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.

Burials (and the denial of death?)

As often happens in the life of a pastor, I had two funerals this weekend in quick succession, the first within two hours of my return from vacation in Houston, the second two days later, and today, the burial for the latter. (The cemetery's digging machine was broken this weekend, so it was delayed.) Even though I am in the throes of preparing for Lent (the 40 days leading up to Easter), funerals are a time when we think about Easter. It is a time we remember the promises of baptism, and give thanks for the gift of eternal life, and for our loved one who is now basking in the perpetual light of God. In my mind, funerals - at least those for people who lived long lives of faith and devotion, as both of mine were this weekend - are a time for gratitude and even joy. And that moment when we finally lay to rest this sheep of God's own fold to their final resting place in the ground is one of satisfaction and relief.

But our burial practices don't reflect this very well. It used to be that people played a more active role in the burial of their dead, and as morbid as this may sound, I think that is really important for processing and coming to terms with this loss. Now, you pass the body over to a funeral home, they make your loved one look alive again, but sleeping (although I am always struck by how very still embalmed people look, creepily so) and we surround a beautiful casket with flowers and mementos. While I know this makes the loss easier in the moment, it just seems to deny that this person is dead.

(As a side note, it is interesting how resistant people are to saying the word "dead." "She's passed," we say, or, "He's no longer with us." Would you say that Jesus "passed away"? If we can talk about the Son of God as having died, then why not our loved ones? Dressed up as respect for the dead, it seems to me like one more way to deny what has happened.)

Perhaps the most frustrating part for me on this front is the burial. Liturgically, there is a part in the committal where we are meant to lower the casket into the ground, so that the family and friends of the deceased can actually see and pray this person into his or her final resting place. It is also suggested that everyone throw a handful of dirt on top of the resting casket, thus playing a part in the burial and very physically and ritualistically coming to terms with the fact of it. But very rarely does this actually happen. In fact, quite the opposite. We arrive at the cemetery, where the burial site has been made to look, frankly, quite lovely. Green turf is spread out, covered chairs available for folks who need to sit, flowers brought from the funeral service. Flowers even adorn the top of the casket, which sits suspended over the hole (which you can't really see because it, too, is lined with green turf). We do the service, failing to lower the casket (because it is "too hard" for the family to see that). The funeral home kindly hands out flowers to everyone, which they can keep as a remembrance of the person (until, of course, the flower "passes away" in a couple days), or can leave on top of the casket. It's all very nice and civilized, though there is also a sense of anti-climax. No one ever seems quite sure if they should leave when they can still see the casket.

But then everyone does leave, with the casket still suspended over the grave. And, in some way, the casket is not all that is suspended; also the sense of closure that comes from seeing a body put in its final resting place. Once everyone has left, the casket is lowered, and the trucks and tractors and machines needed to fill in the hole come through and finish the job, with no one there to watch it happen. Even the pile of dirt used to fill the hole is somewhere out of sight, where no one has to see it and realize that this person is going to be buried underneath it. Next time any of the family is there, the body is safely deep underground (they assume).

Don't get me wrong - funeral homes, and especially the ones I work with, do a lovely job of walking with a family through this difficult time. They do their job well. But not watching the burial itself leaves an important part missing. Today for the first time, I actually stayed to the end of this. I don't know why I didn't think to do this before; I will be doing it from now on. I watched them strip away all the green turf so that I could see that there really was a hole in the ground. I saw them carefully lower the casket - I admit this was very moving, even as someone who didn't actually know this woman in life. Even as it was difficult to watch, giving the sense that this door really is closed, I also felt such a strong sense of peace, knowing that those words said at the end of the committal - "Rest eternal grant her, O God, and let light perpetual shine upon her" - really mean something! I prayed her all the way down to the bottom, and continued praying as I watched the other various things that go into closing up a grave. I finally left when the hole was almost completely filled.

The process was fascinating to watch, but it was also very moving. I found myself wondering what the people who do this are like, what they think about it, if they are people of faith. Or is this just a job to them, and a burial is just a routine day at work? I hoped that they had something that they do to honor each unique person, but it didn't really look like it, as they were sort of talking and joking through the whole thing. (Due to a -5 windchill, I admit I watched this from my car, and couldn't hear their words.) I was glad that I had stayed in order to pray this woman all the way to her final resting place. I will be doing this in the future.

