Sermon: "Lazarus at my exit" (Sept 29, 2013)

Pentecost 19C

Luke 16:19-31

         Since moving into our new house, Michael and I have been trying different routes to get to and from work. What I have mostly settled on for going home is going via 104, and getting off at the Hudson/Carter exit. Almost every day, at this exit between about 4 and 6 o’clock, there is a man standing on the corner at the stoplight. He holds a sign written on a piece of cardboard – you know the type – and it says some version of, “Need work. Please help. God bless.”

         I’ve never talked to him, because he usually stands on the left corner, and I’m always turning right. Or at least that is why I tell myself that I haven’t talked to him – because that sounds and feels a lot better than saying I haven’t talked to him because I’m scared to, or because he’ll probably take advantage of me if I reach out, or because he’ll probably use my generosity to buy booze, or because one granola bar or even $10 isn’t going to help because what he needs is a steady income, and I can’t help him with that. You see, there are really so many reasons I don’t talk to him, but most of them boil down to: I’m too lazy, I’m too fearful, or I’m too cynical.

         But I do wonder about him. Does he have a family? A home? If he’s married, does his wife work? What got him in this situation? What sort of work is he able to do? What was that day like, the day he decided that he needed to stand on the corner of an exit off 104 at rush hour, and beg people for help? What made him finish his written request with, “God bless”? Does he believe in God? Does he believe in Jesus?

         Do you think his name is Lazarus?

         The parable Jesus tells us today, the story about the rich man and Lazarus, has not helped my guilt about that man on the corner, my very own Lazarus, if not at my gate, at least at my exit. And frankly, none of the readings today instill much more than guilt in me. Take Amos, for example, who admonishes those who relish in their riches at the exclusion of the poor: those who live like they are entitled to their wealth, with their beautiful beds, and their juicy steak and veal, and their large glasses of wine, who sit around playing music, and use fancy soaps, and hardly even consider the ruin of so many people around them. Amos basically just described my weekend!

         And then Timothy, who reminds us that we came into this world penniless, and will leave it penniless – after all, you never see a hearse towing a U-Haul! Because of this, we should be content just to have food and clothing enough to survive. Any more than that, he says, and our wealth will start to tempt us. “Those who want to be rich,” he says, “fall into temptation and are trapped by many senseless and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction.” And then that famous line: “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evils.” Youch!

         And if you weren’t feeling guilty and threatened enough, the parable of the rich man and Lazarus seals the deal, as we see the beggar Lazarus end up in heaven, and the rich man in Hades. This reversal theme is prevalent in Luke from the very beginning: you remember, how Mary sang when she found out she would bear the son of God, “the hungry will be filled and the rich sent away empty.” Now, Lazarus, who could scarcely find a scrap to eat and had only dogs for friends, is feasting in heaven, while the rich man, who feasted sumptuously every day, is being tormented down below. And Father Abraham’s chastisement: you should have listened to Moses and the prophets – prophets like Amos – and then you would have known this would happen!

         I don’t know about you, but all three of these readings make my stomach turn. Is a glass of wine after a long day really a sin? Should I not be sleeping in such a nice bed? Do I love money too much? Is my avoidance of the man at my exit off of 104 going to send me straight to Hades?

         As is so often the case with Jesus’ parables, this one is not meant to be taken literally – that is, it is not so much saying that if you are well-off, you are going to Hades for eternity. Rather, it is a description of how God calls us to live in this life. So we can ask ourselves, what is the rich man’s sin, and how shall we avoid it?

Is his sin that he is rich? No, I don’t think so. After all, we have seen that money can be used for many godly purposes. Just last week, the shrewd steward showed us how money can be used to help people and build relationships. Bill and Melinda Gates have used their fortune to improve the lives of many people through their charitable foundation. Money in itself is not a bad thing, and can be a very good thing.

Is his sin, then, that he has no compassion for Lazarus, there on his doorstep day after day, and the rich man doesn’t even give him scraps from the table? Well, I’d say we’re getting closer, but I still don’t think that is quite the whole story.

Really, I think the rich man’s sin is a combination of the two: that his wealth prevents him from having compassion, from seeing human need. It is his preference for money over anything else, over God and his neighbor. That’s what Amos admonishes, when he points out all these people enjoying their riches while those around them are in ruins. That’s what Timothy means when he says not that money is the root of all kinds of evil, but rather that the love of money is. In all three cases, the problem is that money has become an idol, something to be achieved in itself, something that insulates us from the needs of those around us.

And when we isolate ourselves from others’ needs, and hence from the natural human tendency toward compassion, do we not also isolate ourselves from God? Because if we have so much money, and we are numbed to the needs of our neighbor, what’s to keep us from believing that we have no needs, that money can satisfy anything we need or desire, that we are sufficient unto ourselves? Suddenly, we no longer need God, or grace, or the salvation promised to us by Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. Who needs God’s grace and mercy if you’ve got hard work, and a little luck, and a healthy bank account?

There is a lot of conversation these days about some of the explicit religious references in government-related things, mostly notably “under God” in the Pledge of Allegiance, and “In God We Trust” on our money. I don’t know where I fall constitutionally on those issues, but personally, I find it extremely helpful to see “In God we trust” on my money. I wish my checks and credit cards said it, too. What a wonderful reminder to always ask myself, “Do I spend my money in a way that reflects that I trust God?” Does it show my care and compassion for God’s children?  Or do I use it to isolate myself from the human need around me – by buying a house in a safe neighborhood, and driving my own car to avoid public transportation, and staying out of down town if I can help it? Do my spending habits reflect my trust of and utter dependence on God? Or do I use it to further my desire for self-sufficiency and autonomy? Should my money say, “In God we trust,” or would I rather it say, “In myself I trust?”

         What would have happened, I wonder, if the rich man had reached out to Lazarus? We can’t know, of course. But we do know a little bit about what happens when we reach out to others in service. And by service, I don’t mean help – help implies that one person has something that the other doesn’t, that one person is there to fix and the other only to receive. By service, I mean those times when we open our hearts with a willingness to be vulnerable, to be present with another person, so hear his or her story, without judgment or expectation. When we are willing to do that, we not only perceive another person’s need, we also become aware of our own need – our need for God and for God’s grace. We become more aware of our own humanity, our own longings and insufficiencies, and we therefore appreciate God’s grace in Christ, who took on our need, our humanity, so that we could see the depth of God’s profound love for each of us. This truly is something we can trust.

