resurrection. For several years now, my church has read the Passion narrative--the story of Jesus' trial and crucifixion--along with the Palm Sunday story. We tend to do a Maundy Thursday service project, but not much else when it comes to Holy Week. We still need the full story, to know the sadness before the joy. It's a rough Sunday, I'm not going to lie. The story is hard for kids and adults. But what is most striking to me is that, as I'm reading, I realize these are the stories from childhood churches. I know them from there, not from my life as a pastor. Then, the resurrection was more of an afterthought than a focus, for Jesus died for our sins.

Fast forward, and my understanding of Gospel has shifted. I no longer believe Jesus' death was a point of salvation, but the result of a corrupt system. It's a pretty staunchly Protestant sort of thing, with our empty crosses and such, but the fundagelicals seem to have skipped over the empty cross part. I need the story of resurrection. Because I have no doubt in the story of crucifixion. Over and over, innocent people die. Over and over, terrible things happen. Over and over, we destroy what is good. Over and over, we are frightened by something different. I know that story. I could learn that story just by existing with little intentionality.

I know there is crucifixion. I need the story of resurrection. I need the remotest glimmer of hope, the possibility that the worst thing is not the last thing.

Right now, children are held where I live. Not the next town, not the next state, not if I get in my car and drive for a bit. Where I live.

I need resurrection.

Right now, asylum seekers are being released in the streets of Phoenix, with nothing more than the clothes on their back. It's not an expression. Everything else they had with them has been taken and will not be returned. They are fleeing unimaginable poverty and violence. Being released means they have passed a credible fear interview and are trying to make it to some family member who will care for them during the years long asylum-seeking process. They have traveled through incredible danger. This is the way for them to seek legal status and by virtue of being released, they are in the country legally.

I need resurrection.

I wrote about a 35 year old who stepped in front of a dump truck and was killed. I did not write about the man who died from cancer related to exposure to Agent Orange. He is the one I know of. I shudder to think how many more there will be this year, not to mention the many others unable to shake wars in other ways.

I need resurrection.

Every day, I wonder who will be a victim of this administration. When Trump was elected, someone said, "Well, we survived two Bushes, we'll get through this." I'm white, cisgender, middle class, married to a man. I will survive. I have only one strike against me--being a woman. Then there's the whole healthcare issue, but maybe that's too much to go into. I will survive; I do not know if my friends of different demographics will.

I need resurrection.

I'm still writing, still working, still thinking about Easter. I'm still thinking about the tears shed last Sunday as we read the story of Jesus' final hour. I am not the only one who needs resurrection. I will sit with the sadness and the brutality for a few more days. It is not yet Easter, but I am aware of how dark the tomb feels right now.

For all those who need resurrection, hang on. Sunday is coming. And this worst thing will never, ever be the last.

A Eulogy and a Hope

On the days when I need Church--the deep, visceral need for something Holy, something present, something transformative--I long for beloved community. Today is a day I need Church.

My friend died yesterday. He stepped in front of a dump truck and is gone. I hadn't seen or talked with him since college graduation now thirteen years ago, but I still call him friend. And I say that because a thought of him still brings a smile, as rare as thoughts of him might be. When gathered with friends, his name would come up as we laughed together. He was good and kind and beloved. Pictures of him show up any time I look back on college days. Friend is most certainly the right word.  

I've been on the internet more than usual today--well, on social media. I've texted more with friends today than I usually do. I've talked on the phone with people I normally don't call. This is the outpouring of grief for our friend. We want to tell stories, to talk about him, to laugh together. For even if we haven't seen each other in years, we are bound by those years in college. We are bound by that version of beloved community. 

If I had what I wanted, what would provide rest for my soul, we would gather somewhere together tonight. There would be drinks and food and hours spent laughing and talking and crying and praying. We would share the most holy communion, maybe as sacrament, maybe not. Some of the people missing our friend today might get to do that. I will not. The people I would choose to gather with are in Tennessee and Virginia and Ohio and Indiana, while I am in Arizona. This version of beloved community is in diaspora right now. Who knows if we will get to gather again. 

Maybe it doesn't sound that different from what people who love each other do--but this thing for which my wound aches seems far more holy than what I have seen at a bar. This is Church, the Church I am constantly in amazement of--that tells stories of death and life week in and week out. We tell a story of a God who was born, of a God who died, and all the grief wrapped up in those events and the in between. God bless the Church, who knows what to do when someone dies. There's no other institution that manages it quite so well or so readily. It's wrapped up in our own stories of our salvation. Let us sit with death and all that brings, for it is not quite so scary here, together, alongside resurrection people. 

As a pastor, I hope I can give people a beloved, wonderful community. I hope I can give them a Church that is more life-giving than a career that might take them elsewhere, and a place to call home in a deep, good way. I hope the church gives roots that reach down more deeply than anything else. It sounds impossible, until the moment we are all longing for that beloved community we once knew. It sounds as countercultural as the Gospel actually is. It sounds dangerous enough to execute a person over. It sounds like salvation. 

