My WXXI interview

So I agreed to interview with our local NPR station on Christmas morning at 7:51am. I was a bit nervous about this, I won't lie. Heaven knows I'm comfortable talking to cameras and microphones - have done it many times before. But as I said in a recent post, I felt incredibly unqualified for this. Here I am, just over a year into my ministry. What on earth do I know about how a community can heal after something like this? I immediately thought of a handful of my colleagues who would be much better at this than I would. But I was the one she asked. So I thought, I guess I'm as qualified as anyone to talk about this.

Unfortunately, the interview only ran once and accidentally got recorded over, so I have no record of it. But I will try to remember some of what she asked, and what I tried to say.

This is so hard for people to understand. What words do you have to offer people trying to make sense of this?
Well, I unfortunately don't have any answers. I wish I did, but there just aren't any answers. But my faith, and this is what we celebrated last night, is that in Christ we have a light that promises to shine in the darkness and shatter the fear that comes with that darkness. We have hope. It doesn't make anything make more sense, but it is something to hold onto. God promises that He will be Emmanuel, God with us, and on Christmas especially, we celebrate that promise. What better time to remember and celebrate that? So that's what we rallied around last night. We gathered together and gave thanks for that light shining in the darkness, who promises to be with us in our suffering, even if it isn't taken away.

You held Christmas Eve mass last night. What was the mood?
It was guarded, I guess. People wanted to say Merry Christmas and be joyful, but our hearts were so heavy. So there were a lot of tears, and a lot of hugs, but it was really good to just be together and come together in faith, if not in joy.

This is such a tragedy, and I think people are feeling bad about celebrating a nice Christmas in the midst of it. They feel guilty doing that. What do you have to say about that?
Guilt is definitely a feeling many of us are feeling, and while all feelings are legitimate and we need to just let ourselves feel, guilt is not a very helpful one. I feel terrible and sad about all this, but feeling guilty is not going to bring back people's homes or the people they have lost. And yes, it is hard to feel joy, but we can try to give thanks for what we do have, knowing that some people in our community no longer have these things to give thanks for. All the more reason for us to appreciate what we have.

Have you ever dealt with a tragedy like this in your career?
Well, my career isn't very long yet, just over a year, but last year in December there was that house fire in Webster in which a couple kids died. The kids in my confirmation class knew those kids, were friends with them, and so that was really hard for them. We had to sit down and process that and talk about it together. I'm sure other tragedies will happen during my career - I hope not, but probably will at some point.

What can people do?
Already people have done something, and that is to gather together. Being together is so important, and Webster has already done that - it's a close community who cares for each other. People gathered for worship last night, and there was a vigil at the firehouse last night where I know people were flocking. We can also pray for each other, and we can listen to each other. In my position, I can offer to listen and pray with people, and listen for any areas of need that come up and address them as we're able. For anyone else, well, we can all do those same things. We all have two ears to listen, two arms to hug, and hearts to pray - and people are already doing these things.

We were talking a moment ago about how as a pastor you get invited into people's most intimate moments. You must deal with a lot of sadness and a lot of joy in your position. How do you manage all that?
That's a great question, and it is really hard. Last night, looking out at 100 pairs of eyes at two different services, all looking for some words of hope in the midst of this... There is definitely a certain amount of compartmentalizing that has to happen to be able to get through that. But then I go home to my family, and that's when I'm able to let go and cry.


There might have been other questions, but that's all I can remember. One friend heard it and said it sounded okay, and that I sounded composed, even though I very nearly cried at that last question. Hard questions. Hard stuff all around.

Sermon: Christmas Eve, 2012

Christmas Eve, 2012

As many of you know, I have fairly recently added a new addition to my
family. No, I don’t mean my fiancé, though him too, I suppose. I mean a sweet, cuddly, slightly quirky, mostly good, little Dachshund: a pooch named Klaus (or as I have grown fond of calling him at this time of year, Santa Klaus). Sometimes he is a disobedient rascal, but most of the time, he brings me such delight. One thing that is (usually) delightful is his insistence to cuddle, to be in contact with at least one human, at all times. Sometimes when I lie on my couch, I will no sooner get settled, then I will feel a little nose poking my leg, then wiggling in beside it, and then a little black and tan face appears and his 13-pound wiener-dog body creeps in and wedges its way between me and the back of the couch where there is not really enough room for him, then he then sweetly gives me a lick and then settles in to sleep.

Klaus came into my life at a pretty rocky time – nearing the end of my cancer treatments this fall. Some may think that adding a dog to the mix two days after surgery wasn’t the best choice. And maybe it wasn’t. But cancer treatments are not an easy time, and I needed something in my life to make me giggle, to whine with happiness when I got home, to lick me incessantly no matter how bad my day was. I needed some love to creep in and wiggle its way right up beside me in the midst of a time so otherwise full of questions and darkness.