         Let us pray. God of grace and compassion, we often overlook the needs of others and even our own needs, preferring to think that we can manage life completely on our own and don’t owe anything to anyone. Help us to put our trust in you, so that everything we do and everything we are might reflect that trust. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Michael's birthday

Yesterday was Michael's 41st birthday. It was a low key affair - Michael's favorite pizza, some of our favorite TV shows, wearing our favorite outfits (sweats!), and one friend stopped by to hang out for a bit. Just exactly what we both wanted and needed, especially after last year's birthday.

On Michael's 40th birthday, we spent the day in the hospital, because I was having my first lumpectomy - what we hoped and prayed would be a once-and-done event for getting rid of breast cancer. Most of my surgery memories have blurred today, but I do have a few memories of that particular day. Most of them are from being in the breast care center beforehand, when I had to go to get a wire loc, to show the surgeon where the cancer actually was in my breast. And I remember one of the doctors who was there, the one who had first told me about the calcifications on July 9, 2012, and had said to me, "The treatment that saved your life when you were 16 has caused this to happen." Now as they wheeled me out of the breast care center and toward surgery, she said, "When's the wedding?" At that time, the date was still set for July, so I said, "July 20," and she said, "And when do you start making babies?" and I said, "July 20!" and we all laughed, joyful that today would be the day that cancer would go away and Michael and I would get on with our lives.

There were so many emotions that day: some fear (Michael had tried to read in the waiting room, but could not focus on a thing to save his life), some joy, some confusion. This year, Michael and I both recalled what a bizarre way it was to spend a big birthday, but didn't talk about it much beyond that. I silently reflected on all that has happened since that day, which now seems so very long ago. How much has happened in the meantime! I won't get into it - just go ahead and read the blogs between then and now if you want to know! - but I did want to mention it.

I do wonder when Michael's birthday will go back to just being Michael's birthday, just as I wonder when my birthday will stop being "the day I had my first biopsy." (I have much more vivid memories of my 29th birthday than my 30th birthday this past year.) Someday cancer won't be something that marks the milestones of our days. Someday I hope we will be more focused on things like our wedding anniversaries, our children's birthdays, stuff like that.

I do look forward to that day.

Knowledge is Power: Happy Mesothelioma Awareness Day!

I was thinking the other day how quickly things like, "prophylactic mastectomy" roll off my tongue, and I assume everyone knows what they mean, as if I've forgotten that 18 months ago, I had no idea what that meant. I could not perceive what happens when someone has a mastectomy, and certainly not reconstruction. This was just not a part of my knowledge base - why would it be?

As I'm sure you have heard before, early detection is key in many cancers, and detection can happen when you know something about the disease. Someone approached me telling me today was Mesothelioma Awareness Day, and asking me to spread the word about this little-known but deadly disease, caused by asbestos exposure. This is the blog she wrote about it, with eight things you should know about it.

Read it. Learn about it. Knowledge is power - education saves lives!

On moving slowly

(The following is the article I wrote for my churches' October newsletter.)

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances;

 for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

(1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)

            When I was called to Bethlehem and St. Martin, now two years ago, I was rearing to go, eager to get into the fulfilling and challenging work of ministry among God’s people. With two churches to learn about and lead, I hit the ground running – sometimes quite literally, as I tried to figure out how to be in two places as once! People often joked to me about how quickly I walked from place to place, even when there really was no hurry. That was just the mode I was in – with so much going on and so much I wanted to do and be involved in, there was no time to walk slowly!

            Given the various events of the past year of my life, I’m getting the impression that this rushed mode of operation was not what God had in mind for me, at least not all the time. Cancer knocked me down for a while, and just as things started to calm down after that, cancer struck again. Just as I was finishing healing from that big surgery, there was a house to buy and two weddings to plan and have, and I was going a million miles an hour with no break. Finally, on the first day in months when Michael and I didn’t have anywhere we needed to be and could just take a breath and enjoy married life, a minor injury gave me the loudest message of all: I sprained my ankle on the soccer field. (First soccer injury in 25 years of playing – that ain’t bad!)

            There was plenty of reason to be frustrated about this, and believe me, I was. But when the doctor told me it would be about four weeks to recover, I realized that this was actually both message and gift from God: I would have to slow down. My ankle simply will not allow me to move at the pace at which I’m used to moving. And this will be the case for just about as long as I have before my next mastectomy. Our God is hilarious. But I got the message.

            I have noticed a few things as I have been forced to move more slowly. I feel calmer. I feel like I breathe more. I notice things around me more. I am more present with people. I’m more aware of the state of my heart, especially around my upcoming surgery, and I’ve been able to process that in a healthy way. And even though I see piles of things around me that need to be done (laundry, unpacking, organizing…), the fact that I simply can’t do anything about it right now brings me some serenity and peace.

            All of this, I see as a sort of prayer. Paul urges us to “pray without ceasing” – language that gives a sense of urgency and relentlessness. But God has shown me that prayers of thanksgiving can happen just by walking more slowly and noticing what’s around me; prayers of intercession can be ceaseless when I am stuck sitting at a table with someone and can’t think about getting up to do something else; and rejoicing fills my soul when I breathe more deeply. This has quite literally been a painful lesson, but one I hope to remember well after my body is free of both illness and injury. Let it be so. Thanks be to God!

Sermon: A messy parable of grace for our messy lives (Sept. 22)

Pentecost 18

Luke 16:1-13

         It seems like Luke has handed us a lot of difficult passages in row, hasn’t he? Today we get perhaps Jesus’ most challenging parable of all: the dishonest manager, sometimes called the shrewd manager. Scholars, preachers, and theologians have spent centuries trying to figure this one out, but it just doesn’t sit very well, does it? It starts off with a situation not entirely unfamiliar to us today – a rich man had put a manager, or steward, in charge of his property and finances, and that steward got involved in some sort of scandal, embezzlement or the like. Today people go to jail big time for missteps like this, so it is no surprise when the rich man calls in the steward and says, “Give me the books, and get out. I don’t want you to be my steward any more. You’re fired.”

Well what is a well-educated man who’s never done a lick of manual labor in his life supposed to do now? And his new reputation doesn’t help – surely no one will hire him as a manager again, knowing of his dishonest past. He is too weak to do manual labor, and he is too prideful to beg. What other option does he have?

He is desperate, and I think that is an important thing to notice. So often we don’t realize or understand what must be done to turn our lives around until we simply have no other option. We often call this “rock bottom.” I was just reading a memoir of a woman who is a drug addict and alcoholic and eventually turns her life around and becomes a pastor. In the book, she reflects on waking up one Christmas morning, having drunk since 10am the day before, beside someone she did not know, and what horrified her the most about this scenario was that none of this horrified her anymore. She went to AA to try to prove to herself and her friends that she wasn’t an alcoholic, but instead, she recognized there her need for help, her need for grace. Turns out, she was desperate, even more than she realized.

