Celebrating Easter

On Easter, we read the resurrection story. Every year. We read it at the early service outside and the regular service inside. As many Christians on the liberal side of things, we are a little uncomfortable with the literal bodily resurrection. The implied afterlife doesn't always sit well either. Still, we tell the resurrection story.

We tell of women who came to the tomb looking for Jesus and were called evangelists for their proclamation of Jesus' resurrection.

We tell of the angels' cry, "Why do you look for the living among the dead?"

We tell of disciples who didn't believe resurrection was possible.

We tell of disciples running into Jesus, alive and well.

And it's strange now to realize that for most of my church life, Easter wasn't about resurrection. Easter was about Jesus' death. My nieces, in their very cute Easter dresses, could tell you what I grew up knowing, "We celebrate Easter because Jesus died for our sins so we could go to heaven."

I now believe Jesus' death was incidental, not salvific. If he had died in his bed at a ripe old age, there still would have been resurrection. We could talk about that for hours, I know.

This year, though, reading the story of resurrection with my Sunday Bible study in preparation for Easter's sermon, I was struck by how little Easter had to do with life for most of my life. As much as we sang about a risen Savior on Easter, we trusted in death most of the time. If we did everything right, Jesus would save us from eternal death.

I still don't quite know what to do with the resurrection. Maybe that's the beauty of this faith: a lifetime spent wondering does not reveal the fullness of God's covenant with us. This deep, beautiful mystery of the faith can and will haunt us in the best way imaginable.

But I am so glad that now I celebrate an Easter that is about life. There are a handful of deep truths I hold about God, one of which is that our lives now matter. They don't matter because of their implications for the afterlife. They matter because, well, it's our life.

Show up at the birthday party and the funeral. Take the neighbor's kid with you to the water park. Set an extra plate or two at every meal for whatever guests happen to show up. Buy dinner for yourself and that homeless guy on the corner; sit down and eat it together. Do the things that create amazing, unbelievable, abundant life.

Because if nothing else, I know this: resurrection is about life that overwhelms everything else.

This Holy Week

Every year I'm inspired to fast for the Triduum. Like totally, not eat at all sort of fast. From Thursday until Sunday morning, which is the shorter version. This kind of strict ritual observance has always appealed to me before reality sets it.

Because reality does set in and I remember I'm a pastor. While I'm sure many more righteous than I leaders of churches have fasted for that period, if I showed up on Sunday morning having not eaten since Thursday, someone would die. At the very best, I'd be fired after I yelled a lot then collapsed into a sobbing mess on the floor. Knowing yourself is a good thing.

Still, I have a deep love for this week, for these coming days when we tell stories of trial and death. I won't lead a Good Friday service, but I will sit in one, hearing the brutal stories from these days. We read them in worship this past week, but that's different for me, then hearing them when I can just sit and savor the story. I know savor sounds like the wrong word.

For me, though, it's not.

This story is visceral. It's blood, sweat, and tears. It's unimaginable pain. It's heartrending grief that causes a different sort of pain. It's all the horrible stuff wrapped into not that many hours at all. We retell it year after year after year. And I love it.

God bless these days when we look horrible dead in the eye.
God bless these days when we lean into the pain and grief.
God bless these days when we don't shy away from the worst things imaginable.
God bless these days when, for once, we don't sweep anything under the rug.

We tell our stories of betrayal, of murder, of denial, of death. We put the horrible front and center. We insist on doing so every single year. And maybe, just maybe this can give space to name the horrible in the rest of the year. Maybe this time for grieving can give us time to grieve later on. Maybe putting the horrible right out there for everyone to see means we don't hide so much later on.

And maybe, just maybe, what gives me permission to savor this story so deeply, so thoroughly is knowing we haven't reached the end of the story yet. So I will wait as the worst thing unfolds. I will wait with the load of uncertainty. I will wait as I have waited before and will again.

Because my hope is that this deeply forms my being to anticipate that in the worst thing possible, God is still working, still waiting, still doing something new. The horrible is not forever.

And God, be with us in the waiting.