At the end of this service tonight, as we do every Christmas, we will light candles in a dark sanctuary, hear the prologue of John’s Gospel about how “a light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it,” and we will sing Silent Night, recalling that light shining from the manger on that silent, holy night so many years ago. This image of Jesus as a light shining in the darkness has always been one dear to me in my understanding of who Christ is, but this year, it has taken on an even deeper and more poignant meaning. This year, the darkness has seemed particularly aggressive in its efforts to overcome the light. It seems every time we turn on the news there is another shooting – a movie theatre in Colorado, a Sikh temple in Wisconsin, a school shooting in Connecticut... Even this morning, a house fire in Webster and four firemen shot, two killed. Darkness is making a pretty good showing in these situations, and it leaves us with more questions than answers. “How could this happen?” “What can we do about it?” And perhaps most bitingly, “Where could God possibly have been?” Where is that light that is supposed to be shining in this darkness?

It’s not just in these large-scale tragedies, of course, in which we experience darkness. We experience it in the midst or in the wake of divorce, and the feelings of guilt, or failure, or grief that go with it; we experience it in the need to make decisions that seem to have no right answer; in the loss of people from our lives, or loss of jobs, or loss of identity; in watching your children or grandchildren walk away from the faith you raised them in, that is so important to you and who you are; in hurtful words; in dreaded diagnoses; in watching people suffer from hunger, neglect, emotional or physical abuse... The darkness that permeates our world makes it so difficult to believe that there might be a light shining that could possibly overcome that, yet it makes it all that much more important to believe just that! We need that light to creep in, to wiggle in, even when there seems to be no possible way it can.

That’s how it was, that first Christmas night, of course. The part of the Christmas story with which we are most familiar shares with us the nicest parts of this story. It leaves out the bits about why this light shining in the darkness was so important. The Roman occupation. The hundreds of years of feeling like God had abandoned God’s people. The year that Emmanuel, God-with-us, was born, the earth was ripe for a savior. They were living in a land of deep darkness, just like the people in our reading this evening from Isaiah. And into that darkness, God creeps in, wiggles His way into humanity and into a manger in a stable in a quiet, dark little town, so that this darkness would no longer be quite so dark. And in the dark streets of that little town of Bethlehem, shined the everlasting light.

Will God do that again this Christmas? Do we believe that this will happen, that the light of Christ will creep in beside us, finding its way into a nook or cranny, and shining away the shadows of fear? Will God’s light come into the darkness of tonight’s world, into the hearts of people who have stopped believing that war and violence will end, that food will come, that a government will change, or that relationships can be mended?

Restoring the hope and the belief that this will happen starts with opening our hurting hearts to the mere possibility, making them as vulnerable as God made Himself when He became a helpless child, completely dependant on a teenage girl and her terrified fiancé to take care of him. But how do we do that? How do we make our hearts vulnerable when there is already so much in this world to fear?

There was a picture floating around Facebook in the past couple weeks, a quote from Fred Rogers, better known as “Mr. Rogers.” He is quoted, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.” As we strive to make our hearts vulnerable enough to see the light of Christ, looking for the helpers is certainly a place to start, because Mr. Rogers’ mother is right: there are always helpers. And there are so many other signs of hope. There are policemen who buy warm socks and boots for a homeless man on the streets of New York City. There are nurses who take an extra moment while they are giving out meds in a nursing home to actually sit down and just be with a patient. There are elementary school teachers who sacrifice their own lives to save the lives of the children in their class. There are small churches who stuff over 150 stockings with everything from socks to toys to dental hygiene products and distribute them to families in need. There are kind people who take in friends and strangers who have lost their heat and power in a super-storm so they can have a warm meal and a place to charge their phones. There are people who stand up to bullies, who defend the weak, who dedicate their lives to making positive changes in this hurting world of ours.

In the story we hear tonight, the Christmas story, there is a lot of fear. A young couple making a long journey – probably about 80 miles – by foot. An unwed teenage mother, about to give birth to her first child, in a stable with no family to help her except her scared fiancé. A group of shepherds in the hills confronted by a host of angels. There are lots of reasons to keep our hearts safe from all these fears, to shut ourselves away from it. But the angel says to the shepherds, “Do not be afraid.” Listen. Look. Be open to hearing this good news of great joy. To you is born this day, a Savior. You will no longer be in darkness. A light has come to scatter the darkness. And what do the shepherds do? They believe it. They tell people that they believe it. And after they have greeted this babe, this light shining in the darkness, Luke tells us, they return to their everyday lives back in the hills, “praising and glorifying God for all they had heard and seen,” giving thanks that when they were able to open their hearts, their ears, their eyes, to the possibility that such a darkness-shattering light could be true, they had indeed been transformed.

Let us pray. Christ, our light: When the world was dark and the city was quiet, you came. You crept in beside us. Do the same this Christmas, Lord, and open our hearts, eyes, and ears to see your light in the darkness. Amen. 

One pastor's story in the midst of tragedy

Well, it has been a helluva Christmas, I'll tell you. It didn't take too long into my ministry to have some Really Big Things to deal with.

Everyone knows, of course, about the tragic Newtown shooting. At 10 days before Christmas, it definitely affected the mood of some of our Christmas preparations. Our Christmas pageant was the following Sunday. How do you rejoice in these children (and on Gaudete, or "rejoice" Sunday, on the church calendar), knowing that so many families are so deeply mourning the loss of their children? I struggled knowing how to address this in my congregations. I hadn't planned to preach. Should I change my plans and write a short sermon? Did people need to hear some hope? Was I equipped to offer this hope? The season of Advent is already about hope - would a reminder of that be enough? Would mentioning it at all be a relief for people, or would it spoil the excited mood of the Christmas program that the kids had worked so hard on?

