Sea glass and the power of water

This follow is a short reflection I shared at a prayer service we held on Saturday to introduce our Lenten prayer theme:

But now thus says the Lord,
   he who created you, O Jacob,
   he who formed you, O Israel:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
   I have called you by name, you are mine. 
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
   and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
   and the flame shall not consume you. (Isaiah 43)

Back in January, I went to an event with some other first call pastors. It was a time of reflection and growth and worship and learning. In our times of worship, there was a theme that carried us through the event. Over four days, we went from being called and claimed by God, to recognizing our brokenness, to embracing our newness in Christ. There were several experiential elements to this, but one of the most meaningful to me was this sea glass. On the day we were recognizing the various ways we are broken, we were invited to take a piece of sea glass and use it as a meditation tool throughout the day. I think we were supposed to offer it back to God at the end of that day, but I didn’t want to – the image brought me too much comfort.

            Why such an attachment to this little piece of garbage? Well that’s just it, you see. That’s what sea glass starts off as: garbage. A piece of broken bottle. But God didn’t leave it that way. God and water, working together, smoothed out the rough edges, and turned it into something very beautiful. It’s not entirely smooth, but the remaining roughness shows its journey, shows where it came from, and, I think, makes it even more beautiful. That is the power of water and the Word.  

            In the passage we just read together [Isaiah 43], I asked you to visualize what image of God it created in your mind. For me, the most poignant image in that passage is that part, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.” I love that it says God will be with me in those times: not that God will pluck me out of the seas and save me from anything too hard; not that God will make the waters a little gentler for me. Because if God did either of these things, then how would my rough edges, like those of this piece of glass, be smoothed out and made more beautiful?

            What I love the most about this image is that it is not only reflective of my personal faith journey, but also that of every person in the Body of Christ. We share it. We begin our journey in baptism, doused in the water that washes our sins and smooths out our rough edges. And we spend the rest of our Christian life being the named, claimed, beautiful and beloved children that God created, trusting that all along the way we continue to be surrounded by God’s promises.

            And because of that assurance, we pray. We give thanks. We ask for help. We praise. Because God promises to be with us through the most terrifying of waters, and promises that our brokenness can become beautiful, and that our death can become life, we don’t shy away from our relationship with God. Instead of running away from the waters, we run into them. Instead of fearing the rivers, we face them, knowing God is with us.

            And all of this we do in prayer, in avid and insistent prayer. And so at this time, I would like to invite you, claimed and beloved children of God, to participate in such prayer. You will find in your bulletin a slip of green paper. There are no rules about that paper – you can write on it a prayer of thanksgiving, a prayer of need, a prayer of praise. You may decide to leave it blank, as representative of leaving space for God to speak to you, and your being open to God’s Word. Whatever you decide to do with it, bring it forward to the font, to the place where you were first named and declared a forgiven and beloved child of God. Leave it here by the font, and then take with you a piece of sea glass – a reminder that God is with you in prayer, with you in the waters, and will never leave your side – and carry it with you through Lent. Brothers and sisters in Christ, let us pray...

Sermon: "You are my hiding-place" (Mar. 8, 2014, Lent 1)

Lent 1A

March 9, 2014

Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7; Matthew 4:1-11; Psalm 32

  

            I remember a night last year when I was so overwhelmed by the inevitability of having a second major surgery in the course of four months, and of the sacrifices that this surgery would require, that I just wanted to hide. I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. I couldn’t settle my thoughts. I just wanted my situation to go away. Without consciously thinking about it – in fact, out of instinct more than anything else – I pulled the covers over my head, hiding myself from the world, and, I hoped, my emotions.

While there was some satisfaction in that, of course it didn’t really hide me from anything. But it was such a human response to struggle and pain, wasn’t it? Even as I did it, I knew it wouldn’t really help anything, but at least giving myself the illusion of hiding from everything on my heart provided temporary consolation. Hiding made me feel safe.