Have you ever felt desperate? Like you’ve tried everything, but you are so burnt out and tired that you can’t give any more energy and don’t have any more ideas? This week I spent a few days at a gathering for the clergy of the Upstate New York Synod – a time of retreat, worship, and continuing education. The theme of our time together was “Vital Congregations,” and we talked a lot about rekindling a sense of mission in our churches. A lot of churches have felt that desperate feeling – this church is thankfully no longer one of them, but it was not all that long ago! Can’t pay the bills, fewer and fewer people coming to church, can’t afford a pastor, leaders are over-extended, not sure if we can keep the doors open. So what is a church to do?

Let’s turn back to the parable – what does the shrewd steward do? First, he recognizes that while he was in a privileged position with a good job and steady income, his money was ultimately unable to assure him the security he needed. The job fell through, and he was left with nothing. So he turned to other resources: human resources. He turned away from the money and its broken promise of security, and he turned toward relationships. If he could bring himself into people’s good graces by treating them kindly and generously, then surely they would return the kindness and charity and welcome him into their homes when he was dismissed as steward. He would be taken care of; he would not be homeless. And so one by one, he calls in the debtors, those who owed his boss, and slashed their debts – 50% off here, 20% off there. Wow! I’m imagining Family First Credit Union calling me to say, “By the way, we just took $50,000 off your mortgage. Have a nice day!” I’d be stunned, and thrilled! And you better believe, if that person then came to my door in need of help, I would be glad to offer it.

But even this dramatic burst of generosity by the steward rubs us the wrong way, doesn’t it? Because in his forgiving the debts of these debtors, he is continuing to steal from his boss! Those were goods owed to someone else, so who is he to forgive them on his boss’s behalf? So surely when the rich man finds out, he will be in a rage, and the dishonest steward will be in even bigger trouble.

But to everyone’s shock, the opposite happens. No yelling, no punishment – instead the rich man commends the dishonest steward for acting so wisely with the money! It goes against every reasonable bone in our bodies. This is not just, this is not fair, this is not the way to teach a lesson to the scoundrels of society.

         Why does Jesus tell us this messy parable? If he wanted to teach us to forgive, could he not have said, “There was a guy who had a lot of people who owed him money. But he didn’t make them pay – he just said, ‘Hey you guys are off the hook,’ and everyone lived happily ever after.” It certainly would have been simpler and more straightforward. But it wouldn’t have been very honest or helpful, because our lives aren’t that simple or straightforward. They are complicated and messy and confusing. Just think of your relationships with people you love dearly, but how those relationships get so tangled up and broken that you can’t even remember anymore what the original problem was. Or those times when you have been between a rock and a hard place, knowing that whatever you decide, someone you care about gets hurt. Or those times when compromising your integrity would be the easiest way out of a situation – and that seems a small price to pay to get you out of this mess! That’s our lives: full of messiness and complications and ethical dilemmas.

         So it’s a good thing Jesus tells us this parable, with all its confusions, because we can certainly relate. In the midst of all the messiness of life, God calls us to do just what the manager did: act wisely and generously with our resources, reach out to build relationships with people, and offer and receive forgiveness.

         Does it take our desperation to do this? Must we be desperate before we will reach out to others for help, before we will try to build new relationships, before we will seek or offer forgiveness? I think it is noteworthy that when this church was looking for a way to survive, it did so by seeking a relationship, a covenant, that offered new hope. It was seeking to forgive and be forgiven. It was praying regularly, “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Being generous and wise with resources, reaching out in relationship, and seeking to give and receive forgiveness: this is how God calls us toward life.

         Because that, you see, is the way our God operates. God had tried many ways to communicate and show love to God’s people, but finally went ahead and slipped on some skin and came to walk among us so that God could build relationships with us, treating the needy with grace and love. Jesus made wild, offensive gestures and claims of forgiveness, forgiving people who do not deserve to be forgiven – like prostitutes and tax collectors, and scribes and Pharisees, and drug addicts turned pastors, and even you and me. 

Divine grace is a strange, startling, and even frustrating thing sometimes. It doesn’t behave the way we think it should. It is offered to the desperate, the confused, and the liars and cheaters. It is offered to the unrighteous, the righteous, the honest and dishonest, the saints and the sinners, even to me, and even to all of you. Thanks be to God for such undiscerning grace!

Let us pray. Gracious and merciful God: we are, every one of us, unworthy of receiving your grace and forgiveness. We make wrong turns all the time, we lie and cheat, and we wait until we have no other option before we turn to you. We give you thanks for your relentless grace, and pray that we will know how to use your gifts wisely. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Day of health, day of healing

I finished my treatments for Hodgkin's Disease on September 17, 1999. That was the day I walked out of my last radiation treatment, hands triumphantly over my head, wearing red plaid pajama pants, a black shirt, and a gray hat to cover my still-bald head. I have remembered this day each year, keeping track of how many years I have been cancer-free. It's always been a day of rejoicing for me, sometimes quiet and personal, sometimes more outwardly celebratory, like when I went to the Florida Keys to celebrate 10 years.

Last year on September 17, I had my third biopsy. Cancer had already been detected at "5 o'clock" in my left breast, but there was some atypical hyperplasia at "3 o' clock" that needed a closer look. I was optimistic about this biopsy being on September 17, because to me, that had for 13 years been a day for celebrating health. If there was no cancer there, I would not need a mastectomy, and a lumpectomy would do. I remember when Dr. Skinner called me with the results, at the very end of her workday, and simply said, "It's not cancer..." and I felt so relieved, with renewed faith in September 17.

Six months later, the biopsy I had at "3 o'clock" of my left breast did show cancer, and I did have a mastectomy. That mastectomy showed more, invasive cancer at "6 o'clock," and so I'm planning a second mastectomy in now less than a month.

This year, I spent September 17 at Synod Ministerium, an annual gathering of the Lutheran clergy in Upstate New York. It was a wonderful event, full of beautiful worship, wonderful colleagues, and inspiring learning. Typically, one evening worship service is a healing service; this year, September 17 was the day of that service of healing. The guy who planned and led worship is a friend of mine, and he had asked me to help, and I ended up planning and leading most of that healing service. September 17: day of healing.