I finally realized that much of the excitement that always surrounds the children's program is, in fact, hope, and that the children could preach that message of hope as well or better than I could. These are our children. They are full of hope and potential. They are telling us the story of a child who came not only to bring us hope in the midst of sadness, but who shows us the promise of Emmanuel, God-with-us, in our suffering. We would sing carols about this coming child. We would rejoice in and give thanks for our children, and relish in their offerings. This was how we would start to deal with this tragedy.

With all this fresh in my mind, I wrote my Christmas sermon. Not surprisingly, it ended up drawing heavily on the image of a light that "shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it." I mentioned all the recent shootings. I mentioned the more mundane (but equally important) darknesses we feel in our lives. I expressed our deep hope in that light, and the fear it dispels. I hoped it would speak words people needed to hear on this Christmas, now so tainted with death and grief.

Then on Christmas Eve morning, I got a call from a parishioner. "Have you seen what's happening in Webster on the news?" I hadn't turned on the news that day, as I had a zillion things to do to prepare for Christmas, both personally and at church, but now I did. There was a house fire down on Irondequoit Bay, only a couple miles from St. Martin. When firefighters arrived, they were shot at. Two were confirmed dead, two others injured. They were ceasing fighting the fire, and it had spread to other houses (in the end, seven total). I was horrified. I have members who are volunteer firefighters in West Webster. Were they okay? Names hadn't been released yet. People from home in California started contacting me - this was national news! And my mind started racing: how do we celebrate Christmas tonight, knowing that probably every person in Webster knows a firefighter who will somehow be affected by this? Webster is a pretty tight community, and the fire department in particular. On a personal, but still professional, note, Michael and I planned to leave for vacation right after worship that night. How could I leave when my community was dealing with this trauma?

I couldn't do much to change the Christmas Eve service, so the first thing I needed to do was look at the parts I could change - prayers and my sermon - and tweak them accordingly. My sermon, having been written in the wake of the Newtown shooting, was still surprisingly apt for the situation. We still needed a light shining in the darkness. We still needed the hope that Christ brings. Truly a Holy Spirit moment - someone knew this would be the Word that needed to be preached this Christmas. I finally did get in touch with "my" firefighters and found out they were fine. We decided to have coffee and cookies after worship so we would have an opportunity to talk together and process in a casual setting. And I planned to make a comment before worship about how this is the reason we need to gather on this night, to gather around the light shining in the darkness, and put our faith in that, even if we couldn't gather in as much joy this night as we might have liked. And I prayed. And I asked people to pray - for Webster and for me.

A couple hours before I planned to leave for church, I got an email from a woman at church who used to work as an anchorwoman for the news, and she always connects St. Martin to various news sources. "Could Channel 10 come to St. Martin tonight and interview you?" And then Channel 13. And then Channel 8. Everyone wanted to interview a pastor and see how people are coming to terms with this tragedy on Christmas from a spiritual perspective. I told all of them I'd be happy to interview with them, but did not want them to interfere with our worship. They all agreed. As it turned out, the Firehouse was holding their vigil at the same time as our service, so none of them showed up.

On my way to Bethlehem, I got a call from someone at WXXI, our local NPR station. She wondered if she could interview me on their morning show the next day. "I think a lot of people are looking for some spiritual answers in the midst of all this, and so I hoped you could make a statement on how a community heals after a tragedy like this." Wow. I felt incredibly under qualified to make such a statement, and told her so, but, I am a pastor in close proximity to this event, which I guess makes me as qualified as anyone. So I agreed to do it. The interview was very interesting, and I will include some of what we talked about in a separate post, since this is getting so long. Stay tuned.

How did church go? People were... guarded, I guess. We wanted to say Merry Christmas, but didn't know if we could. We wanted to be joyful, but our hearts were so heavy. But by the end of worship at Bethlehem, which was the first service, I honestly felt better. I felt like it had never been more important to worship on Christmas, to sing, "O Come, all ye faithful," or "Joy to the world, the Lord is come." The words of these and other well-known carols suddenly meant so much more to me. What was strange was then going to St. Martin and doing it all again, because they had not yet had the chance to worship and rejoice in the incarnation, had not felt the transformation we at Bethlehem had. I found, however, that as soon as I saw people's sullen faces, the tears in their eyes, it wasn't hard to find myself right back in that painful place. And then to transform again. A remarkable experience, both times.

And then I drove my exhausted self home and packed. Michael and I had decided to postpone our departure until the morning (especially since it had started to snow). And then I lost it. I sat next to Michael and cried into his lap. "100 pairs of eyes looking up at me for some answers! I don't have them!" It helped. After a day of running around getting ready, while staying glued to the TV, while trying to figure out how to manage all this with my churches and with the news stations... I was completely spent.

Life meets ministry, indeed.

O Come, All Ye Faithful

Sometimes when I'm alone in the car, I like to sing to myself. Yes, aloud and full voice. So today, on my way to church, I was singing Christmas carols to myself. Actually, one Christmas carol in particular: O Come All Ye Faithful, which is one of my favorites (and which, coincidentally, just came on Pandora's "Classical Christmas" station as I began writing this post... bizarre). 