So what is the greater good? Making the initial shock of losing someone as smooth and easy to deal with as possible? Or giving them the chance to participate in the burial of their loved one and come to terms with the loss as fully as possible? As I watched the family leave the suspended casket, I imagined being at my own parents' burials (sometime in the distant future, I hope!), and this being my last view of them. As I watched the casket being lowered, I imagined my family member inside, and how I would feel watching this. I admit it would be hard. But harder in the long run, I think, would be a casket suspended just above ground as my final goodbye.

It's something to think about... but something I hope I won't have to deal with personally for a very long time.

Sermon: Why stop hating and start loving (February 23, 2014)

Epiphany 7A

Matthew 5:38-48

            Jim Wallis is a pastor and Christian leader who has been involved for years in urban ministry, living and working in an impoverished area of our nation’s capital. He shares a story about being mugged one day by a gang of teenagers. Three of them were about 15 and one a bit younger, maybe 13. They knocked him down and tried to get his wallet, but he popped right back up. Being a weight-lifter, he is a rather large man, and this was fairly intimidating for the misguided youngsters. A believer in non-violence, Pastor Wallis decided to confront them with words, rather than fight back. He writes, “Instinctively, I began to scold these lost young souls. I told them just to stop it, to stop terrorizing people, to stop such violent behavior in our neighborhood. Finally, I shouted at them, ‘I’m a pastor!’ And I told them if they wanted to try to beat up and rob and pastor, they should come ahead and take their best shot.” Something about what he said convinced them, and they turned and ran. But the youngest kid, as he ran, turned back, and said in a sad voice, “Pastor, ask God for a blessing for me.” Reflecting back, Wallis writes, “He and his friends had just assaulted me. The little one had tried so hard to be one of the big tough guys. Yet he knew he needed a blessing. The young boy knew he was in trouble. I think they all did.”

            Muggings like this happen all the time, every day. But this boy’s comment makes the attacker suddenly three-dimensional. What made him say that? What part of his history, his story, was he tapping that made him turn back to ask the man he had attacked for a blessing? Who is this attacker? He is a person in need, a person in trouble. He is an enemy in need of love, a persecutor in need of prayer.

            These words we hear today from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount – “love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” – are familiar to us, so familiar, perhaps, that they lose their punch. We hear them and either say, “Yes, yes, I know, love my enemies,” but don’t take the next step of actually doing it, or we hear them and think, “That sounds good, Jesus, but that just doesn’t fly in this world. I can’t turn the other cheek and still get ahead in life. I can’t love my enemies, because then they will take advantage of me. So it’s a nice idea, but really, come on. Who are we kidding?”

            I suspect another reason we gloss over these words, and I am speaking personally here, is that we think, “Well, I don’t have any enemies.” I’m a pretty agreeable and forgiving person, after all, and while I have not waltzed through life without an argument now and then, or even a prolonged conflict, or a frustration with someone, I would never go so far as to say I hate these people, or that they are my enemies. These are awfully strong words.

            So perhaps it’s those words – “enemy” and “hate” – that need rethinking. Instead, let’s think: what person, or group of people, or type of people do you find most difficult to love? Maybe you find it difficult to love… Michael Dunn, or William Spengler. Or, political leaders who abuse their power. Or, people who abuse the welfare system, who refuse to get a job and instead just mooch off of others’ tax dollars. Or, the kid who has been bullying your kid at school – or that kid’s parents for letting them! Or, that person at work who took that promotion that you deserved, and now flaunts it to everyone. Or, I have a friend who likes to say, “The only people I’m bigoted about are bigots. I can’t stand people who hate people.” Hmm, now there is something I can relate to. I hate haters, too!

            Who do you find to be difficult to love? That’s the question that helps us take to heart Jesus’ challenging words. First, we need to identify who the people are that Jesus is talking about, for us personally, when he says to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us, and to realize that we are not, actually, without what Jesus’ calls “enemies.” So if we have enemies, than what is our hold up? Why are these words so difficult to take to heart? Why don’t we just stop hating people and start loving them?

Maybe a better question is, why wouldn’t we want to stop hating them? Perhaps it is because there is a certain satisfaction in hating someone or something. Last week, when we talked about anger, we observed that anger can sometimes bring some excitement and satisfaction in the moment, because it gets up our adrenaline and makes us feel self-righteous, and like the better person. Hatred can be the same – it feels good to tell ourselves that “I am a better person than that person.” So then, if we take steps to stop hating someone, two things might happen. We might be forced to notice our own shortcomings. Or, when we have to let down our guard, and might find that our hate is actually just a mask to hide what is more properly named, our fear.

