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.

Holiday Hangover

I'm sitting beside a basket of koosh ball sheep and plastic coins. Stars cover the other side of my desk.  Under them, there's a pile of books and papers, to-do lists, and really, God only knows what else.

At home, it's much the same. Well, at home, it's kind of worse. Laundry is mostly caught up but there's not a clean glass anywhere. There are a few pizza boxes. A few more rounds of pizza and I could build a college style coffee table out of them. The empty champagne bottle from New Year's midnight toast is there, too.

Really, it's the physical manifestation of the holiday hangover we all feel. We're done with parties. We'd like our pants to be a little looser. We're still finding glitter in all sorts of unusual places. Some of us, by the end of the season, have gone from Elf to Grinch. Right now, we'd like at least five years before we do it, again.

All of that's ok. Maybe now more than days ago I like the promise of God made flesh and dwelling among us. I like the promise of God choosing holiday hangover time as much as the glitter and mounds of food time. I like that there's no expectation that God can't handle the messy. I like that God actually chose the messiness.

God remains here--doing, creating, imagining--among us.

For that, I am very glad. Because truthfully, I'm not likely to do dishes tonight either.

Still Waiting...

Here's some information you can mock me for later: I get a little annoyed when people wish me a Merry Christmas. Christmas is still eight days away. Eight. Whole. Days. Away. I know I'm in the 1% of the population that believes this, but by golly, I'm going to stick by it. 

I dream of throwing actual Christmas parties during the Twelve Days of Christmas. If I ever have kids, we'll do very cool things for those twelve days and dedicate ourselves to a time of preparation for the Christ Child in Advent. (I also have visions of taking children to volunteer at a women's shelter every Wednesday and, when asked why, they joyously proclaim, "On Wednesdays, we fight the patriarchy!" I'm aware I may have some skewed perceptions of reality.) If I get around to sending Christmas cards this year, they will arrive after December 25th. Again, I'm aware I'm giving you information which can be used for mocking at a later time. 

In the calls to worship that I wrote for Advent, though, I reminded people to wait a little longer for all the trappings of Christmas: shepherds, stars in the sky, magi journeying from afar, mangers, and inns with no vacancy. We name the things that are broken in response--and it wasn't hard to come up with a list. Last week, when I wrote, I named the kids for whom I bought presents and the IHELP guests who slept in our church. 

This week, though, I was reminded still more of how much we need the Christ child. I talked with a man who told me about his call to be a monk, "If I am assassinated for this work, it is only me. I have no wife or children." He's a Sufi monk, to be precise. I'm proud that when he told me he was a dervish, I did not start singing, "How do you solve a problem like Maria?" (Seriously, remember, "she could throw a whirling dervish out of whirl!") The work he was talking about? Peace. Nonviolence. Telling people at every chance he can that most Muslims want peace, that ISIS is not Islam. 

I also have a nasty ear infection this week, resulting in two trips to Urgent Care. During the first trip, I spent quite a while in the waiting room. While I was there, one of the elderly women came in and asked about cost, saying plenty loud for me to hear even with my quite infected ear, "I don't have insurance." The staff responded with costs, which were a minimum of $135 if you're curious. The response from the young man at the desk when she said she'd have to come back made it clear they got this question often, "Need to think about it for a while?" She responded in the affirmative. 

So let's wait a little longer. Let's wait a little longer to proclaim, "Peace on earth." Let's wait a little longer to shout, "The Christ Child is born!" Let's wait a little longer to announce, "God has drawn near."

Let's wait, for so many of our neighbors are still waiting for the kingdom to come. Let us wait together.

Frilly Socks

I like the healing stories in the Bible best of all. The people around me who get nervous about miracle stories just love this about me. That's just fine with me. I don't actually think that Jesus had to perform a miracle in order for the story about Jesus performing the miracle to be transformative. That, however, is another day's writing.

I like the stories because of what they don't say. In pretty much every case, be it the blind man, or the paralyzed man, or the man with the withered hand, it's a story of economic security. The feeding stories aren't that. The feeding stories are very much, "Here's your daily bread." And that's good.

But healing someone meant that person could work and support themselves. It meant they could earn a living that was better than begging. Work that can support and sustain a person and their family mattered then as much as it does now. It's also a very different vision of how the world's economics should work than the way they do.

Last Sunday morning, I didn't hit snooze on my alarm clock. There were people waiting on me to bring them breakfast. Well, at least if they were going to have breakfast, it was because I was taking it to them. I got out of my cozy, comfortable bed and stopped at the grocery store. I picked up three boxes of instant oatmeal packets in different flavors. I remembered paper bowls. I got the raspberries that were on sale and some bananas, too, to top the oatmeal. I've heard people like fruit on their oatmeal, although it sounds terrible to me. I was proud of myself for thinking of an easy, hot breakfast for the sixteen homeless guests in my church.

My living room is full of all sorts of things right now. I cleaned last weekend. I put up the tree. I decorated a bit. Then nothing. Now, there are an assortment of empty boxes from recent online shopping, the contents of those boxes, and an even larger assortment of shopping bags. The bags mostly aren't for my friends and family. They're Christmas gifts for a family my boyfriend and I were matched with through a local agency. (Most people would say we "adopted" them for Christmas; I'm heeding my friends' words who remind me that adoption is permanent, and what makes a family for many people.)