The service was simple: we began with the reading from Jeremiah about desiring a "balm in Gilead," then we sang, "There is a balm in Gilead." We head a couple readings, including one from James about activities to do for healing: prayer, anointing, confession, and even singing. Then we offered those activities. We had a couple folks available to hear confessions. We sang songs. We infused the waters that had helped us remember our baptism that morning with Balm of Gilead oil, and people had the chance to pray with one another and anoint each other with the scented water. Then a litany for the sick, a closing song and a blessing, and voila: a healing service!

I invited people to the time of healing with a little sermonette on healing. I hobbled up front and began, "Healing is something I know something about. After two cancer diagnoses in a year, a sprained ankle is the least of my worries." I went on to say I knew others brought their own need for healing, physical and emotional, and probably a fair number brought with them a need for healing in their congregations. I reflected on how I knew we were in this need together also because of our shared baptism, and because Christ tells all of us that his body and blood is given for us. While I trust in these gifts, sometimes I also need these other things James talks about, and thought maybe this bunch of sinners and saints might also need that, and I invited them to participate in the different stations.

I took my place then by the piano, and started off the healing by singing "Taste and See" - I sang the verses and the congregation joined in on the refrain. The song is a paraphrase of Psalm 34, with lines like, "I called the Lord, who answered me," and, "God has been so good to me," and, "In God we will put all our trust." As I sang, I remembered that I had sung this at one of my churches last summer, right around the time I was diagnosed. When I had rehearsed it with the organist, I had grown increasingly emotional. I had a working professional relationship with the organist, herself a breast cancer survivor, but not really a close personal one. But when I completely fell apart singing, "God has been so good to me," crying uncontrollably, she got off the piano bench, came over near me, and I threw my arms around her and sobbed. She let me, and said, "You can't be strong all the time." It was a turning point in our relationship.

Now, as I sang this same beloved tune before all my colleagues, the memory of that afternoon came flooding back. My throat went dry, and my voice cracked a little, but I did manage to keep myself together to the end of the song. As soon as the last note had rung, I bee-lined for the healing station with the Balm of Gilead. We had some kneelers set up, and the person I ended up paired with was Pastor Hans. Hans and I had connected earlier over our shared name. He asked if I knew what it meant, and I'd answered, "God is gracious." He said, "I prefer to say, 'gracious gift of God.'" Now we smiled at each other as we took our place at the kneeler. 

I prayed for him first. Then we swapped. I knelt, and he leaned down where he could hear me. I said, "So, I have surgery next month..." and suddenly I was sobbing. "And I don't want to do it," I squeaked out. Through my tears, I continued to share the burdens of my heart with this gracious gift of God I had only just met a couple days before. I talked about how I just want to be a newly-wed and enjoy a healthy life with my husband, at least for a little while, how I'm tired of him having to take care of me, how I'm tired of everyone having to take care of me. I want to be the strong, self-sufficient person I'm used to being. Spraining my ankle wouldn't be so bad if it weren't just one more reason for everyone to have to accommodate for my weakness. I lamented that this has not only been a physical strain, but much more an emotional strain for me and those who love me. I went on for a while, until we were the last ones still at a station, and the singing had died down to a hum. Then I looked at Hans through my tears and said, "I think that's enough." He prayed for me - I don't remember all the words, but I do remember he prayed that I would remember and feel like my name: a gracious gift from God. 

It was not lost on me that this happened on September 17, a day which had for 13 years been a day for celebrating health, and now was a day for engaging in and celebrating healing. I have been sad to lose my cancer "birthday" (as American Cancer society calls the remission date - the day a new, cancer-free life starts). Now I don't really have one because this has all been so continuous. It almost feels like if I name another day of health, I'll be jinxing it. I was cancer free on September 27 after my lumpectomy, but then April 3 I had cancer again. Now I think I'm cancer free again, but having to have another mastectomy sure doesn't make it feel like it - I'm still being treated, even if it is preventatively. And even when my risk for breast cancer is very, very low, I have felt all along like this has been more of an emotional disease than a physical one, and that healing is still happening; there will be no one cure date for that.

So, no cure date for me. No one day of health. From now on, I'll engage and celebrate instead a day, nay, a life of healing, inside and out. Let it be so, amen.

Sermon: "Sometimes lost, always found"

Pentecost 17C

September 15, 2013

Luke 15:1-10

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

         We had a nice little hometown grocery store when I was s kid – my parents still go there. It is the sort of store that, when my dad comes through the checkout with a quart of milk, the checker says, “Oh, Lois was just in – she already picked up some milk.” Well, one day when I was a kid, I was shopping with my mom. I was maybe five years old. For whatever reason, while we were in the toilet paper aisle, I decided to pull out my defiant daughter hat, and would not budge. No, I would not follow her, I would not leave this spot. My mom, who is even more stubborn than I am, said, “Fine,” and turned around and walked away to continue her shopping. I watched her disappear around the corner, unbelieving that she was actually leaving, and as soon as she was out of sight, I freaked out. Uncrossing my arms, I went in frantic search of her – but I couldn’t find her. I looked down both of the neighboring aisles, but to no avail. My mom was gone, and I was lost.

         Not knowing what else to do, where else to look, I quickly went to the check-out and explained that I was lost. They asked my name; I gave it in full. The nice checker brought out the loudspeaker and said, “Would the mother of Johanna Kathryn Johnson, please come to register 7.” I waited with fear and trembling – I was just sure that when my mom arrived, she would be furious. It was stupid what I had done, I knew, and I would surely be punished. In short order, my mom rushed up to the register, and to my shock, she looked as relieved as I felt! We embraced, smiling, happy to have found each other.

But I did not quickly forget what it felt like to be lost. Feeling lost – it’s not unfamiliar to any of us here. Whether you have been physically lost (in the grocery store, for example, or driving in a new place), or figuratively lost, it is a feeling not at all foreign to any of us.

         I’ve been thinking a lot lately about being lost, and so it is no wonder that this lost and found theme of our Gospel lesson today has been ringing in my head all week. A shepherd loses a sheep and heads off into the wilderness to bring him home. A woman loses a coin, amounting to a tenth of her wealth, and she sweeps the house, searching from floorboards to rafters, until she finds it. 

In my musings on lostness, I have thought a lot about the relationship of being lost and losing something, especially something important to you – and I think the two are very much related. For most people, we are most comfortable when we are surrounded by people and things with which we are familiar. We like knowing what to expect, how things are supposed to function. Having that familiarity not only brings comfort to our lives; it also sustains us, fulfills us, and makes us feel safe. But inevitably, we lose a piece of that reality: we get divorced, or a loved one dies, or we move, or change jobs, or have a miscarriage, or get cancer. And when this happens, our familiar, comfortable reality shifts and changes. Suddenly the life we’ve always known looks and feels different, and by extension, we feel different. Our former self feels lost.