I ran over something that looked sharp, and I was concerned it might have damaged my tire. I listened, and it seemed to be fine. "Boy," I thought. "A flat tire on my way to church. That would be a bummer. What would I do?" and I thought about what I was would do, as I continued to sing and drive.

And then I started spinning out of control. I had hit some black ice. I heard the screeching from my brakes that I know and even knew I wasn't supposed to slam, but hey, when you are going somewhere very quickly that you know you shouldn't be, instincts say, "Hit the brakes!" I could see a car coming the other direction. I could see telephone poles, mailboxes, and snow banks. Expletives *may* have been uttered. I decided this was much worse than a flat tire.

And then I stopped. Went into a ditch, in a snow bank, several feet from a telephone pole. The car that was coming in the other direction, who had thankfully seen all of this, pulled over right near me and put on his hazards. I waved to show I was okay. He got out of the car and came over. 

That was the first "faithful" who came to me this morning.

He helped calm me down, made sure I was okay, offered to wait there with me until AAA came. Several (faithful?) people stopped by to make sure everyone was okay. We assured them it was. The nice man was on his way to a basketball tournament, but he said he could send the others in his car on ahead and wait with me. "Do you want me to call the sheriff?" he asked?

And at that moment, the sheriff drove up: the second "faithful" who came.

I called AAA. When they said it would be 45 minutes, I asked if they could put a rush on things, because I was a pastor and church started in 25 minutes. "Sure thing," she said. (Best $100 I have spent all year. Thanks AAA!) My basketball-playing friend went on to his game, but the sheriff let me sit in his warm car while we waited. He called some folks to make sure things were moving as quickly as possible.

Then AAA came. "O come, all ye faithful..."

While the good-natured AAA guy (who laughed at all my lame jokes) worked on getting my car out, my friend Jenny, also a pastor, drove by: another faithful. "You okay? You need a ride to Bethlehem?" ("O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem...") I said thanks, but I would also need to get to St. Martin after, so I needed to wait for my car. She made sure I was really, really okay, offered me her parents' extra car to use in case I needed it, and was on her way. I finally got ahold of someone at church and said, "Just sing some Christmas carols until I get there." (Later, the poor guy I talked to said he was so stunned he didn't know what to say!)

After my car was safely out, the exhaust pipe cleaned out, and damage investigated (just a little popped out bumper, nothing that a good kick won't fix... when I'm not wearing my church shoes), I was back on my way. Having spun out around 8:20, I arrived at Bethlehem just after 9am, in time to hear the congregation singing, "Once in Royal David's City."

For the children's sermon, I told them how when Mary heard she would carry God's son, she sang. Then I taught them how to sing, "O Come, All Ye Faithful."

Then I preached a sermon (see previous post) on how God comes to us in unlikely times and places. Like in a ditch on Atlantic Ave. What a God. O come, let us adore him.

Sermon: God Comes to Us (Dec. 23, Advent 4C)

Luke 1:39-55

Grace to you and peace from the one who was, who is, and who is to come. Amen.

 The Magnificat, this beautiful song from Mary that we both recited as our Psalm today and then heard as our Gospel reading, is one of the most remarkable in all of scripture. It has been set to music by countless composers. It is used in the liturgy of the church in every evening prayer service. Its themes and imagery are significant for the whole of Luke’s Gospel.

But as beautiful as the words themselves, is the context in which they are spoken. We’re all familiar with this story. Mary has just been told by the angel Gabriel that she will conceive a child by means of the Holy Spirit, that her child will be holy, indeed the very Son of God. Though she is startled and understandably confused, she offers a faithful “Let it be according to your will” (hence inspiring one of the greatest Beatles’ songs of all time, by the way!).

And then we get today’s Gospel reading. After hearing this news, Mary takes off “with haste” to see her cousin Elizabeth. The angel has told her that Elizabeth, too, has miraculously conceived a child in her old age, and Mary undoubtedly believes that, in the midst of something so unbelievable as what has just happened to her, Elizabeth, at least, will understand.

The rest of the story is what we just heard – and what we will hear tomorrow night, of course! As Mary arrives, the child in Elizabeth’s womb leaps, Elizabeth is filled with the Holy Spirit, telling Mary that she is blessed among women for believing that God’s salvation plan would be fulfilled in her, and Mary sings these beautiful words that we call the Magnificat.

We are all pretty familiar with the Christmas story – at least the part that we see in Christmas pageants and read in children’s books. But this part of the story, these months leading up to Jesus’ birth are so remarkable as well. Given recent events, what strikes me this year more than ever before is God’s insistence throughout this story to come to us. As faith and religion has taken a different role in modern culture than it has in the past, many people, even some of us perhaps, have started to understand God as a God of convenience: someone that we go to in times of need, someone to pray to when we are struggling for some reason or another. Maybe we also even give God praise and thanks when good things happen. It’s hard to forget the grinning Gabby Douglas in the Olympics this summer, after winning the All-Around Gold in gymnastics, when she said, “I give God the glory!” But in either of those situations, we’re really placing ourselves as the acting agent, aren’t we? I need something, so I pray. I’m thankful for something, so I give thanks. But this story – this whole story of God’s becoming human in the person of Jesus – is a resounding chorus of God as the active agent: God coming to us, often against all odds.