We managed to get most of the things requested, both needs and wants. It broke my heart that one of the household requests was for a broom and dustpan. The most expensive broom and dustpan at Target was $13. I don't even know what to do with that sort of request. The $13 one was large enough that we opted for the $11 set instead. It's in my living room, along with a set of sheets, a blanket, towels, washcloths, and a set of pots and pans. Another bag holds pants, shirts, socks, underwear and assorted Frozen toys for a six year old girl. Another bag holds jeans, shirts, Nike socks, a video game and controller for the fourteen year old boy. He wanted Nike socks, quite specifically. She wanted frilly socks, so yes, hers are frilly. I'm quite proud of couponing skills that stretched money into that many gifts.

Both those things, for all the good they do, are a band-aid. I've guilt and anger over these two things in one weekend, things that made me feel good but didn't fix the problem. I am glad there was hot breakfast on Sunday. I am glad there was a hot dinner the night before and a safe place for our neighbors to sleep. I am glad there's a grandmother raising her grandchildren who will have gifts for their home.

Something is desperately wrong, though, if we think people sleeping in churches and getting names of kids from agencies is what should happen. This isn't healing. This isn't restoration. This is managing a broken system. Our neighbors should be able to eat hot oatmeal in their pajamas in a comfortable, safe home of their own. Many of the men and women sleeping in my church have jobs. Some have college degrees. They still don't earn enough to live. I can't shake my worry that the people raising and loving the children should be picking out frilly socks and video games on holidays and special occasions.

We need healing, not of physical maladies, but of broken economics. As I wrap packages to give as we celebrate the birth of the Christ child, I am reminded how much we need that child, who promised something better.

My Muslim Neighbors

Her name was Amira. She was a confident, poised high school student. My favorite memory of her is the night I was at their potluck dinner as they broke the day's fast together during Ramadan--now nearly 10 years ago. She understood what my US palate would prefer more than anyone else in her family. Maybe it was her duty as the daughter of the mosque's president, but either way, she guided me with skill through a sea of beautiful, completely unfamiliar food.

We passed the baby over the half door into the men's portion of their masjid. She was chubby, laughing, and delightful. Prayers for the day were over; her father wanted to show her off to the other men gathered for worship. I remained on the other side of the door, chatting with women who were almost all doctors. At that time, I couldn't answer their questions well: when do Christians fast? Do you know we know about Mary, too? One woman was wonderfully shocked at the bustier shaped purses popular at the time. She was the one whose final words were, "Tell them we are not terrorists."

Mirwaiz and Taneem sat in my apartment, eating cake. Another time, they were there to carve pumpkins. My roommate's birthday was on Halloween. The couple across the hall had a 4 year old boy. I was the only person from the U.S. there. I would surely know how to carve pumpkins. Little did they know that my family opted for painting pumpkins instead. Still, we gather with cake, pumpkins, and knives, eventually producing a few jack-o-lanterns. I worried about them at the long winter break. These two men from Afghanistan had few possessions in their student housing apartment; they could not go home to visit their families for fear of not getting back into the country. Did I mention they were also doctors? They were working on a Masters of Public Health, hoping to help build an infrastructure when they returned to their country.

I laughed at myself when I met an Imam here, one who later came and preached at my church. I know some Muslim men do not touch women who are not part of their immediate family, especially if they are married. I don't want to seem rude, but I never assume a handshake. This man certainly did not care, and bought me delicious food. I'm a sucker for Middle Eastern food. Or Mediterranean. Whatever you want to call it. If there's baba ghanouj, falafel, and baklava, I'm in.

The restaurant owner spoke to me on the way out of her restaurant, eyeing the small box in my hand. "Baklava?" she asked. "Yes," I answered. "Good girl."

Only a few weeks ago, Hanan and Asna sat in my office, as we talk about the way my congregation could help to welcome refugees who are fleeing to Phoenix. Asna's daughter came, too, having a day off school. She's not the first six-year-old I've seen who loved her jewelry and glittery things.

These are my neighbors. In particular, these are my Muslim neighbors. In every instance, they have made me feel welcome and safe. I hope I did the same for them. I know one thing is true: any time I invite them into my church, I take extra care to make sure they know they will be safe. I wish that I didn't know they might not feel safe, or that they might worry about what will be said to them.

These are my neighbors whose faith is different my own. They have always honored me and my faith, trusting that somehow that binds us together more fully, not less.

I am angry at a media that mentions when someone shooting others is Muslim but is silent when they are Christian. I am angry that we think more guns in the right hands is the answer, which seems to mean those hands are white and Christian. I am angry by the phrase "Muslim Terrorist." I am angry by more media attention given when a shooter is Muslim. I am angry that we are all complicit in feeding that behavior. Even as I write, I wonder if angry is the right word. I am sad. I am heartbroken. I am worried. Perhaps I am only angry about the ignorance.

And please, can't we be kinder to my neighbors?