Who am I now, without that person in my life? Who am I, if I can’t conceive or sustain the life of a child? Who am I, without my job to define me? What is my new reality going to look like, and when is it going to feel like home? Will it ever feel like home? Will I ever stop feeling lost, and start to feel found?

         It is a helpless feeling, isn’t it? And we are so funny when we are lost. As a five-year-old, I apparently knew just what to do to be found: I went to someone I trusted who I knew could help me. Why isn’t it that easy anymore? Now, instead of seeking help when we’re lost, it seems we are tempted to hide – how counter-intuitive! I don’t mean we leave the toilet paper aisle and go and hide in the produce section and hope to be found there. I mean, we hide our feelings, and who we are. We hide behind masks of fakeness, trying to be something or someone we’re not. We hide behind exaggerations of a self we wish we were. Sometimes we do even hide physically, avoiding human contact, just nursing our wounds and feeling sorry for ourselves, but never stepping out the door so someone can see us can find us.

         Perhaps you heard a couple of weeks back about Antoinette Tuff, the school clerk who prevented a mass school shooting by talking with the gunman for about an hour. He told her he didn’t have anything to live for, he was ready to die that day, and he would take anyone with him. And she didn’t duck and run for cover – she listened to him. She told stories about her own life, times she had felt the same way. She referred to him as “sir,” and then as “sweetheart.” She told him she loved him and was proud of him.  She told him he did have something to live for. She related to him. She prayed for him. She grounded the whole experience, terrified as she was, in her faith in God. And in that hour of conversation, Ms. Tuff went into the wilderness and found a lost young man, humanized him, and in the end, convinced him to surrender, to turn around, to repent.

         In Jesus’ explanation of the parables, he says there is joy in heaven over a sinner who repents. I want to be clear that I in no way mean to imply that feeling lost is a sin. Whether you’re a notorious sinner like the ones in our Gospel, or by and large a pretty righteous person, we all can feel lost at times. But repentance is something in which we always need to engage. Repentance, you see, is a reorientation, turning around, turning toward God. And I don’t care how righteous you are most of the time, we are all by our very nature, sinners, and we all run the risk of losing sight of God, and often when we feel lost we are especially susceptible to this. So when we lose our way, but then turn back toward God, or are found by God, God rejoices. God rejoices when, in our lostness, we look out and search for God. God rejoices when we reach out to others who may be lost, and instead of judging them, or running from their pain and brokenness, we sit with them there, offering them a place of solace, a place where they can know they are loved, that they are found.

         Being found. That, of course, is the good news in our Gospel reading today. Because even when we are so lost that we can’t on our own turn toward God, God still goes all out to find us. As the parable goes, a sheep wandered into the wilderness, and the shepherd left the other 99 to go find that lost sheep. The woman lost a coin and searched tirelessly until she found it. Jesus asks, “Who of you would not go to these great lengths to find these lost things?” and all my life I assumed the answer was, “Everyone, Jesus! Yes we would!” But there was always a part of me that thought, “Gosh, leaving the 99 sheep for the sake of one? That seems awfully irresponsible.”  I always felt a little guilty that I probably wouldn’t actually do that. Practical girl that I am, I would cut my losses, move on, and be more careful in the future. But that’s the point, you see? We wouldn’t do that. We wouldn’t go to the extremes that the shepherd and the woman in the stories do to find what is lost.

         We wouldn’t, but God does. Our God is not about being practical. Our God doesn’t cut losses and move on. Our God goes into the wilderness to find us when we are lost. Our God tears the house apart until we are found. And in both of these stories, what happens when what once was lost is now found? Celebration! As the shepherd and the woman call together all their friends and have a party, so does God bring together all the company of angels to celebrate that a lost sheep has been found, that a coin has been rediscovered. God isn’t mad at us for getting lost, as I feared my mom would be in the grocery store 25 years ago. Like my mom, when God finds us, we are welcomed back with a huge smile and a look of relief, and there is celebration in heaven when we return to God, when we return home.

         Let us pray… Most merciful God, your grace is amazing, and we give you thanks that you find us when we get lost. Help us to place our trust always in you, knowing that your hand guides us and your love supports us through all of our trials and losses. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

And then God said, "Seriously, Johanna, you need to slow down."

Today was the first day in weeks that Michael and I haven't had any responsibilities. We didn't have a wedding, or go to a wedding, or go to the doctor, or close on a house, or pack up a house, or unpack a house, or host overnight guests, or frantically try to get the house ready for those guests. Last night we marveled, thinking about today, that we might do some unpacking just because we wanted to. We dreamed about going to some yard sales together (Michael actually did, and scored a movie projector so he can watch and transfer some old movies from his childhood!). I thought we might have some waffles for brunch.

But I got an email saying that the soccer team for which I am a sub needed some players for the game at 8:30 this morning. As you know, I have missed soccer, and took the opportunity to run around, get some exercise, and get out some of the week's emotions on the field. I figured I would wake, play the game, and be back about 10, just in time for waffles with my husband.

The first part went as planned. I played a good solid 20 minutes.

And then God said, "Seriously, Johanna? Well, I know how to slow you down a bit."

I wanted that ball just as much and at the same time as a girl on the other team, and we kicked it at the same time, and I heard two pops, and then I was on my hands and knees in a fair amount of pain, wanting to throw up. Someone must have helped me up, and supported me as I hobbled off the field, and I plopped on the sideline while someone fetched some ice. Dang it.

I stayed for the rest of the game, trying to convince myself that maybe I could even go back in, but knowing I wouldn't, probably for the rest of the season. As (un)luck would have it, since I didn't know exactly which of the three fields the game would be on, I had managed to park in the furthest possible parking spot. So off I hobbled. Texted Michael what happened, decided I could drive (even though it is my right foot that is hurt), chose the route of least stoplights, and headed home to my caring husband, who greeted me shaking his head, as I joked about the whole situation. He helped me get my cleats and shin guards off. "Wow, it's so swollen," he said, and I assured him that's how feet are supposed to look - I really believe it, too, until we compared.

Oh. So the day's plans became going to Urgent Care.