This is an important message these days, in the midst of so many questions about the action or apparent inaction, the presence or apparent absence of God. All through December we hear outrage about the “War on Christmas.” “Keep Christ in Christmas!” we say. Following last week’s shooting, people had even more cause for concern. One politician came out saying that the reason such evil could have happened in that elementary school was because God had been systematically removed from public schools by way of disallowing schools to pray. Those of us who fear Christianity’s demise in an increasingly pluralistic country can point to all kinds of terrible consequences to squeezing God out of our everyday lives, whether from schools or anywhere.

But as legitimate as those claims and concerns may seem to be, they miss the whole point of the incarnation, of God coming to earth as a human being. If the incarnation shows us anything, it is that no matter what we do, God cannot be squeezed out. Because God can and will come to us whenever God wants.

A careful look at this story will show us this again and again. First of all, in the annunciation, when Gabriel tells Mary she will conceive: Mary did nothing to call upon this honor. God came to her, to unlikely her, to an unwed teenager. And Mary couldn’t have done anything about it if she tried! “You will conceive in your womb and bear a son,” the angel says. Not, “We were thinking you might be the highly favored one. Thoughts about that?” And certainly not, “You’ll conceive as long as you don’t mess anything up.” Keep in mind it was by no means proper for her to be pregnant at that time, under those circumstances. Anyone would have every reason to say so! But God came to her, because God will go wherever He wants or needs to go to fulfill God’s purpose.

Following this announcement, Luke tells us, Mary goes “with haste” to visit her relative, Elizabeth. Again, this seems an unlikely choice. She was a young girl, and pregnant at that, and this was a long journey, probably about 70 miles. As she approaches, she calls out a greeting, and the child in Elizabeth’s own womb – who, you may remember, is John the Baptist – leaps, as if to say to Elizabeth, “Make no mistake! Mary is coming, and she is bringing something extremely significant with her!” Baby John, the unborn prophet of the Most High who will prepare the way for the Lord, is beginning his job early, announcing to his mother that God is coming. And once again, God does come – to Elizabeth, by unlikely way of her pregnant cousin. And in response, Luke tells us, Elizabeth is filled with the Holy Spirit. And so the presence of God, Emmanuel, God with us, remains with her.

         God comes to us. By unlikely means, at unlikely times, God comes to us. Stuck in a ditch on Atlantic Ave. on a Sunday morning, God comes to us. Despite the odds being against it, God comes to us. God always comes. God cannot be kept out. One author writes, “God can be wherever God wants to be. God needs no formal invitation. We couldn’t ‘systematically remove’ God if we tried. If the incarnation teaches us anything, it’s that God can be found everywhere: in a cattle trough, on a throne, among the poor, with the sick, on a donkey, in a fishing boat, with the junkie, with the prostitute, with the hypocrite, with the forgotten, in places of power, in places of oppression, in poverty, in wealth, where God’s name is known, where it is unknown, with our friends, with our enemies, in our convictions, in our doubts, in life, in death, at the table, on the cross, and in every kindergarten classroom from Sandy Hook to Shanghai. God cannot be kept out.”

And because of that, because God cannot be kept out of our lives, God is worthy of praise, and so with Mary, our souls “magnify the Lord” and our “spirits rejoice.” You remember how quickly we want to make ourselves the acting agent when it comes to God, only coming to God when we need something? Not so with Mary. Notice, after those opening words, how every statement she makes is about the magnificent work that God has done: God has done great things, God has shown strength with his arm, God has scattered the proud, God has brought down the powerful and lifted up the humble and lowly, God has filled the hungry with good things, God has helped his servant Israel. And most importantly, God has fulfilled His promises, and always will.

And one of the best promises of all is the one we will celebrate tomorrow night: the promise to be Emmanuel, God with us, forever. Will we ever doubt this promise? Probably. There is so much pain in the world that it is hard not to wonder, “Where is God now?” But He is always there: maybe not looking like we think God ought to look at that particular moment. Maybe not acting the way we think God ought to act at that particular time. But… God does have a history of coming to us in ways we wouldn’t expect.

Let us pray. Emmanuel, you came to Mary, you came to Elizabeth, and you come to us, in so many wonderful and mysterious ways. Help us to trust that you are the acting agent, and that you have, you do, and you will come to us. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

This is one of the windows in the sanctuary at Taize. If you look carefully, you can see John in Elizabeth's womb bowing to Jesus in Mary's womb.

Wish #2: Granted

In my very first post on the blog, I linked to a New York Times article about my Make-a-Wish experience. Here's a little more on that story. Playing or even sitting with the NY Phil was not my only option for a wish. I was also an avid soccer player, see, and the US Women's team had just won the World Cup, led by Mia Hamm. So, pretty high up there on my list of wishes was to go see the women play, and to meet Mia Hamm. I even admitted this on live television (Today Show or Early Show, can't remember which). I later learned that they tried to arrange for Mia Hamm to meet me in the green room following the concert, but it didn't work out. Oh well. I went on to play a lot of music and not nearly as much soccer, so I guess I made the right wish in the long run!

Fast forward 13 years. I admit that when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I thought, "Man, and I won't even get a wish out of this one!" Little did I know...