Hiding has that power, doesn’t it? The power to make us feel safe? But the story we hear today from Genesis makes us think differently about hiding. It’s a familiar story – the story of the Fall, just after Adam and Eve are created. The story in which God tells them they can eat of any tree except this one, and then a crafty serpent comes along and convinces them that it wouldn’t be so bad to eat of that tree, and in fact, it would be good! They would know good and evil if they did, they would be more like God! And so they do, and in that moment their blissful blindness falls away. Suddenly they do know good and evil, and they name their own nakedness as bad. And so they immediately sew together fig leaves to – you got it – hide themselves, hide their vulnerability, hide their nakedness, hide their potential for being hurt or embarrassed or teased or judged. They hide themselves. And then to hit home the point, when they hear God later that evening walking through the Garden, they hide not only from each other and from themselves, but they also hide themselves from God.

It’s powerful stuff, and while I’m guessing you’ve never felt the need to sew together fig leaves as protection from the elements or from judgmental eyes, who has never tried to hide something from others? Who has never wanted to hide something from God? Perhaps, we think, if I never admit it explicitly to myself, then no one, not even God, has to know about my weaknesses, my faults, my mistakes. I’ll just keep them hidden, and no one has to know, and I can pretend they don’t exist.

So the first question to ask ourselves is, what do you feel the need to hide? What can no one know, not even God? What are those things that, when we come here week after week and do confession, you can never quite bring yourself to mention, even in silence?

The next question is, what are you hiding behind? In Genesis, it says that Adam and Eve sewed fig leaves together, and hid among the trees of the garden. What are your fig leaves? What are your forests?

            Our Gospel text can shed some light on this. The first Sunday of Lent always includes hearing an account of the temptation of Jesus. At first it seems that what the devil offers to tempt Jesus with has no bearing on our real lives. After all, who has ever been offered rule over all the kingdoms of the world? (Furthermore, who would ever want that job?!) But below the surface, these are temptations we are quite familiar with: turning stones into bread becomes a temptation for security and self-sufficiency; throwing himself off a pinnacle so that God’s angels will save him becomes a temptation for acceptance, as this act will prove that he is, in fact, the Son of God, and everyone will see his importance; and offering him rule over all the kingdoms in the world, of course, becomes a temptation for power and leadership. Security, acceptance, and power – now these are things we understand!

In addition to temptations, are they not also sometimes the fig leaves we hide behind? If I can show people how secure I am, I can hide from them my insecurity. If I can show people how important I am, I can hide from them my fear that I won’t be accepted as I am. If I can show people how powerful I am, I can hide from them my doubts. They never have to see my nakedness.

            But I suspect these are not all that we hide behind. We surround ourselves with many hiding places – working too many hours, academic degrees, awards on the wall, our age, gender, or race, over-booked calendars and busy-ness, a constant need to make jokes, boisterous conversation, nice cars, other material goods, the balance in our bank account… So many things to show the world that hide our insecurities, so many fig leaves to hide behind.

            I don’t think God wants us to hide. Or more accurately, God doesn’t want us to hide from God. Rather, God wants us to hide in God. Look at what our Psalm says: “You are my hiding place; you preserve me from trouble.” What a different image that is, either from my instinct to pull my covers over my head, or from our persistent attempts to hide behind our various fig leaves. Rather than hiding from, where we try to disguise who we are, or be someone different from who we are, hiding in God gives the impression of being exactly who we are, who God made us to be, who God declared us to be in our baptism: beloved and forgiven children of God. Hiding in God means crawling into God’s bosom and remembering that whatever troubles may come upon us, whatever evils may tempt us, whatever wrong turns we may take along the way, God loves us and protects us and forgives us. When we hide in God, we find that our fig leaves are unnecessary, for God is the only hiding place that we need.

            Rather than me continuing merely to tell you about this, let’s do something that will show it. You may have noticed that we did not start this morning with confession and forgiveness as we normally do. We will move into this time now. In your bulletin you will find a piece of rice paper, and our ushers will hand out some pens. Take some time right now to think about what some of your fig leaves are – what are you hiding behind – or, what it is you are hiding. Write it down on your rice paper. No one will ever see this but you and God, so be honest. When you’ve written something, come forward here to the font, to the place where God promised us that our sins are forgiven and that we are God’s claimed and beloved children. As you put your paper into the font, hiding it in God’s promise, ask God for forgiveness, and watch what God does with your sin.