Even today, I do not grieve as those who have no hope. I'm mostly agnostic about the afterlife. I still believe my friend will receive whatever good may come. God knows, if not him, then who? 

And here is the story that I most remember, which is not particularly hilarious or amazing, but is dear. One day, we were standing talking underneath the trees on campus by the parking lot in front of the men's dorms, early in our freshman year. His name was Adam Bisesi, and he often went by his last name. Somehow, in conversation, he spilled his high school nickname, "Bisexy." (Bih-sexy) Immediately after he did, he blushed and began stumbling, "Oh, no. I didn't mean to say that. Please, don't use it." And I laughed. As another friend put it, he was mortified and I found it hilarious. That was so often the case. 

For this gift from God I give thanks. 

May the peace of Christ carry us all. 

Being Dust

Every year around Ash Wednesday, my colleagues start asking, "What are alternative words for the imposition of ashes?" Apparently, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return," is a little too much for some people. They especially shudder at offering those words to children.

For many reasons, I never have. This somber reminder remains beautiful to me, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." For the record, the only reaction of the first child I offered ashes to was a question to his dad, "Do I look cool with this on my forehead?"

Even on its not so great days, the church is pretty decent at telling truth. We may not see some of what we out to see about ourselves, but we have this story of deep, last Truth that we've been telling for centuries. We cease to exist without it.

And so, on this day, we say softly to one another this deep truth: "You are dust and to dust you shall return." It is not threat nor promise; it is reality. Even apart from the stories of Genesis, we are sustained by the earth on which we walk. Without dirt, we do not eat. The presence of chemicals may delay our return to the earth. It does not prevent it. 

This truth we share mocks so many lies that we are told. I live in the land of active and vibrant 55+ communities, because heaven forbid we grow old. One is named Leisure World, and only the teenagers laugh at our mortality, calling it Seizure World instead. It fits well in a world where gym membership and diet advertisements are now year round instead of for the first few weeks of the year. I often see inspiration of people who started running in their fifties or weight training in their sixties. I affirm that this improves the quality of their lives and likely extends their life. It will not, beyond a shadow of a doubt, make them immortal. 

We are dust, and to dust we shall return. 

If I were to add anything to that claim, I would add, "And that's a good thing." 

It is good to be just like everyone else in at least one deep, unending way. 

It is good for our lives to be forever linked to the matter all around us. 

It is good for us to know the world neither begins nor ends with us. 

It is good, this promise that we are not all-powerful. 

It is so very good that we are dust from beginning to end. 

Let us take a few minutes to remember this good. 

About Church

I wrote this a few days ago for the Southwest Conference of the United Church of Christ. In the midst of the last few days, it seems like it matters to share here, too.

http://www.southwestconferenceblog.org/2019/02/22/when-the-church-gets-it-right/

A Prayer

It's been one of those seasons of life where one emerges later, a little dazed and confused, eventually settling in to normal, again. Or something like that. As the government shutdown continues, I've been thinking a lot about the pastoral prayer my congregation shared together on Christmas Eve. It seemed worth sharing even a few days after the Epiphany, because God knows these prayers have not been answered yet. 

One:    Holy God,

who chose to be among us rather than beyond us—

We pray differently this night, 

this night when we remember you came for each of us and all of us—

            We pray for those with a prophet’s voice, who remind us of your justice

Many: For William Barber and the Poor People’s Campaign

One:    For the voices of Black Lives Matter and Me Too 

Many: For Millard and Linda Fuller and Habitat for Humanity

One:    For those like Margaret Sanger, who fight for equal rights for women

Many: For churches everywhere who provide more than seven billion dollars in aid in the United States alone

One:    We pray for the people whose story is like the story of the Holy Family 

Many: For the people who fled the violence of their homelands and wait at the border

One:    For the parents and children who wait apart from each other

Many: For the many who live with violence

            in Sudan, in Yemen, in Detroit, in St. Louis, in so many places near and far.

One:    For those who wonder if they could care for a child, those for whom hope and fear are intermingled

Many: For those who cannot find someone willing to make room for them

One:    We pray for our neighbors like the shepherds

Many: for those who work difficult, smelly jobs for too little pay

One:    for those who sleep in the cold, on the dirt, in the street

Many: for those who labor so others may eat

One:    for those who live close enough to the edge that angels find them

Many: for the people whose words we are never privileged enough to hear

One:    We pray for those who rule, as the Magi did 

Many: for those who make laws and decisions about healthcare

One:    for those who regulate and legislate our food

Many: for those who decide wages

One:    for those who determine the futures of the our LGBT friends and family

Many: for those who have people entrusted to their care.

One:    We pray in the hope of the Christ child

Who transformed the world by coming in vulnerability rather than power

            There is a light that shines in the darkness

Many: and the darkness could not overcome it.