Tonight, someone from church gave Michael and me tickets for the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra Holiday Gala concert, a wonderfully fun concert with lots of little gimmicks each year. One they pulled this year was to have a Rochester Olympian conduct Leroy Anderson's "Sleigh Ride." I looked at Michael: "Do you think it's Abby Wambach??" I had learned she was from Rochester (Fairport, actually) when I was here interviewing for this call (job) during the Women's World Cup in 2011. She's a local hero! Well no, it was in fact Jenn Suhr, another Rochester native, and gold medalist in pole vault. But lo and behold, after Jenn's shining moment, it was announced that in fact Abby Wambach was in the audience that night, too! And she was sitting directly in front of us, about 8-10 rows!

At first I was too embarrassed to approach her, though many others did during intermission. (I know, shocking, right? Johanna, embarrassed?) But during the second half, I thought, "You know, I had cancer again this year, and maybe this time, I can meet a world-renowned soccer star like I didn't the first time!" Different cancer, different city in NY, same time of year, and remarkably full circle!

So after the concert, Michael and I waited around, and as she was leaving, I caught her arm. I introduced myself and put out my hand. "I'm Abby," she said, and shook it. "Can I tell you a quick story?"I asked. "I think you'll appreciate it." She said of course, so I did, telling her about my first diagnosis and wish, how I had thought about meeting Mia Hamm, how I had recently undergone breast cancer treatments, and what a coincidence it was that the next big soccer star was sitting a few rows ahead of me, so I wanted to take the chance and meet her. I finished with, "So, thanks for making my wish come true this time, too." She was very touched. Then her mom asked if she could take our picture. (I guess when someone says to your daughter, "Thanks for making my wish come true," you take a picture!) And then Michael took one, too. Then we parted, and she wished me good luck with everything, and congratulated me on beating cancer again. And so it was that I met Abby Wambach.

Pretty cool stuff. Day is made. :)

Sermon: Get Out the Gunk (Dec. 9, 2012)

Advent 2C

Luke 3:1-6, Luke 1:68-79

            In the fourth year of the presidency of Barack Obama, when Andrew Cuomo was governor of New York, and Maggie Brooks Monroe County Executive, and Kirsten Gillebrand and Charles Schumer were the US Senators from New York, during when Mark Hanson was presiding bishop of the ELCA and Marie Jerge was bishop of upstate New York Synod, the word of God came to Bethlehem/St. Martin Lutheran Church in the suburbs.

            What is that word of God? Well, hate to tell you, but it still isn’t about the sleeping babe of Bethlehem, at least not initially. Today, we get to talk about John the Baptist, and with that, we get to talk about sin.

            “Sin?!” you ask. “When do we get to the Christmas-y stuff?” Well, we may not want to talk about sin during this season, but John sure does! You remember John, known as “the Baptist,” Jesus’ sort of wild and crazy cousin, son of Elizabeth and Zechariah. When he wasn’t eating locusts and wild honey, John was all about talking about sin – from the very beginning! His dad even prophesied about it when he was born! This past week in our midweek Advent Bible study, we learned about the Benedictus, which, coincidentally is our Psalm today, and which is spoken by John’s father, Zechariah. We were a little shaky on Wednesday on how all of this hangs together, so before we go on, let’s do a little review together:

            Zechariah was a priest, and one day he gets elected to enter the sanctuary of the Lord in the synagogue and offer incense. While he’s in there, lo and behold the angel Gabriel appears and tells him, “Hey, guess what? Your wife [who is, by the way, getting on in years] is pregnant! This child’s name will be John, and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit, and lead many people to God, and prepare the way of the Lord.” Zechariah is understandably shocked by this, and because of his disbelief (because let’s face it, it’s pretty unbelievable!), the angel makes him unable to speak for the next nine months. Fast-forward to John’s birth and subsequent dedication, and they name the kid John, despite no one in the family having that name. And as Zechariah writes that on a tablet (because remember, he couldn’t speak), his mouth was opened and his tongue freed and he begins to speak, and what are the first words out of his mouth? These words that we read a moment ago for the Psalm. And in this prophecy, Zechariah lays out what will be the purpose of his little son, John: “And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;” he says, “for you will go before the Lord to prepare his way, 
to give knowledge of salvation to his people
by the forgiveness of their sins.”

            So there you have it: the role of John the Baptist, to give knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of sins. And to address our earlier question about what sin has got to do with Christmas… Well, what could be more Christmas-y than the forgiveness of sins? After all, our sin is the reason Jesus had to be born at all. Plus, Zechariah tells us that it is by the forgiveness of sins that we will come to have knowledge of salvation.

            During Advent, we talk a lot about preparing ourselves, our hearts for Christ’s coming, and in our Gospel today, John tells us precisely how we are to do that: repent. “He went into all the region around the Jordan,” Luke tells us, “proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” I think there’s some baggage around the word, repent, maybe because it is often associated with fundamentalist street corner preachers telling us we need to repent or we’ll burn for eternity. I don’t know about all that, but I do know that repenting is not such a bad thing.