            And now, brothers and sisters in Christ, let us pray as we enter a time of confession before God…

            Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you, and worthily magnify your holy name, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

            Let us confess to God those things we keep hidden from others, from ourselves, and even from God, and those things which we hide behind…

[people take time to write on rice paper as background music plays – “You Are My Hiding Place” by Selah]

Brothers and sisters in Christ, God has seen you and knows you. God knows your sitting down and your rising up, and discerns your thoughts from far away. God knows your hiding places and bids you come and hide in Him. Know that you are forgiven. Your sins have been washed away, and you are in Christ.

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.

Amen. Thanks be to God!

Sermon: My Love-Hate Relationship with Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday, 2014

March 5, 2014

            I have sort of a love-hate relationship with Ash Wednesday. Even as a child, I used to love Lent and the special Lenten services, but nearly every year I remember being sort of disappointed by Ash Wednesday. Maybe it wasn’t an interesting enough service, aside from the ash piece, to keep my attention. Or maybe I just didn’t like the ashes falling into my eyes, and then I was always disappointed that my ash cross never really looked much like a cross, but more like a smudge. Who knows.

            As an adult, I have more language to apply to my persisting love-hate relationship with Ash Wednesday. It is a difficult day, to be sure, an uncomfortable day in which the concept of our mortality is literally rubbed in our face. It starts off a season with a reputation for gloom, in which we think a lot about sin and the need for repentance. It starts off six long weeks of a Lenten discipline – fasting, giving, praying, all things we know we should do, but ugh, do we really have to? And all this as we are already enduring a long and frigid winter – do we really need one more thing to bring us down? And then you add on top of that the fact that so many of us live under the weight every day of shame, inadequacy, and self-doubt, so why do we need to dedicate six whole weeks to dwelling on our bondage to sin?

            Yes, I can see the temptation to hate Ash Wednesday. And yet, all of you came here tonight, so you must see some value in it. And actually, I’m curious – will you tell me why you are here tonight? Why do you come to Ash Wednesday service year after year, or even if this is your first time – why are you here? [wait for response]

            Well I did say that I have a love relationship with Ash Wednesday as well, so let me tell you why I love it. It’s one of those loves like I love having gone running – I don’t so much love how running makes me feel in the moment, but rather I love the feeling I get for having done it, and the health I know it brings to my life and my body. That’s how Ash Wednesday and Lent are for me. No, I don’t like thinking about my sins and all the ways I fall short, and I don’t like having to name them before God. But it is worth it for the forgiveness that follows. No, I don’t like the various disciplines I have taken on over the years, but they have always been good for me, and opened my mind and my heart to new ways of experiencing God and God’s creation and even God’s grace. No, I don’t like remembering that my time here on earth is fleeting and that someday I will return to the dust from which I came, but I do love the celebration of new life that comes at the other end with Easter, and that celebration is all the sweeter for having taken the time to remember why we are having it.

            But perhaps the thing I love-hate the most about Ash Wednesday is that it reminds me that I am human, and not God – which also falls into that category of not loving the realization in the moment, but loving what it means in the long run. Perhaps the recognition that we’re mortal and not God seems obvious, but are we not all guilty of that sometimes? We think we can do it on our own. We think we can make big decisions without consulting God. We think we can plan and schedule our own lives. We think we can handle tough situations by our own devices. We put out a front like we have our lives all together, like the hypocrites in the street that Jesus talks about in our Gospel reading tonight, and we might even fool ourselves into thinking that we built this life by our own brilliance, skills, and abilities. But then Ash Wednesday comes along and bursts our bubble, reminding us that we are, as e.e. cummings says in one of my favorite poems, “human merely being,” and that none of this is possible without God, without Christ.

            I heard a story this week about a little girl, age 7, whose dad asked her to clean her room one Saturday morning. She emerged five minutes later, announcing that she was finished. Skeptical, her dad went to see if her room really was clean, and was amazed to see that it was… until he opened the closet, and an avalanche of toys, dirty clothes, books, and trash came tumbling out. So he got a book to read and a stool, and sat in her room with her while she properly cleaned her room – this time she did so happily! When she had finished, she hugged him and declared him the best dad in the world for having sat with her while she cleaned up her room.