            Let us walk in the Light. Amen. 

A Story from a Good Witch

We were tabling on behalf of the church at some community Halloween event. I don't remember which event, really, but remember that I was in a witch costume. It's still my go-to, making use of an old graduation gown. All I had to do was add a hat and some other accessories.

That night, a witch and a tourist sat together at the church's table, handing out candy and information. I also have a photo of the witch me with Jesus, just for fun, but I digress. As we were sitting there, I saw a little girl about seven talking with a woman I assume was her mom. Her mom was clearly encouraging the little girl to come over, presumably for candy.

Instead, when she was finally convinced to come over, she did so cautiously, and in her very polite seven year old voice asked, "Excuse me. Are you a good witch or a bad witch?"

It was not the question I was expecting, so I smiled warmly and answered, "Oh, I'm definitely a good witch!" I may have offered her some candy, but I don't remember. I have long remembered her question, though. Had I thought about it very much, of course I was going as an evil witch. My black hat and gown, my green skin, my green gloves that lengthened my fingers, and my pointy shoes all said evil witch. I was pretty much channeling Witch Hazel from Bugs Bunny or the Wicked Witch of the West. No pink-clad Glinda was in sight.

Of course, confronted with a curious seven year old, I responded that I was a good witch. More than that, though, I think about her mom, encouraging her daughter to be so brave. The little girl came up to me on her own. She asked her question all on her own. She overcame her fears of the witch to do all of those things. And when she happily ran back to her mom, she had learned that things weren't quite so scary as she imagined.

This week, neighbors have been attacked in so many ways. They have been killed for being black, for being Jewish, for being trans, for being Latinx, for just being. In light of this, I am even more mystified by this little girl who bothered to ask. She walked into her fear instead of away from it. When she did, she found something far different than she imagined.

I am reminded of Jesus' teaching that the Reign of God belongs to children just like these (Matthew 19:14). When preaching that passage, I most recently talked about the inherent vulnerability of children. Now, I'm thinking I should have talked about the bravery and curiosity of children. They learn something new every single day. They go into the world expecting something amazing. They ask questions because they're used to not understanding. When they are scared, we expect them to engage their fears rather than run away from them. We expect them to learn the world is not so scary a place after all.

How much better we'd be if we had the same expectations of adults.

Behind Closed Doors

I love the story of the hemorrhaging woman. It appears in all three synoptic Gospels, juxtaposed with the story of the healing of Jairus' daughter. In the story, Jesus is on his way in a crowded street, following Jairus, and the woman--we never know her name--comes up and touches his cloak. He feels the power go out of him, healing her of twelve years of nonstop menstrual bleeding. At least we think it's menstrual bleeding; of course, no biblical author would be quite so descriptive.

When I was a child, I heard the KJV: an "issue of blood." The language is antiquated now, except women's blood is still an issue that only gets talked about among women. The hearing going on right now, the reality of what happens when women speak out about sexual harassment and assault, has me thinking so much of the women's issues we talk about behind closed doors. "Mixed company" my mother would say. There are things we don't talk about in "mixed company."

The list is long, so very long, and crosses a wide stretch of biology: menstruation, childbearing, nursing, menopause, breast health, and of course, anything to do with sex. Yet, when the doors are closed, when it's women with other women, we talk. Women my age talk about contraception--all the time. It's one of the more universal subjects, actually, because it matters so deeply to us. What works? What doesn't? What tools do you use? I know the contraception choices of at least four other women who go to my hair salon; I don't know their names.

We keep each other company while nursing babies. Like many women, I choose seats close to women nursing in public, smile to show I'm safe, and help them hold a safe space for feeding their child.

Older women make mammogram and lunch plans together, keeping each other company through this odious task. It hasn't been that long ago that my friends and I conquered first pelvic exams the same way.

I am so aware of the world of women that happens behind closed doors.

Behind closed doors, we search out tampons for each other.
Behind closed doors, we help teenagers figure out all the ins and outs of menstruation.
Behind closed doors, we tell our stories of assault and harassment to one another--at least some of us do.
Behind closed doors, we devise plans to keep each other safe: public places for dates, escape plans for long-term relationships, well-timed phone calls with safe words.

There is so much that goes on behind closed doors.

And what I'm guessing many men don't know is that on the other side of those closed doors, there are often posters taped. They have help numbers for issues that disproportionately affect women: domestic abuse, human trafficking, and sexual assault. Bars have started posting lists of drinks you can order to ask for help. One drink means call me a cab; another means call the police. Things like that.

Great hope and great pain meet there, behind closed doors.

Here is a truth of the Gospel spoken through the hemorrhaging woman: women's issues are not to be locked behind closed doors. Her issues belong in the public square. And when they finally make it there, she is believed, healed, and the world is transformed.

May it one day be true.