Four Years

Today is the fourth anniversary of my ordination. The picture attached to this blog is from that day. Like most special occasions, people from all phases of my life were there. It was a churchy celebration for sure, but a wonderful churchy celebration. Preaching and packages and singing. Cute kids and lots of hugs.

In the middle of it all, me, with all of the craziness somehow swirling around me. Here were all the people from my many communities joined together to say, "God has called her."

For all the craziness leading up to that day, and all the hullabaloo that afternoon, I've never been quite so calm or so certain of something. The weight of the robe, the stole, felt just right. That remains true to this day.

I think back on those four years and wonder how to best measure them. There are so many ways to count.

Five baptisms.

Four funerals.

Two weddings.

Only God knows how many pizzas.

Three churches. 

Three states.

Four places I've called home.

Two weeks of camp.

A lock-in or two or three.

Somewhere around 200 Sundays in worship.

Bible studies--who knows how many.

Prayers--God knows that, too.

So many things still to count. So many things that could be named. All these things that are part of the ebb and flow of church life. Well, not just church life, all life. 

Because the best summation is to say that this has been my life for the past four years. There are certainly things in my life that are not church, but I mostly keep count in church time.

Four years later, I'm still glad that I responded, "Here I am."

Where shall God send me next?

Love & (Gay) Marriage

It seems to be the week of striking down gay marriage bans. Oregon and Pennsylvania are the most recent. Other states--well, commonwealths--are fighting the fact their ban was struck down. Some are fighting with attorneys hired just for that purpose.

I'm happy that the bans are disappearing. I hope and pray that they all are struck down. I hope that some time soon, we realize this is a federal issue, too, not just a state one, if for no other reason than immigration is federal.

Yet, every time I see another headline about a marriage ban struck down, I keep thinking that it's not quite enough. Yes, same-sex couples can marry in that state. But they can do so only because a judge somewhere said, "You don't get to stop them." It might be a matter of semantics, but it's not the same as saying, "We think you should be able to get married."

It's the difference between loving your neighbor and tolerating your neighbor. Guess what? Christians are called to do the first one, not the second one. Tolerance is the I-guess-I can't-stop-you response. Love is the of-course-you-deserve-this-too response.

Love is what's demanded of those of us who follow Christ. Not gritting our teeth. Not pretending it's not happening. Not skipping the questions we don't actually want to know the answer to. Love. As clear as Jesus ever said anything, he said, "Love your neighbor as yourself."

So for those whose weddings past or future include plenty of family and friends, a minister whom you love, vendors who don't look at you and your betrothed strangely or refuse to serve you, and everything tailored to who you are if you're willing to throw enough money into your wedding, remember, "Love your neighbor as yourself."

They deserve more than "Well, now we can't stop you."

Water in the Desert

I'm incredibly fascinated by water in the desert. I grew up in a place with lots of water--rivers and ponds and spring rains that almost always caused flooding. My grandfather took us to play in caves; until I moved to Arizona, I never thought about dry caves. I think I knew they existed, but wet caves carved by water are the ones I know well. Crawling around in them always meant lots of mud and dripping and riding home sitting on plastic bags.

There's little drinking water most of the time in the Sonoran desert. Hiking means carrying plenty of water with you. Businesses all keep bottled water and hand it out freely. Here, even if you do absolutely nothing that causes you to sweat, it's recommended that people drink half their body weight in ounces each day. Yeah, that's a lot of water. 

Despite the fact that most all of our water is piped in and carefully managed, there are fountains all over the Phoenix area. They're in front of churches, movie theaters, open air malls and housing complexes. My church has one, too, beside the outdoor baptistry. The gurgling of the fountains always turns my head. It's such an unnatural sound here. Water is something noticed and not quite so easily taken for granted.

I think it's that way even for people who have lived here a long time.

On my morning drive today, as I neared the freeway, I noticed bottles of water setting on the median. People often stand near that spot and ask for food or money from the drivers of the cars stuck at the stoplight. It's my assumption that one of the people who regularly passes through there left them for the person who will appear later in the day. Of course, maybe one of those beggars left them for someone else. 