            It’s a sweet story, but it is also a story that points to our Lenten task and the presence of Jesus Emmanuel with us in it. Lent is a time of recognizing what in our lives we may have just shoved in the closet in an effort to present to the world and even to ourselves a nice, clean front. It is a time of intentionally working on cleaning out that closet. And it is a time of knowing that this is not something we must do alone, but rather, that Jesus is sitting there beside us while we work on it.

            That is why many people decide to take on a Lenten discipline. Last night over pancakes I had a conversation with some folks about whether Lutherans are supposed to give up anything for Lent. Well there’s no rule about that. But like so many things that first look like law, the suggestion to either give something up – or popularly now, to take something on – is actually one that offers the possibility for life. If Lent is indeed a time for cleaning out our closets and getting rid of some of the muck that clutters up our lives and keeps us from a deeper relationship with God, then why not take these six weeks to focus on just one of those things. Maybe this Lent you can clean up just the dirty clothes, or just the old books, or just the trash that you have hidden in your closet. You could focus on prayer, since that is our Lenten theme this year. Your discipline could be to attend our midweek gatherings, to expand your understanding of prayer and learn more about ways to pray. You could find 5 minutes each day when all you do is sit in silence and focus on God. Or, your discipline could be to set an alarm on your phone for the same time each day – maybe noon – and stop whatever you are doing and pray for whatever family is highlighted in our covenant prayer vigil. You can find this vigil in your March newsletter.

Has anyone already decided to do this, to take on a Lenten discipline? If you have, would anyone mind sharing what it is and how you hope to grow from it? [wait for responses]

It turns out, I guess, that my love-hate relationship with Ash Wednesday can be attributed to the awareness of the growing pains that are about to come. But more than anything, I know that as we embark on this path of growth and drawing closer to Christ and understanding more deeply what God has done for us, that God will be there with us ever step of the way. In a moment we will come forward to receive an ashen cross, and even as we are reminded that we are merely dust, and will return to the dust, we are also reminded of the cross that was traced on our foreheads at baptism, when we were told that God loves us, claims us, forgives us, and will be present in and with us forever – as we learn, and grow, and prayer, and reflect, and as we strive to be the people God claims we are.

Let us pray… Lord Christ, you have done so much for us. Give us the strength to give something of our own hearts during this Lenten season and beyond to better know and love you. In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: "Seriously, listen to Him." (March 2, 2014, Transfiguration)

Transfiguration A

March 2, 2014

Matthew17:1-9

            At our last confirmation class, we were learning about the life and teaching of Jesus. Matthew’s account of the Transfiguration was one of the stories we studied. Often I feel like we throw a lot of information about the Bible at these kids, but we also want them to learn to see the Bible as a book of life, a devotional book, one that can bring insight and one that, through study and reflection, can answer prayers or clarify our struggles. So we decided to read the Transfiguration story with them devotionally. We did it in the style of lectio divina, a way of reading where you listen to it read aloud several times, noticing what words, phrases or images rise up for you.

            As anyone who is or has ever been a teacher can attest, the teacher often ends up learning as much or more than the students in any given lesson, and this was one of those cases. In my leading a devotional reading of the Bible with our youth, God spoke to me very profoundly, and even caused a transformation. As we read, the words in the passage that resonated with me were first, “This is my Son… listen to him!” and then, “they were overcome by fear.”

            Why these phrases? Perhaps a story will best demonstrate. A few Fridays ago, the day before this confirmation class, I was buying a sweater in a consignment shop. While I was paying, the woman who worked there kept saying how scattered her mind was this week… and then she finally said, “I’ve been absent-minded all week. My niece was killed on Sunday.” Figuring she must have told me this because she needed to talk about it, I gently asked what happened, and listened to her story. As she spoke I felt a voice saying, “Tell her you’re a pastor. Give her your contact info. Pray with her.” I started praying silently throughout the conversation, but the voice wouldn’t quit. But something kept me from it: I was afraid. I didn’t want things to turn awkward. I didn’t want to put myself out there. Even as God said to my heart, “This is my Son. Listen to him!” I found that I, with the disciples, fell to the ground, overcome by fear. How hard would it have been to give her my phone number, tell her I’m a pastor, and to call if she needed anything… but I didn’t. Before I left, I told her I would be praying for her and her family, but even as I said it I knew that I still wasn’t listening to what that voice was telling me, because I was still afraid.

