A week in the life

The United Methodist Reporter has an article this week by staff writer Mallory McCall, where she compiles (abridged) weekly logs of pastoral activity by four different pastors in four different contexts. At least one of those pastors might be familiar to you (two actually, if you count my friend and fellow UM blogger, Jeremy, who is also plugging the article).

A couple things that stand out for me. First, while there are some differences about the details, there are to me striking similarities in the work we all do– the biggest of which is that the work is random and requires flexibility and a jack-of-all-trades approach. Another similarity is the mix of large-scale public action (like leading worship or attending a public event) and very small scale private stuff like one-on-one conversations.

From my perspective, the week depicted was actually much more structured than I usually am, but I always find it helpful to reflect on what I do that no one knows about or sees and what the challenges, highlights, and moments of grace are. One thing that wasn’t included in the online article (but may be in the print edition) was that I indicated my high and low moments for the week. Low was the insurance meeting, just because it became anxious and less than uplifting. High was the meeting with a candidate for ministry. I’m mentoring three people at various stages of the process, and each one is an inspiration to me and a reminder of how blessed I am to be called.

Looking back on the week highlighted, it already seems a long time ago, and the intervening time has been filled with new challenges and moments of grace. This past week, I’ve spent more time reading and reflecting than usual, and more time prayerfully planning for programs on my own and with others. I’ve also had a nasty encounter today that reminds me that this calling has its dangerous moments too. All of these things will be the subject of future posts. For now, though, I am happy to reflect on this odd and wondrous calling, and how blessed I am to be a part of it, in all its complexity.

Sermon: More Underneath

“More Underneath”

(March 20, 2011) Jesus challenges his listeners to find and understand the deeper meaning of his words, the more-than-literal meaning,* especially in this passage where he tells Nicodemus about being born from above (or again). Are we sure that we are going deep enough in our understanding of Jesus? Is it possible that we too have just seen the surface of what he means by “eternal life”? Is it in fact something fuller and richer and deeper than merely escaping death? (John 3:1-17)

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I preached this sermon the day before I got my copy of Rob Bell’s Love Wins, which is interesting because I freely admit in it that I don’t know exactly what we might mean by “eternal life,” and now I’m pondering that all the more as I read, but that’s the subject of another blog post after I finish the book.

* In this sermon, I reference Marcus Borg, The Heart of Christianity, where he speaks of reading the Bible for its more-than-literal meaning.

Sermon: Life and Death

“Life and Death”

(March 13, 2011) During Lent especially, the church is a place where we talk about sin and death– uncomfortable topics, yet important ones for which we have very few outlets in our society. By naming our own brokenness and our own mortality, we begin to strip them of their power and hand it over to God in Christ. (Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7; Matthew 4:1-11, and Romans 5:12-19)

 

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I confess that this sermon got away from me in part; I meant to talk about Japan and the crisis there in speaking about our mortality and our fear of (even talking about) death. One of the things with unscripted preaching is that the sermon takes on a life of its own, for better or for worse.

Because you had a bad day

Today is a rough day.

In the past 24 hours, waves of loss and worry have swept the world– the world out there and the world closer to home. As with any disasters, personal or global or anywhere in between, I feel a bit at a loss under the weight of all that pain and sorrow. The best I can do is lift a lament:

for the waves of violence and bloodshed washing over Libya as the forces loyal to the government crush uprisings and lash out against civilians

for the waves of political tension and the apparent collapse of workers’ rights in our country as Wisconsin passes and other states consider legislation to deny public workers the right to collective bargaining and pass the “savings” on as tax cuts to large corporations

for waves of trembling, quaking earth, devastating the islands of Japan in the worst earthquake they have seen for 100 years

for enormous waves, crashing through the Pacific, as the quake’s tsunami reminds us how interconnected we all are

for little waves on the rivers and runoffs around my home and my church, as the people of Montpelier brace for a massive thaw and prepare (we hope in vain) to weather a potential flood

for waves of grief beating against and within those who have lost loved ones, today, this week, years ago.

I’ve seen several people write on Facebook and Twitter today, that in light of the earthquake and destruction, they feel petty in complaining about their problems, their griefs, the waves that wash over them. I think perspective is good, and seeing a big picture is good. I think thankfulness that things are comparatively okay or the distance of time as a healer are healthy things.

But I don’t think we need to compare our sorrows and struggles against those of others, and then dismiss our struggles (or those of other people) as unworthy or petty or small. They may be little waves to some, but the waves we weather mean the world to us, and that is important, and sacred. I believe that in God’s sight, our laments, no matter how small, no matter what they are compared with, are heard and held.

Two years ago today, my husband and I miscarried. Compared to the loss in Libya and Japan today, that seems such a small thing. Compared to the joy of the baby who would not have been born otherwise, it seems very little indeed. And yet it is loss, it is grief, and it is it’s own thing, not to be measured against anyone else’s yardstick, not to be bargained or traded away. Simply to be held, side by side with other griefs, side by side with abiding joy, and honored as a part of living, a part of my life.

Whatever waves wash over you today, may you be unashamed to name them. They are yours.

Sermon: Plan, Interrupted

I'm not sure of the artist of this painting. If you know it, please let me know so I can properly attribute it.

“Plan, Interrupted”

(March 6, 2011) Following Jesus, the disciples learn, means more than small, technical changes; it requires changing our whole way of being. Are we prepared to let God interrupt our plans and interject Jesus, so that we might be called to a new kind of life and service? (Matthew 17:1-9)

poem for a hate group leader

Fred, Fred.

One day it’ll happen.

I don’t know when or how, but then none of us ever do.

Perhaps you’ll be blessed enough to die of old age. Or maybe disease will consume you, or the poison you spew take an inward toll. Or maybe, tragically, a grief-stricken family member at a funeral-turned-protest will snap, will become, only for a moment, half the monster you are.

I don’t hope for it. I don’t pray for it. I have lost loved ones, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, even you and your family, even though none of us can escape it.

But it comes to us all.

And on that day, when sorrow grips the Phelps household, when those who love you– if there are people in your circle still capable of such an emotion– gather to remember your life, to lift up whatever it is that you have accomplished and given to the world between and despite the hatred that consumed you, I have a single hope.

I hope thousands come to the funeral, and stand at a distance of three hundred feet or more.

And I hope they bring candles.

And flowers.

I hope they carry signs with messages of forgiveness, and hope, and prayer for comfort and healing.

I hope they shower upon your family every human decency, every kindness, every ounce of compassion you have tried to deny so many grieving families.

And I hope you are able to see, from whatever place a twisted soul like yours might call repose, or might call torment. I hope their compassion touches you beyond the grave, and you see how unlike you we have all remained, that you may know how very much you failed, how very much

you will always fail.

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I do not disagree with the Supreme Court’s decision that hate speech is still protected as free speech. I support, on a civic level, the right of all people to espouse and articulate their views.

I refuse to accept, however, that hate speech is morally acceptable, is merely speech, or is without poisonous and violent ramification both for the targets of the vitriol and for those who spew it. I refuse to combat it with my own hatred, although that is often the most difficult choice I make. I will not let hatred use me as a conduit, and I will not let it go silently unanswered and unchallenged.

And I will never allow it to win.