But I like the way our reading today from Malachi describes it. He describes repentance as being like refiner’s fire and fuller’s soap. In both of these images, a substance is washed, scrubbed, beaten down, burned – it goes through an assortment of strenuous, high impact treatment in order to get rid of all the gunk and come out with something precious, pristine, stronger and more valuable than before. Repentance can be like that! It sure isn’t easy, having to reflect on the grime and grub on our hearts, to name it, to deal with it in a healthy manner. But once we do, do we not come out stronger, shinier, and more beautiful than before?

            I don’t know, do you really believe that? If we really believed that, would we not be more ready, even more eager to participate in this repentance that John the Baptist and Malachi both proclaim? So what keeps us from doing it? Why is repentance so hard for us? Maybe it’s because we think we’re not so bad, that there’s not so much gunk on our hearts that needs to get off, and so why go through the trouble? I’m ready enough for Jesus. Bring it on.

            Or maybe, we are worried that there is so much gunk in our lives that after it’s gone, after the fuller has scrubbed it away and the refiner has purified it… that there won’t be anything left. We’ve grown so accustomed to the false truths that guide our lives, that if we get rid of all that, everything we have known, what will we have to rely on anymore? How can we be sure that what is on the other side of repentance will feel as safe and comfortable as it does on this side?

            I mentioned several weeks back that I had started watching the TV show, Lost, about a group of people whose airplane crashes on a strange island. One of the best parts of the show, I think, is learning the back-stories of the characters. Recently, I watched an episode about Sayid, an Iraqi man who served in the Republican Guard as an interrogator and torturer – a time of his life he deeply regrets. By chance, he ends up in the hands of the husband of one of the women he tortured, who insists that Sayid confess to what he did. Terrified of what this man might do to him, Sayid repeatedly denies having touched her. Finally, Sayid is left alone with the woman, and, having shared with him her story, she asks him again to confess. Finally, through tears, he does, apologizing profusely for what he has done to her and others, baring and risking his soul to her. Through the intensity of his sobbing, she says, “I forgive you.” Sayid looks at her in astonishment, the look of a man who has felt the utter fear of repentance, and the sweet relief of forgiveness. How could he know before she said those words what would happen if he admitted to what he’d done? But having felt that relief, how could he ever go back?

            It is hard to face our demons, the things in our lives that fester inside us and draw our attention from God. It is hard to give up our false “yeses,” our reliance on things that ultimately hurt us and keep us from feeling peace. The work is difficult, and we fear we cannot be sure of what lies on the other side. We would rather stay where at least we know what to expect, even if that means our relationship with God suffers.

            But is this not why Jesus comes to earth? To bring us back into a right relationship with a God who loves us so much? John the Baptist is right: the birth of Christ is about forgiveness. It’s about getting past those demons – the ones that haunt our past and the ones that plague our present, but the ones that need not persist in our future. In Christ, we are forgiven of our sins, our demons, our dirty thoughts, our less-than-cheery moments, the ways we hurt ourselves and our neighbors. Every last one of them: forgiven. And in that forgiveness, we are not left the nothingness we may have feared. Rather, we are left with the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding. We are left with a Christ to stake our lives on. We are left with a closer relationship with the God who made us and loves us no matter what.

            Let us pray. Blessed are you, O Lord our God. We have so many things that are heavy on our hearts, so many things for which we need forgiveness. Grant us the courage to repent, so our hearts would be ready for the coming of your Son, and all the love and joy that comes with him. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Hopeful Interruption (Dec. 2, 2012)

Advent 1 C

Luke 21:25-36

            Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

            Well, I finally did it: I put up my decorations and even my tree this weekend. I resisted doing it over Thanksgiving weekend, even though everyone around me seemed to be taking the Christmas plunge. But I just couldn’t do it – even yesterday was really pushing it for me. For me, see, setting up for Christmas is not about Thanksgiving, or even about December, but about when Advent starts. I just have a really hard time setting out an Advent wreath before I can light any candles on it!  

            But once I do get out all my Advent and Christmas stuff… oh, how I love it. In addition to things I’ve collected, I’ve also inherited many of my grandparents’ beautiful things from around the world, so my house is full of hand-carved angels, delicate balsa wood stars, and candles, tons of candles! My living room is transformed into a place of peace and calm and soft light and loveliness… reminiscent of how that peaceful night in Bethlehem must have been….

            I have a confession. I don’t really think that’s how it was in Bethlehem that night. That may be how we like to think of Christmas – our sweet little Lord Jesus no crying he makes, cattle lowing, angels singing sweetly. And maybe you were hoping to get a glimpse of that sweet sleeping babe of Bethlehem when you came to church this morning. But our Gospel text for this first Sunday in Advent will have none of that! Instead of peace and calm, we hear about distress among nations, fainting from fear, the powers of heaven being shaken. Quite a rude awakening!

            Rude, maybe, but also honest. Because even as we may get caught up in this season of good cheer, there are plenty of other things going on in our lives that are not cheerful. Even if your life is full of joy and delight right now, we also cannot help but be painfully aware that at any moment, everything could change. One misstep, one dreaded phone call, one angry word – and your life could be changed forever. A text like our Gospel today reminds us of why we even need in our lives the hope and joy that Jesus brings: we need an interruption to the struggle we face, and in order to make itself known, that interruption better be pretty dramatic!