I'm constantly amazed, in this land of clean, readily available drinking water, that the desert brings out the need for water so fully. Echoes from the Bible always enter my mind: the Hebrews who needed Moses to strike a rock for miraculous water because water was that scarce; the words of prophets marveling at God's abundance, like water in the desert; Jesus standing with a woman at a well, talking about water. Here, no one has to tell us how much we need water. Thirst does that all on its own.

As I ponder the life of the Church, as so many ponder the life of the Church with me, and wonder how to communicate the relevance we know we have for the future, it might just be so simple: there is water that you can drink and never be thirsty again.

Inclined to Silence

Most people would be surprised to know that I prefer to be silent, especially people who know me from church world. The first time a seminary roommate accompanied me to church, she was incredulous: "Who is that person and what happened to my roommate?" That shift has to happen at church, given that I've been on staff some place for several years now. 

But I prefer living in a city because I can go unnoticed in coffee shops and grocery stores and restaurants. I can slip in and out with as much anonymity as I like. Usually, I like a lot. I confess, I've even shied away from the pizza place where I was going often enough that they recognize me when I walk in and already know my order. Anonymity. Silence. I like those things.

As someone who literally has a pulpit and in the age of social media when everyone who wants an audience can have one, I still choose silence a great deal of the time. There are several reasons why. A lot of the things people side up on are far more complicated than most make them out to be. 

I also consider a lot of things to be adiaphora. If you're not familiar with the term, Google it for the specifically Christian meaning. Mostly, it's a reference to how much I'm indifferent to. It's not that it doesn't matter to some, but to me, it doesn't matter much at all.

I won't start a list of those things because some day, one of them might move off the list of adiaphora to something I care about a great deal. I'd hate to dig myself a hole like that. 

The result of this inclination to be silent is that people know the handful of things I really care about. They've told me to stop talking about LGBT concerns and I've lost at least one very good friend over those debates. I've offended a few people talking about what the Bible is and isn't. I've confused people employed by food banks who are used to having to sell the notion of food insecurity by being able engage the topic and talk about subsidies and budget cuts and the like. 

My inclination to silence spills over into the church. There are often times I haven't addressed world events in worship that other pastors have chosen to address. It is a choice, though, not negligence. I actually pay quite a bit of attention to national and world news; I confess to skipping out on the local more than I should.

But what if the church, just my church, or the Church, the whole Church, chose just a handful of things to be worried about? What if we declared a whole list of things to be adiaphora and worried about the few remaining ones? 

I'm hesitant to say the Church should ever be silent because there are so many times we have been when we shouldn't have been. But I wonder what would happen if the many drowned out cries about so many things turned to a shout about just a few? 

People of Resurrection, People of Death

Last week, we held a memorial service for a beloved member of our congregation. We laughed and cried and laughed some more, remembering our part of his 80 years. We sang hymns, then sang some more. When it was all over, we ate and laughed some more and cried some more. Gatherings like those are the Church at its best.

I could make a lot of guesses as to why those gatherings are the Church at his best. It's true, as Paul wrote, we don't grieve as those who have no hope. We're resurrection people after all. We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. Yet, it's more than that.

We don't just live with the Gospel of abundant life; we live with the Gospel that proclaims abundant life even in the face of death. Year after year, before we tell the story of resurrection, we tell the story of a terrible death by crucifixion. Before we tell of the hope of the resurrection, we tell the story of the hopelessness of the tomb.

And year after year, when death claims those we love, we proclaim resurrection while staring at the hopelessness of death. I'm not sure I could name all the funerals I've attended over the course of my life. I was a young child the first time someone my age who I knew well died. I remember sitting at the funeral of a dear friend when I was not quite 19. There have been funerals of grandparents and friends' parents and beloved members of the church. I have preached the hope of the resurrection and the assurance of God's love at the death of a 4 year old and an 80 year old and some folks in between.

That experience, of the Church and death and funerals, is one of those strange things that has taught me more fully than maybe any other experience what Church is--community, support, and hope beyond wildest imagination. And the proclamation, "Do not be afraid." Even death, in all its pain and weirdness and surprise, is part of our lives. And resurrection shall surely come.