The doctor seemed hopeful that it wasn't too bad, maybe a grade 2 sprain, could be fine again in a couple weeks. We did an xray, and now he came in saying, "Well, I hoped your xray would be totally normal, but..." Turns out there is a little bone chip floating around in there, "like a little potato chip." Probably that's where the ligament was attached the bone, and the ligament was stronger and pulled that little piece of bone off with it. So he gave me the number for an orthopedic doctor to see next week. Yippee, just what I wanted was more doctors appointments. At least, I got this cool sticker:

Worth the price of admission. (Which, since I already well met my out of pocket cap this year, was free! Thanks, breast cancer!) So they sent me home with a nice chunky splint, some crutches, the RICE acronym (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation), a glow in the dark sticker, and at least some of my pride. I had insisted that during all this, Michael go to the yard sales he had found (I'm a big girl, after all, and quite familiar with the doctor scene), so I had to wait a few minutes for him to return. From my wheelchair in the waiting room, I could see the TV, which someone had turned to a soccer game - literally adding insult to injury.

Before I left this morning, I made a do-to list for today. It included some errands, some chores, usual day-off stuff. Instead, I sat on the couch all afternoon watching How I Met Your Mother on Netflix, with a very happy Dachshund cuddling me (he has now been displaced the computer on my lap, but happily found a place wedged between me and the back of the couch). I could have written the 50-some wedding thank you notes I need to write. I could have caught up on some reading. But I didn't. I just sat here, while Michael worked on his movie project downstairs, getting me water or Advil or ice whenever I called for it.

A couple observations. First, I was in pretty high spirits about this all the way through. I mean, it's a drag, and for someone who is already pretty clumsy, crutches certainly don't help. But a sprained ankle is so not a big deal, compared to, say, a mastectomy. So, it definitely could be worse.

The other thing is that I couldn't help but notice that the time they thought I would need to heal is just about as long as I have before my mastectomy. Not longer - if I'm good, I won't have to be dealing with crutches after major surgery. But it certainly is long enough to force me to rest for this one free day that we have before yet another crazy week (which, mercifully, is mostly busy with sitting down jobs). And long enough to force me to move more slowly for a couple of weeks - no rushing around for me!

Just long enough to force me to rest before this big, emotional surgery that I have been struggling with this week in particular. I hate that my foot hurts, I really do. I hate that I am probably out for the soccer season, after playing only two halves of games. I hate crutches. I hate that I am suddenly not as self sufficient as I am accustomed to being.

But I love that I am being forced to slow down, because Lord knows I wouldn't have otherwise. I love that moving more slowly is going to give me more space to find peace and breath. I love that after 25 years of playing soccer, the very first time I ever got injured was right after I got married, when I have someone to look at me with concerned eyes, and say, "Poor girl..." and drive me to urgent care (and whether he realizes it yet or not, to two churches tomorrow!), and help me up and down the stairs. I love that cancer has calloused me enough that I can take all of this with a good attitude and know that things will be just fine... and to some extent, this helps me also look at the mastectomy and realize that it, too, will be just fine.

(And to sweeten the deal, Michael is going to order us delivery tonight! Score! Life ain't bad!)

Happy Dachshund on the couch.

What I have lost and what I'm finding

I watched and listened to a wonderful interview this week with Nadia Bolz-Weber, a sort of contemporary Lutheran celebrity. If you have a spare 90 minutes, I encourage you to watch it or listen, even and especially if you have been disillusioned with the church in any way. She has a disarming honesty about her, and is so willing to be transparent and speaks so directly to the human condition. Have a listen.

One of the things she mentioned was that a preacher should always preach from her scars, but never preach from her wounds. She was speaking more about emotional struggles, specifically her bout with depression. The pulpit is not your therapist couch, she says. This really struck me because this year has made it so easy to preach from my wounds; this is always tempting when whatever difficult thing is going on right now is all that occupies your mind as you attempt to bring the good news to a congregation in yet another new and inspiring way week after week. 

I have struggled with this concept especially this week. It's not that this week has been particularly emotional (though it has, in some ways), but rather that the Gospel text seems to be speaking directly to me this week. It is the "lost parables" from Luke 15, about the shepherd going after the one lost sheep and leaving the 99, and the woman searching and sweeping her house for her one lost coin, and the celebration that each of them has when what was lost has been found. (The Prodigal Son is also included in these lost parables, but it is not a part of this Sunday's reading.)

Following Nadia Bolz-Weber's advice, I am avoiding preaching from my particular wounds this week - later, I will preach from the scars they leave - but I did need to get all of this out somewhere before I could focus on writing a sermon for my congregation, so I have switched temporarily to blog mode.

For some background, read the blog I just wrote about the current state of my heart.

Not surprising, I am drawn to the lost and found motif of these texts. Feeling lost is something we all can relate to. I think of one time in the grocery store when I was maybe 5 years old and I pulled out my defiant daughter hat and refused to follow my mom out of whatever aisle we were in, and so she left me there and as soon as she was out of sight I freaked out and when I couldn't find her I went to the check out and said I was lost. They asked my name (to which I responded, "Johanna Kathryn Johnson,"precocious child that I was), and the nice checker said it (in its entirety) over the loudspeaker, and lo and behold my mom came and found me. I remember how that felt, to be found, and how relieved my mom's face looked (I thought she would be mad!), and I can understand why there might be such joy in heaven when God (aka the shepherd and the woman) finds us. Or, when I lost one of my diamond earrings (a gift I received at 16 when I finished chemotherapy treatments) in the bed, and the utter relief when I found it amongst the sheets. 

But it's not just about being lost in the grocery store. To be lost - is this not something we all have felt, not only in body, but in the depths of our being? Or to loose something precious - not just earrings, but our joy or passion for life, or our composure, or even our faith?

I lost my boob, and I'm about to lose another one. I also recently lost my name - I changed it officially to Rehbaum this week. Those are big things, things I have known and loved for many years, things that even have defined me. (Maybe not so much my physical breasts, but more what they represent as far as my life goals and what I have considered my life calling.) Just as distressing as losing something, though, is when that loss makes me, Johanna, feel lost. 

I have thought about this a lot. These parables are lost and found parables, about the rejoicing that happens when what "once was lost" has "now been found." Well, I lost/will lose my boobs, and they will never be found again. So? What do I do with that, Jesus? They are gone forever. Call me vain, but that sucks. So then I have to think - this isn't just about my boobs. What has that loss really made me feel like I have lost - and how can that be found?

Losing something important can make our whole self feel lost - this happens all the time in life, doesn't it? If you lose a loved one, for example, or get divorced, or have a miscarriage, it is easy to fall into the despair of lostness. "How can I go on without that person?" "Who am I if I cannot conceive or sustain life?" "What is my purpose?" 