Everything's OK

So, yeah, I've been sick for a few weeks. Well, technically I guess I've been sick for a few months. An ear infection turned into a respiratory infection. No x-rays, but they gave me all the drugs for pneumonia. The ear infection was fungal, so it took a while to figure out. I'm also bad at doctors, so that doesn't help anything at all. The ear infection was annoying. The respiratory infection wiped me out for a few weeks. Weeks.

I've never been sick for weeks in my life. I've had one other acute health problem--a rash when I moved to Arizona--that required urgent care, primary care, and a specialist to end up with, "Huh. I've never seen anything like that before." I could count the doctor visits this time, but I'd have to sit down and do that. Actually, now that I think about it, I probably hit double digits.

And you know what? Everything's ok.

I missed a Sunday and someone covered. Actually, several people covered. They were willing, gracious, and it wasn't a big deal at all. Someone else to preach took a single email and the Gospel was well proclaimed.

The bare minimum has gotten done at church, at least compared to what I normally do. Still, we gathered for worship, we celebrated a 90th birthday, we're as ready as we ever are at this time for Easter.

My apartment looks like I haven't felt great for three months. Slowly but surely, though, it's getting better. This weekend, the Christmas decorations may even get put in the closet. They were down soon after Epiphany, but the giant green tub is still in my living room.

The cat had to make do on only dry food for a few days. Despite what she would tell you, she's ok.

Everything's ok. In a world that idolizes busy and productivity, it's been a good reminder for me. I barely left my bed and couch for a solid week, and everything was ok. I didn't get back on the horse very quickly at all, and everything's ok. It's not perfect, but really, how often does perfect actually happen?

I remember my mother's hatred of the story of Mary and Martha, where Mary stopped and sat at Jesus' feet. She was commended for having chosen what was better. My mother always said she understood Martha better. And good grief, after all, things had to get done. There are meals to cook, dishes to wash, laundry to do, and a whole list of other things. This is, of course, the same woman who never permitted sleeping past 10 a.m. on a Saturday. I remember her waking me up, quoting from Proverbs, "A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep, and poverty will come upon you like a thief." Yeah, that's a super fun way to wake up.

I think we'd have even more stories like that, though, if Jesus showed up today. We'd have more stories that are an antidote to our busyness. We'd have our frenetic lives called out regularly. Maybe the craziest thing about the Gospel is the claim that our worth is not tied to what we do or how well we do it. Our worth is tied to God.

So relax. Don't worry so much. Because you know what? Everything's going to be ok.

The Sausage That is Church

I know how the sausage is made now. That's one of the things you're not supposed to know, right? Or at least you don't want to. The casings, the grossness, the screw-ups, what's hidden--everything that it takes to get to the delightful end product that sits on your breakfast plate or in that plate of pasta.

For the record, I do actually know how an actual sausage is made; the proverbial sausages are worse. In these few days before Lent, when I wish to some ancient council that Easter was not a moveable feast, I can't help but realize what it's like to be on the other side of things. I see the glimpses everyone once in a while when working with lay leaders on things in church. When I told elders that as people offer prayer requests, I organize them into columns with happy faces and sad faces, I saw a few "Aha!" moments glint on people's faces. They saw a glimpse of what made it work.

The Lenten calendars didn't print right, so I'm waiting on those still. Ash Wednesday plans are up in the air a bit still. Trust me, I know. I'm cutting in close. But mostly, I'm aware that I can never again walk into a church, take a breath, and simply be there, worshipping. I don't even want to notice most of the time, but I do. A hymn that I'd like to use. How the candles are lit. Why someone walks down that aisle instead of the other. I look at prayer stations and grown inwardly because of the work involved. I'm constantly dissecting, analyzing, thinking. There's just no way around it. I'm taking note of every single bit of sausage.

Part of it is just interest, I'm not going to lie. My own brand of geekiness is piqued in strange ways. It's kind of like when I go to the website of a non-denominational church--realizing there's no such thing as completely non-denominational--and begin analyzing their theological roots. It's just what I do. Like many people who would like to un-see things, I often would like to un-know them. It's deeper than forgetting; it's like I never knew them at all.

As an often lonely millennial in church, I am so aware of how many people became disenchanted with church because they saw too much behind the scenes. They saw how the sausage was made, and they didn't like it.