            Pastor Emory Gillespie tells a story about her first Thanksgiving in a new parish. She had been invited to preach at the ecumenical Thanksgiving service in town. Wanting to look professional and impressive, she went to pick up a new pair of black pumps in time for the service. Her 2-year-old son strapped in his car seat, she was on her way… but instead of getting new shoes, she got in a car wreck. She writes, “In November’s freezing rain, a semi-trailer stopped behind us. Its headlights blasted into our car, showing me the broken glass and blood among us. As the truck driver lifted us into his rig I remember thinking, ‘Something had better interrupt this scene, and it’d better be immediate, and it’d better be big.’ Traffic wound its way around us. I worried for my son’s life. Finally, we heard sirens. The discordant, high-pitched screeching came at us like a symphony. Only in this and in a handful of other traumatic circumstances in my life have I heard something akin to an Advent invasion as it was intended to be – those sirens were Good News with capital letters.” (Christian Century, Nov. 28, 2012)

            And that’s what Advent can be – is meant to be – in our lives: a loud, even obnoxious interruption into whatever trauma or fear we might be experiencing, that promises to bring us our salvation. This reading from Luke reminds us of that, with all its drama and fear and discomfort. It reminds us that life is like that sometimes – distress, and fainting from fear and foreboding, and feeling the heavens shaken. But more importantly, it reminds us that even in the midst of all of these things that interrupt our lives and change them in an instant, we will find an even louder, more powerful interruption: sirens, announcing the Good News of our salvation.

            That is why the central theme of this Advent season is one of hope. Hope is a pretty incredible thing, isn’t it? I’ve been thinking a lot about hope, lately. As I have been facing decisions about breast cancer treatment options this fall, there have been a lot of statistics to take in. There’s a 15% chance this will come back. There’s a 20% chance that will happen. If you do this treatment, you cut your risk by 50%. One day it occurred to me that almost all of the statistics I have heard have been framed negatively. “There’s a 20% chance that you’ll get cancer again.” And suddenly it occurred to me: That means there is an 80% chance that I won’t, that I will instead thrive and be healthy and cancer-free for the rest of my life! Those are pretty hopeful statistics, if you ask me. And they are a lot more hopeful if I cling to that 80%, instead of act out of fear of what could happen. I would much rather live in hope than react out of fear.

            And this is the lesson of Advent: live in the hope of what is to come. No matter how bad it looks, don't give up the faith. Hang in there, ‘cuz God is in control. Fear happens; this is inevitable. Life is full of the unknown, the frustrating, the scary, the devastating, and things can turn for the worst in an instant. But in that, we have a hope we can cling to, an interruption that is louder and more powerful than anything life can serve us, and that is the hope that comes along with that babe in a manger. This is the salvation that Jeremiah promises in our first lesson today. It is the salvation we experience right now. And it is the salvation for which we still wait, as we await Christ’s second coming. That is why we call Jesus the one who was and who is and who is to come.

            So how do we open ourselves to the possibility of that hopeful interruption? Jesus gives us three ideas. First, he says, “don’t let your hearts be weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of life.” On Thanksgiving Eve this year, we talked about giving thanks in the midst of worry, even giving thanks for the things that worry us, so that our hearts might be opened to seeing God working in those things. As for dissipation and drunkenness… well, think of that not only literally, but as representative of all the distractions of this season. One of my goals this Advent is to find a little bit of time each day that is just for me, quiet time for me to focus and not feel rushed. Maybe that would be a good practice for you, too, these coming weeks.

            The next thing Jesus urges us to do is to “be alert at all times.” Even as we strive to find some time to ourselves for peace and focus, we never stop paying attention. Remember that Christ is the one is and who was and who is to come – that means that Christ is already among us! Several of my friends, through the month of November, participated in a “30 days of thankfulness” exercise, and each day they posted something on Facebook that they were thankful for. What if we did the same thing in December – not necessarily on Facebook, but maybe in a journal – but instead called it, “31 days of blessedness” or “31 days of hopefulness”? Christ is already blessing us and bringing us hope, here and now; all we have to do is notice Christ’s presence among us.

            And finally, Jesus tells us to pray. Pray for strength, for endurance, for patience as we wait. This should be the first thing – for how can we do anything without the power of prayer to fuel us? Maybe you can pray during that time you’ve set apart for yourself. Maybe in your car between errands. Maybe you join us for our midweek soup, Bible study, and worship, as an opportunity to step away from the hustle and bustle and focus on God. Our prayer nook at St. Martin has a new activity this month, which helps participants to pray through setting up a nativity scene, thinking about each character who was present at that first Christmas, and letting those characters’ lives help us reflect on our own. Maybe you could pray through setting up your own nativity, or your tree, or whatever other Advent and Christmas themed décor you have in your house.

            We’re still several weeks away from the Peace that is born in a stable, that angels will sing and that brings shepherds and kings alike to their knees. During this time, this Advent season, we are given a great gift: an opportunity to really think about why that baby matters, about why we need that kind of hope in our lives, about what situation in our lives needs a loud, saving, hopeful interruption.

            Let us pray. Lord of Hope, you are the one who is and who was and who is to come. Help us to notice the blessings you bring, to be alert and ready for your presence among us, to pray for strength as we wait, and to live in the hope that is our Lord Jesus Christ. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.