"Which one of you," Jesus asks, "having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?" I used to think the answer to that was, "We all would, Jesus, of course!" even as I thought, "That doesn't seem very responsible." Well, I guess that is the point - no one would do that. No one, that is, except our crazy, reckless God. In my most human moments (which, let's be honest, are most of my moments), it is so tempting to fall into the deep hole of lostness - even to lie alone in the dark and not want to talk to anyone about the despair I am feeling, wanting to hide it from everyone. Who could possibly understand? 

How counter-intuitive that, when we are lost, we also want to hide. We hide behind masks of fakeness, trying to be something or someone we aren't. We hide behind exaggerations of a self we wish we were. Sometimes we even hide physically, avoiding human contact, just nursing our wounds and feeling sorry for ourselves, but never stepping out the door so someone can see us and tell us we are found. 

But we can try to stay hidden all we want. God won't let us stay that way. That's the surprising news of this gospel - God will go all out to make sure we are found, that we don't stay hidden and lost. Like a woman searching for a lost coin, or a shepherd leaving the 99 sheep to find the one. 

I want this to be good news for me, I really do. And it is. But the fact is, I still feel a little lost. So even if that is future good news for me, I'm not feeling it right now. There is some heart work that needs to be done before I can be receptive to being found. 

But some of that work is already in progress. I completely lost my composure the other night - it was a difficult night, one Michael and I are still processing apart and together, but you know what? It felt good. I needed that to get out, and it helped me find some clarity. I lost the possibility of breast feeding. I found that nourishing a child goes beyond breasts, and this brought me more conviction that this is something I want to do. I lost my nice, 30-year-old boobs that filled out my clothes just right, didn't get in the way, and made me feel like a beautiful woman. I found that this never was the source of beauty for me or anyone. People look first at my eyes, my smile, and my personality - not my cleavage - and say, "She's beautiful." 

This lost and found motif - I have some thinking yet to do on it. For now, I will rest assured that even as I feel lost, God knows where I am, and when I am ready to let down my guard and let in the Spirit, beautiful found discoveries will become apparent. Let it be so.

This is what happens when you get a moment to think.

As many of you know, I have been incredibly busy since Michael and I returned from our honeymoon. Every week has been a wedding or a funeral or both, Vacation Bible School, starting up Sunday School, another wedding for us and the house guests that go with it, students returning to Michael's school district and the long hours that go with that (he's an administrator), still trying to settle into our home and our lives as a married couple. My mastectomy has of course been on the radar as well, and I have taken steps toward getting ready for that, but I've hardly had a chance to really think about it. This changed yesterday. I went to our monthly conference ministerium, a gathering of Lutheran clergy from the area, and we were talking about some big events coming up, most significantly the bishop election in June and the lead up to that. As we looked at dates on the calendar, I realized I will be on medical leave for some of the big dates in this process that happens every 6 years. I want to be a part of it, but alas.

As conversation continued among my colleagues, I got more and more discouraged. I don't even want this stupid surgery. When the first one happened, everyone stepped up and wanted to help, and it seemed like a huge deal. This time, people have offered to help, but there is not the same energy around it, for me or for anyone else. It's like there's a big news story one night, and then a similar but less dramatic one the next night and everyone says, "Too bad..." but they aren't as concerned about it as the first story. I have been telling myself and everyone else that this will be easier, and require less time off, and be less of an emotional strain, partly to convince myself that all this will be true, and partly because I feel like having another mastectomy is yet another terrible inconvenience to people, and I want to inconvenience people as little as possible. Where I didn't regret earlier that I had tried to save my second breast, believing we had made the best decision with the information we had, now I feel like that was a dumb oversight (even as I know it wasn't), and now I am suffering the consequences of a bad decision. Where the decision to now remove the second breast was clearly the right one back in May, now I am doubtful that it is (even though I still know it is right).

As I processed some of these emotions yesterday, I realized that what it comes down to is that I like my boobs and don't want them to go away. I read a thread on a forum about women who guiltily admit that they miss their boobs following mastectomy (there is NO guilt in this, by the way!), and one person said, "I miss squishy hugs." Yes! I hate hugging people on the left side, with my saline-filled brick-boob and I favor my right when I hug - I won't have that option anymore. Klaus crawls on top of me and I'm fine on the right, but hate it on the left - I won't have that option anymore. Turns out, I thought the emotional baggage around this surgery was going to be less, but it is far, far more. The last one was joyful - I was getting rid of cancer, but holding onto some of my other dreams. This one doesn't come with as much joy, except that after it we can finally move on to non-cancer things. I didn't realize the emotional effect this would have on me. It's not just about bidding a final farewell to the possibility of ever breast-feeding. I grieved that, and I'm over it. It is Everything Else. I have noticed more and more how I favor my right side, even how I look admiringly at my natural, intact breast, never touched by cancer, thinking how it never betrayed me, and now I'm hacking it off, too. Nothing left. Nothing to fall back on. All will be lost.

Last night, Michael and I tried to go to bed early, and to both of our surprise, this all came bubbling up, and suddenly I was crying. He stayed awake to comfort me as long as he could, but I continued to cry another hour or so after he fell asleep. And I was left alone in the silent darkness of our bedroom. It was sort of nice, I admit, because the setting seemed to echo my heart. I considered calling someone on the west coast who would still be awake, but I didn't want to talk. I wrote a rant on a breast cancer facebook group, to which some people responded, so that helped. Finally, around 1am, I went to sleep.

There is something nice about being so busy as we have been - I haven't had time to feel all these feelings. But I find one moment to feel them, and now I'm totally derailed from the other tasks I need to tend to. I look forward to the day when I once again find joy in everything I'm doing, instead of "just getting it done." I look forward to not being drained and dragged down by something so dreadful always looming over me. I guess instead of rejoicing over cancer being removed this time, I can rejoice over the removal of something like this dragging me down. We got rid of the physical disease; now let's get rid of some of the emotional disease, too.

Sermon: God's Work Our Hands Sunday (Sept. 8, 2013)

Today the ELCA has urged congregations to celebrate the denomination's 25th anniversary by having "God's Work, Our Hands Sunday," a day in which congregations go out and do some service project together. We couldn't pull it together soon enough to have such a project, but we did invite people to commit to a new ministry this year. This sermon was meant to set that up. I'll be eager to see how all these options pan out! We had these ministries outlined:

* Paint the exterior of the church, a job that desperately needs doing, especially since it is people's first impression of the church.
* Join "Barnabas Ministry," a new, care-taking ministry that sends cards, visits shut-ins, brings meals to people going through tough times, stuff like that.
* Become a driver for "WASP," a program that drives elderly people in the community to their doctor's appointments.
* Clean tables at a few nearby parks, which are covered in various debris, and so can't currently be used by people.
* Knit scarves and hats for needy kids in the area, which will be put in stockings for our stocking project we do at Christmas. (I know of one seven-year-old who wants to learn to knit, and was totally stoked to sign up for this one!)