I get it, even from the other side. Sometimes we end up with a lot more gristle than we'd like in a particular batch of sausage. People don't do what they're supposed to do. Sometimes, people are downright horrible. Churches miss the mark in a thousand different ways. You do that enough and people don't stick around to see the end product. Seeing the sausage made gets in the way of enjoying the sausage.

I get it. Oh, I so get it. But today I confess my hope the the end product isn't the goal and the messiness isn't so terrible after all. Somehow, the Holy still comes through; somehow, the sausage is still good to eat even after you know. Somehow, the fact that we add ourselves, bit by bit, to the whole process makes the end thing better. Somehow, this holy, sometimes ugly, sometimes beautiful thing, still needs me.

Show Up Anyway

I didn't want to go to church this past Sunday.

I realize that's a particular complication of my job; for most people, church is always a choice. For me, most Sundays, choice has gone out the window.

It doesn't change the fact that I didn't want to go.

Too little sleep had a lot to do with it. There's a good story as to why I got far too little sleep, but that's for another day. I'm not going to lie, preaching week in and week out takes its toll as well. Mostly, though, it was a flat-out, grumpy mood that came with plenty of internal whining, "I don't want to go to church today."

I did.

And here's what happened:

It was the first Sunday our youngest deacon, newly added to the roster this past fall, served. He took everything quite seriously. His mom's instructions helped him along. His hands were just large enough to hold the plate with bread out to people.

His work was made even more beautiful by the man who helped him. He has two young adult sons of his own, so I had no doubt he would know how to serve alongside the ten year old. He did so with beautiful grace and guidance. It was that beautiful reality of an adult who can let a child be a child, but gently coax him along to maturity.

A Iranian Sufi monk with whom I'd exchanged a few phone calls and emails called me on Saturday evening, to ask if he could come to worship. I said yes, so the self-described fat, Middle Eastern man with a beard showed up, and I gave him a few minutes to talk about Islamic nonviolence with my congregation.

I watched later as he asked to hug a woman when she told him he's the first Muslim she's ever met. She agreed.

We had lunch together. He asked me to order for him. Anything was fine. "Whatever comes from the creator is beautiful," he told me. So I did. And we shared lunch.

Those moments stick out as beautiful, unexpected glimpses of the Divine.

I was so glad I showed up after all.

Maybe even more true with God things than other things: show up even if you don't want to.

You might just be wonderfully surprised at what happens.

When the Urgent Wins

Yesterday, I preached about choosing to do the same things Jesus said he'd do. I think it was one of my better sermons. Who knows if I'd think that in a few weeks. The gist was pretty simple: when Jesus stood up and read the words of Isaiah in the gathered assembly, he set the course of his ministry. By doing so, he chose not to do a lot of other things that he could have done. We should do the same things to guide our lives and ministry together. This includes making necessary choices in order for that to happen.

Here's what he read:
     The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
       because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.
     He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
       and recovery of sight to the blind,
     to let the oppressed go free,
        to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor. 

I genuinely believe what I preached. I usually do. On the worst day, I can at least say that I want to believe it, even if I'm not really sure.

But, oh but. Some of the earliest words of wisdom I received about ministry was, "The hardest part is finding a balance between the urgent and the important." I think that's probably advice about life.

The urgent is winning this week. Not even the work urgent, actually. It's my own personal crazy that is, decidedly, urgent. Yes, it's important, too, but the urgency is what throws other things into a tailspin.

I think the best summary is that the past few days have not been the best days of my life.

On Thursday evening, I got home from work and there was a piece of paper on my door. That's fine; it's how the office communicates most things. My lease is up in April, so it was notification of that and new rental rates. Either the office made a mistake or my rent will double if I stay in my current apartment. Add that to the list of unpleasant things to tackle with the office. If it's correct, then I get the even more unpleasant task of moving.