The encounter weighed heavily on my heart all the way home, and still does, three weeks later. I have continued to hear those words, “Listen to him!” and wondered what is so hard about that? Here I am, a pastor who prays with people regularly in various situations, and I still find it hard not to be afraid sometimes when I hear Jesus telling me to do something that is out of my comfort zone. What is there to fear?

Tell me I’m not alone here. Do you have a similar story? A time when you felt God telling you something, but the task for whatever reason seemed to overwhelm you with fear? It happens to me all the time. How many months did I spend dating the wrong guy because even though God was telling me, “Not this one, Johanna,” I was too afraid to end it? How many relationships with people did I miss out on because I was afraid to listen to God’s urgings to talk to someone? How many experiences have I missed because of a failure to listen to God’s voice?

Well, here’s another story, which happened a couple weeks later. I was flying home from Houston, and ended up sitting next to a lovely young woman who seemed to exude joy. We made some small talk, but then went to our own reading material. I noticed she was reading a Bible study of some sort, and had her Bible out. I didn’t want to seem creepy, like I was watching her, but something about her drew me in. And all at once I got a strong feeling that she was discerning something, and I longed to know what it was. Again, I heard that voice: “Talk to her!” Again, I shrugged it off, coming up with all kinds of reasons I should not listen, and should instead just keep to myself.

But I remembered the fear I felt before, with the woman in the consignment shop. I remembered what Jesus had said to me in the story of the Transfiguration that morning in confirmation class. And so finally I got up the nerve to start a conversation. And wouldn’t you know it, I learned that this young woman was on her way to a convent, with the intention of becoming a nun. Her next five years will be a time of discernment before she makes her final vows. Our conversation was lively and life-giving, as we connected as two young woman on fire for Christ and the Gospel, and at the end we exchanged information and agreed to write and to pray for each other. And we have.

“This is my Son. Listen to him!” said that voice to the disciples, and so also to me and to all of us. And they fell to the ground and were overcome with fear. They did not know what it might mean to listen to Jesus. What might he tell them to do – things that are difficult and scary and out of their comfort zone?  What might it mean for their lives – a change? A transformation for which they aren’t prepared? A venture into a way of life entirely unfamiliar? Of course they – we! – are overcome with fear!

I wonder if this is why prayer is sometimes very difficult. I find it a lot easier to pray with words, and lots of them! I’m like Peter in that way. Peter experienced this incredible moment when the veil between God and humanity became very thin and the brightness of God was shining upon him in a very real way – and immediately he started talking and doing and being a busy-body. Because it is much easier to keep busy and keep talking than it is to simply take in the glory of God and the possibility of God working in and through us. As long as we are doing the talking, we remain in control. I suppose this is why this way of praying is the one with which I am most comfortable. Much less comfortable is the sort where all I do is listen. And I suppose the reason it is less comfortable is that I don’t always like what I hear – and indeed, that I am afraid of it.

I admit to you that part of the reason that throughout Lent this year we will be studying different ways of praying, is because I hoped to benefit personally from it. And if you have ever struggled to just be with God and listen, I hope you will take advantage of the various offerings throughout Lent. Just planning for it has already made prayer more accessible to me, and I am so eager to hear and learn from you and your experiences, and to see how you, too, might discover ways to be with God without a lot of words. Because the fact is, listening to Jesus can be very uncomfortable and even scary, and the story of the Transfiguration and countless life experiences are a testament to that!

But, the story doesn’t stop there, for Peter, or for us. After they fall to the ground in fear, Jesus comes to them, touches them, and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And this is the moment of Peter’s transfiguration – and of ours, when the same thing happens to us. As often as we have experiences where we fall short, like mine in the consignment store, we still know, at the end of the day, that we are called to get up and listen to Jesus. And we know that if we fail to listen once, there will likely be another chance, like my opportunity on the airplane. This is the shape of the Christian life – we try, we sometimes succeed, we often fall short; we have moments of insight and moments of denial. But we can always trust that when we do fail and fall, Jesus will come to us, offer his healing touch, and tell us to get up and not be afraid. If we can hear that, listen to that, we might just find that this willingness to listen to and partner with God does lead to transformation – in the scariest but most wonderful way!

            Let us pray… Glorious God, we are listening. Help us not to be afraid. [long silence] In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.