And when we recognize that, well, then we have to deal with our shortcomings and our fears, and this can feel very vulnerable. Suddenly what we had previously been able to peg on someone else reveals an insecurity that we actually have with ourselves.  To leave it there feels bad, but to deal with it is so very hard. Resorting to hatred is sometimes a much easier option.

As many of you know, Michael and I are currently in a musical, and we’re at the point now where we are trying to become our characters. The question we have to ask ourselves is, “What is my motivation in this scene?” What about my character would make him or her behave this way? This is a helpful question to ask as a Christian, as well. What is motivating me, as a Christian, to love and pray for my enemies? Why bother? I can think of all kinds of psychologically sound motivations for it. Love your enemies because hate is bad for your emotional and mental health. Love them because spending that energy hating gives them power over you. Love them because it proves you are the better person. Love them because loving feels better than hating, and loving will make you feel better about yourself. Love them because, as Ghandi famously put it, “An eye for an eye makes everyone blind.”

But the truth is, Jesus doesn’t offer any of these motivations. The motivation is in the last verse of the passage we hear today: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” Sounds like a steep demand, no? But it is not so much demand as it is promise. See, that word that is translated as “perfect” has a richer meaning in Greek than in our English translation. It really means to come into yourself, to become what you are meant to be, who God intended you to be. Be perfect, as God is perfect.

And who did God create us to be? God created us to be beloved children of God, blessed and dripping wet with God’s grace. We just are those things, already. And when we take those difficult steps to love and pray for our enemies, we are living into that identity that God already promised to us: living as beloved, forgiven children of God, eager and equipped to share that promise with others.

In a moment, I’m going to say a prayer, as I usually do at the end of sermons. I will leave a space for you to name the people in your life whom you find particularly difficult to love. You can say their names aloud if you like, or say them in your heart for only God to hear. Whichever way you pray, I encourage you not to let this be the last prayer you offer for them this week. Name that person or those people in your prayers all throughout this week, lifting to God prayers for them, for their families, for their well-being. Pray for understanding about their particular struggles and challenges so that you might find a way to sympathize with them, rather than criticize them. Pray for love to find a way to make itself known in your relationship with them. Now, brothers and sisters in Christ, let us pray…

Gracious and loving God, there are people in our lives whom we find easy to love, and we give you thanks for them. But there are also some people we find more difficult to love, and difficult to understand. We name those people before you now, aloud or in our hearts… Help us know how to love these people, God, and to pray for them. Grant us the humility to understand them, and not to fear them. And as we seek to love them, may we learn to love you more and more deeply. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Meeting strangers, meeting God

I have had a couple remarkable experiences lately of meeting God in an encounter with a stranger. They were very different experiences, but I believe their proximity to each other is significant.

The first was a couple weeks ago in a consignment clothing store (where so many miracles happen). As the owner was ringing me up, she said several times how frazzled she was, how absentminded she had been all week. I responded, saying things like, “Oh, I’ve been there,” “It’s no problem, I’m not in a hurry…” Finally she said, “I just haven’t been here mentally all week. My niece was killed on Sunday.”

What made her decide to tell me this tragedy at that moment, I didn’t know, but after a quick assessment, I decided she probably said it because she needed to talk about it. So I gently expressed my concern and asked what happened. On her way to work, she had been T-boned in an intersection when someone ran a stop sign. She was 36 years old, a single mom of two kids – a daughter aged 14 and a son aged 8. Devastating. I let the woman recount to me some of the details of the story, asking questions as it seemed appropriate. She got tears in her eyes, but held it together, and did seem to find some relief in talking about it.

I am always unsure at this point whether bringing my faith into the conversation with someone whose history with religion I don’t know is going to be helpful or harmful. I felt so strongly that God was urging me to pray with her, which I silently did throughout the conversation. But the feeling wouldn’t go away. “Tell her you’re a pastor,” the voice said. “Offer to pray with her right here and now.” But alas, my fear kept my mouth shut. Even as a pastor, and someone who frequently prays aloud with and for people of all stripes on a regular basis, this particular situation was something I had not encountered, and I was reticent and fearful. Finally I came halfway by promising to pray for her. “What is her name?” I asked. She told me and I said I would pray for her and her niece’s family. She seemed somewhat comforted by that, but I didn’t see in her face the consolation I hoped it would bring. I started kicking myself for how half-hearted that seemed. The sort of thing people say when they don’t know what to say, but it seems right. How hard would it have been to simply say, “I’m a pastor. If you need anything, even just to talk to someone, let me give you my number.” I kicked myself all the way to the car and all the way home. Ironically, I was so deep in thought about this missed opportunity that a few blocks from home, I ran a red light in a mercifully empty intersection.