I haven't dealt with that, yet, because on Friday I left to go with the youth group to northern Arizona for a snow weekend. Some time in the night, my ear drum ruptured. This was after the pain of my ear infection woke me up earlier in the night. Other relevant information: I first went to Urgent Care for this infection on December 14, then December 17, then December 29, and thought it was mostly gone. Friday night, everything got worse. After we went to play in the snow on Saturday--an event for which I was needed as a driver--I left early to go to Urgent Care, again. The physician's assistant I saw confirmed a ruptured ear drum, gave me three versions of antibiotics and told me to see an ENT. He was kind enough to give me three different antibiotics than the three I received on December 17th.

This morning, I met a friend for coffee. The shop was crowded, so we ended up going somewhere else instead. When I dropped her off at her car, my check engine light came on.

Did I mention these haven't been the best few days of my life?

On Wednesday, I'll write my sermon in the waiting area at the car dealership while they fix whatever is wrong. Next Tuesday, I'll go visit my new ENT. Who knows what will happen in between.

So I'm sitting here, in the wake of lots of urgent things, wondering how on earth to handle the important. I'm wondering how on earth to manage what I actually think is the most important thing: following Christ.

Pretty much the only answer I can come up with is this: I'm still convinced the urgent can't win out over the important.

I'll work on that tomorrow.




Photo by Damien Roué, courtesy of PhotoPin, used under license

Bowie, Rickman, and Waiting for Redemption

I'm not one of the people in deep mourning over celebrity deaths this week. I think it's a matter of age more than anything. I have vague memories of David Bowie in The Labyrinth, but like would be a strong word for me and that movie. By the time I saw it, it just seemed weird. I'm aware that might have always been the case, but the '80s style was too over the top.

It seems I just like the wrong genre of things for Alan Rickman. His face looks vaguely familiar, but a scan through his filmography reveals I've only seen one movie he was in. It's fine. I'm too old for the deep, unadulterated Harry Potter love. They're good books, but I didn't grow up reading them. I missed that by just a few years. Those are the only movies for which I can supply a good reason. Somehow, I've just missed the others, several because I was much too young to see them when they came out.

Mourning celebrity deaths always strikes me as a bit odd, at best. Don't get me wrong, when Julie Andrews dies, you'll find me sitting on my couch singing along to The Sound of Music through sobs. Well, maybe I'll just be watching the good greenhouse scene over and over and over and over. Still, I'll probably always be lower key about celebrity deaths than most people.

I do rather enjoy the immediate eulogizing, though. I say that sincerely, not flippantly. Before the age of social media, how much someone meant to someone was reserved for funerals and people who happened to be nearby. News spread a bit slower and there had to be a time and place to reveal one's thoughts. That time has gone, and now immediately, I know who loved Snape and saw a gif of all of David Bowie's hairstyles, both within a few hours of their deaths.

The same thing happens at most funerals. The pool of mourners is smaller, but they still share stories about the deceased. Funny stories and sad stories, with food and favorite music tossed in. Sometimes, the stories go on for most of the day. It's true of most people, even the person whom others struggled to like, much less love. That has always been, to me, one of the weirdest things; recently, it has become one of the most beautiful.

So, this person was a jerk. Everyone knew it. In their death, though, we want to remember something good about them. I'm sure there's a very good psychological reason for that reaction. I think there's also a theological reason for it: we want to confess that no one is beyond redemption.

I don't think that should be as difficult or uncertain a confession as it often seems. I think it would be even more powerful to stand at a funeral and say, "David was a jerk, but we loved him, and so does God." I want the confession that just because someone was terrible their whole life long doesn't put them outside the realm of God's love. (Hmmm, maybe I just revealed why I don't believe in hell.)

For Bowie, Rickman, the neighbor next door, the homeless man whose name no one remembers, the same is true: they are God's, redeemed or yet to be redeemed. And as I consider what story I would tell about why I believe that, I realize there is no story; there are many stories. This is the witness of Abraham, Moses, the widow of Zarephath, the woman at the well, Zacchaeus, the rich young ruler, Matthew, Paul, the woman caught in adultery, the woman who washed Jesus' feet--where would I stop? This is the witness of God's story with and among us. No one is beyond God's redemption.

Just because someone died does not mean the hope of God's love and redemption died with them.

So rest eternal, to all who died this week, whose name we know and whose name we don't. May God's light shine upon you, and grant you peace.

I cling to the hope this is exactly who God is.