All of that, I'm sure, is why, at 29, I have these strong opinions about my own funeral: buy me simple casket made by monks and bury me where there are mountains and lots of green things. The marker should be one that stands upright; if it must be flat, just skip it all together. Read John Donne's "Death Be Not Proud" at my funeral and 2 Timothy 4:7 and whatever other scripture you like. Maybe the cloud of witnesses text from Hebrews or the story of Lazarus. We're resurrection people; I'm certain you'll find something. Sing hymns. Sing old hymns and new hymns, ones of mourning and ones of hope. Sing until you're tired, then sing some more. Laugh some and cry some and tell some wonderful stories about me. Eat some fried chicken and rich desserts.

Do these things, no matter if I die at 29 or 99. Do these things, certain that the God who called me near in life will surely not abandon me in death. Do all these things, certain that what we say every time the Church gathers is never truer than when the Church gathers at the death of one of its own: nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

What Sort of God?

Last week, I headed north. North, there are mountains and canyons. In that part of the country, the canyons are deep and the mountains are high. The sheer size is overwhelming. The beauty is both breathtaking and incredulous. Northern Arizona is beautiful, but in Utah, I never wanted to close my eyes. There, the landscape is wild. Civilization encroaches upon the land rather than dominates it.

There, in those mountains, I hiked places I never dreamed I would hike--walking across and scrambling up and down mountain fins. I've never been a fast hiker, but covering only a mile in an hour is slow even for me. That's what happens when you have to stand for a bit to figure out where the trail goes. That happens when you can't easily climb the rocks before you.

There, in the midst of rock walls so large and smooth I can't imagine anyone being able to scale them, no matter what equipment they were given, I began to think of God. My thoughts were not of the pious, see-the-wonder-of-God variety. They were about how differently I would think of God if this were the landscape for my entire life.


The God of this landscape could not be safe God. Even the park-mapped trails were dangerous. Many places, falling would have meant a rescue team. The smoothness of most every peak and rock was overshadowed by the larger picture, which showed a landscape that was jagged and insurmountable.

In the middle of it all, I felt a smallness like I have never felt in my life. Not that I was insignificant, but that there was so much more. The promise of a God who will not let your foot slip makes far more sense in a place like that. An almighty God isn't one who can manipulate the minute details of daily life; an almighty God is one who can reign over something like that. A God beyond understanding seems the only possibility in a place so beyond the order most of us live in.


Hearing the biblical echoes so strongly in a place like that, I can't help but wonder about the sort of God  portrayed in church--church with comfy chairs, climate control, easily accessible. Church on Sunday morning hopes that everything goes as planned and we stick to a schedule. Church on a Sunday morning is designed to be hospitable, welcoming, safe.

Is that the sort of God worth following?

Yes, It's Ash Wednesday

I love Ash Wednesday. I think it outranks pretty much every other holy day as far as personal preferences go. That probably sounds strange to most people.

I love burning the palms from the years before and the messiness of it all--the smoke, the fire, the crumbling leaves, the scent that lingers.

I love the quietness of the service. Maybe there are Ash Wednesday services that are loud, but I can't imagine one.

I love the fact that we take time to confess that there's brokenness, sin, in our world. I love the fact that we take time to confess that there's brokenness, sin, in each of us.

But most of all, I love the reminder spoken with the imposition of ashes: "You are dust, and to dust you shall return."

In so many ways, Church is about learning God's story, a story radically different from what our culture tells us. On Ash Wednesday, we see the chasm between the two stories, if we're willing to look.

Look at a billboard, a magazine, those sidebars in your browser, probably even inside your medicine cabinet or on your bathroom counter--youth! It's what's best. It's what we're seeking, or at least what we're told to seek. Smooth skin. Hair with no gray. Toned body. White teeth. None of the signs that naturally come with living. Perhaps most telling is the fact that ageless is one of the best adjectives that can be applied to a celebrity. I, who have to Google many names from pop culture because I really have no clue who they are, still can name a few folks who get the title of ageless.

Then, there's God's story. That story reminds us we are dust and to dust we will return. We will die, one day. There's no way around that in the world that we know. Each year, I offer that reminder to folks from four years old on up to about eight-four years old. Then, I turn, and a colleague offers that same reminder to me.

You are dust, and to dust you will return.

And that's holy, too. God who formed the dust into something will be ready to receive the dust when it is only dust, again. As I find a few gray hairs at my temples and notice a few lines at the corners of my eyes, I am comforted at the reminder: I am God's, in life and in death.