Okay God, I got the message.

The other encounter happened yesterday on my flight home from Houston, from meeting my gorgeous new niece. On the leg from Houston to Detroit, I took my seat and a beautiful young woman with a sweater a fabulous shade of orange came down the aisle. There was some confusion with her seat, but she told the elderly couple in her seat to just stay put, and she would sit behind them in their assigned seat. Shortly thereafter, a young man came and told me I was in his seat. Turns out the elderly couple was in my seat too, and I had sat across the aisle in his seat. So the young woman said, “You can sit here by me!” Gladly! So I moved and I told her how much I enjoyed her sweater, and she told me the whole process that went into choosing it (a woman after my own heart!), including the orange purse which was a different shade of orange but oh well and I said it was bold and offered, “It says, ‘I’m wearing two shades of orange, and I don’t care!’” and she laughed and then we were quiet. I noticed she was taking a Facebook quiz (on the same phone I have) that included a picture with an icon of the virgin Mary, and I wondered if she was Catholic. I liked her. She was the sort of person I would definitely be friends with, if our relationship wasn’t to be so fleeting. When the flight attendant came to take our orders, I thought, “Maybe I’ll get some water with no ice…” just as she said to the attendant, “Water, no ice.” I chuckled and said, “Just what I was thinking.”

Soon enough, she pulled out a book about a journey of faith, and then a small, leather-bound Bible, and she went back and forth between them. I liked her more and more, but I didn’t know how to tell her so without being that creepy person who is checking out what she is reading (which, for the record, I always do because I use people’s reading material to make up a story about what kind of person they might be - it's a little game I play). As I sat there reading my own theology book (hoping she would notice and point out our shared interest!), I got a very strong sense that she was discerning something. Something about the intentionality with which she was working through her book and reading her Bible… I heard that same voice saying, “Talk to her, Johanna! Tell her you’re a pastor.” I shook it off again, thinking I was just being self important, like somehow I should be the one to help her discern whatever it was. But it kept nagging.

I looked out the window then to see a gorgeous sunset, and this was my chance – “Look at the sunset!” I said. She did, and loved it, and we started talking. I told her about my niece, and she asked if I had children yet, and I said hopefully soon, but I had some medical things that had prevented it until now. She said things have a way of working out, that her friend’s husband was diagnosed with cancer right before they were married, and they were told they couldn’t have kids, and then they ended up having three before he died four years later, and now the friend is married to her late husband's best friend. I said, that’s interesting, my story is somewhat similar. Here I managed to slip in the fact that I was a pastor. She asked where I went to seminary, and I raved about Yale for a while and said off-handedly that I think everyone should go to seminary. A look of joy overcame her when she said, “Well, I’m going to a convent.”

Well now I had a zillion questions, and just when the pilot said we were preparing for landing! I asked as many questions as I could, and we bonded over our shared passion for faith and for Jesus. I asked why she wanted to be a nun, and she said, “I’m just so in love with Jesus Christ.” I so love it when people describe their faith that way! She was on her way to visit the convent she hoped to join, and starting in August has several years of discernment ahead of her (postulant, novice, nun - she commented animatedly on the garb for each stage). She has been wanting to do this for three years, since she was my age. She will be a Dominican nun, which is a teaching order, and she is very excited.

At one point in the conversation, she said, “I knew I sensed in you a kindred spirit!” Isn’t God amazing? I asked for her contact information, saying I would love to follow her on her journey. Until August she will have email and Facebook, but then it will have to be traditional letters, though she may have email again after she becomes a nun. I said I love real letters, and I would write. She said she would pray over them. I love this. I’m so excited by this connection. As we parted ways, she said, “Goodbye Johanna!” and gave me a big hug. I wished her luck and many blessings, and she said she would pray for us.

What amazing things happen when we actually listen to that voice. I have wondered a lot lately about the potential of the thousands of would-be connections we make when we fly – it is a potential usually untapped. Michael and I had a meaningful encounter with someone on an airport tram once, a woman who was at a turning point in her life and was trying to figure out what she should be doing, and I think about her so often and wonder how she is doing. This time I didn’t miss the opportunity to find out and follow up. I’m delighted by the possibility of a nun friend, and would be so honored to be able to hear something about her journey to that dream.

What gifts God can deliver through strangers!