Okay, here's the sermon:

Pentecost 16C
Sept. 8, 2013 (Rally Day)

Luke 14:25-33

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

         When Rally Day comes along, a pastor always hopes for a very upbeat and inspiring text to preach on. This is a day where the attendance is usually higher, people have stopped traveling for the summer and are back in church, and everyone is gearing up to start Sunday School and perhaps some new ministries. So in her dreams, the pastor then preaches a dynamic and touching sermon that makes everyone say, “I’m so glad we went to church today – let’s never miss another Sunday!”

         Instead, the lectionary – the schedule of readings for the year – offers us this challenging text from Luke, with all this business of hating father and mother, sisters and brothers. This is not the sort of text that rallies the crowds and encourages them to come back for more! And it isn’t just that it doesn’t jibe with what we’d like to think are good, Christian family values. It’s deeper than that. This text puts us face to face with the immense cost of discipleship. In other words, this, friends, is what it takes to be a Christian: “hating” your family, giving up all your possessions, and following Jesus. Count the cost folks, says Jesus, and be sure you know what you are getting into, because I’m not kidding.

         Please – don’t get up and walk out just yet! At first blush, I know, it’s all pretty extreme. But on the other hand, maybe this isn’t so out of the realm of possibility. First of all, regarding the particular language Jesus uses, let’s be clear that Jesus is using a linguistic device, and one we are all familiar with: hyperbole. Exaggeration. We all do it. How many of you have ever said, “I’m starving!” And yet, you are all here, looking very well nourished. Or, “I am so embarrassed, I could die.” Death by embarrassment, huh? You know, I’ve never actually seen that. You see, we say things hyperbolically for effect. To take them literally is actually to make them less true, but to understand such statements as figures of speech just better hits home the point we are trying to make.

         And that’s what Jesus is doing. You must “hate” father and mother, sister and brother, he says. To take that literally is not in keeping with Jesus’ other, more prevalent teachings to love one another, even to love our enemies. So what does he mean, then? Well, what is Jesus’ primary interest, what he speaks about more than anything else? Any guesses? … It is the Kingdom of God. And because bringing the Kingdom of God to God’s people is his primary interest, nothing must come before it, for him or his followers. In other words, everything else in our lives that would take our attention away from that purpose must be put aside or lowered in priority – including our family, our jobs, and all our possessions. We don’t have to hate those things; we just mustn’t let them take priority over seeking the Kingdom of God and its righteousness here on earth.

         How do we make the Kingdom of God our first priority? Well, first we need to know what that means. When I say “kingdom of God,” what are some images or ideals that come to your mind? …

         If that ideal is our priority, is there a role that we can play in that? What is required from us, if we are to make the kingdom of God our priority? …

         Pretty much any way you cut it, it requires some sacrifice on our part, and that’s what Jesus is getting at in our Gospel today. Sometimes the gains of that sacrifice outweigh the costs, and sometimes not. That’s what makes this so hard. Jesus suggests that the sacrifices we make for the sake of the gospel might include people or things that are dear to us, and that could very well be true. It could also be that we sacrifice a part of our familiar way of life, or our time, or our treasures.

That word, sacrifice, is hard for us to deal with, isn’t it, and I think it’s because having to make sacrifices is just too familiar to us. Our lives are full of decisions where we have to sacrifice one beloved thing for another – we sacrifice independence for marriage, alone time and freedom for children, time with that family to work more hours and live a comfortable life. Maybe you are deliberating about just such a sacrifice right now, trying to weigh the costs and the gains for your life. 

We all deal with sacrifice on a regular basis. The question Jesus poses for us today is: will following him be one of the sacrifices you consider, or will you RSVP to his invitation to follow with a, “I would, sounds like fun, but I am too busy with all my other commitments”?

You know, a lot of the Christian faith is about thinking and believing. Many Christians would even say that you have to believe a certain way to go to heaven, or even to call yourself a Christian. And well, to some extent that is true – there are some basic beliefs that constitute Christianity, and if you don’t already, I hope that at some point you will believe that Jesus Christ is the way, the truth, and the life, and that God sent him to the world to show us God’s love, and that he died on a cross and rose from the dead in order to forgive sins and bring us into eternal life, and that in baptism you were claimed as a child of God, and that God will never ever let you go or stop loving you. These are all beliefs to stake our lives on, beliefs that have been basic and essential in the Church for centuries.

But that is not the end-all of the Christian faith, and simply believing those things is not the way to live life as a disciple of Christ. Faith is not merely thinking – it is also doing. And that is where some of the sacrifice comes in. Let me be clear: you are already claimed, loved, and forgiven by God, and nothing you do or don’t do will ever change that. Jesus took care of the salvation piece already. But also a part of the Christian life is that, when you know what God has done for you, when you really do believe this stuff, you will in gratitude also be compelled toward serving others. Liberated by God’s grace, and grateful for God’s sacrifice for us, we are moved toward service; and hence, works of love, works of God, spring spontaneously from us. God acts, and we respond.

And so we become God’s hands in the world: because God’s work in us and for us has inspired us to use our hands for works of love. And this is the sort of discipleship that we lift up and celebrate today. This church is a part of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, the ELCA, and the ELCA has dubbed this day, “God’s Work, Our Hands Sunday.” Thousands of congregations will be sent out today to spread God’s love by works of service: cleaning up neighborhoods, visiting people, providing for those in need, and in doing this, they will not only believe a faith, holding a believe, they will also live a faith. It does require sacrifice, but as with so many sacrifices, the gains are so much greater.

So today, you have an opportunity to engage in and commit to this sort of sacrificial love. In your bulletin, you will find two inserts – a description of some ministries, and a commitment card. I’d like to invite you to read over these descriptions and be prepared to discuss them with someone sitting near you. And then I invite and encourage you to pull out that commitment card, and commit to one (or more!) of those ministries. Put your name and a way to contact you on the card as well, and someone will be in touch about the details and when it is going to happen. If you have another ministry in mind, you can jot that one down, too, but I do encourage you that whatever the ministry is that you choose to engage in, you do it with someone, because part of living this abundant life of faith is doing it together, in fellowship with the body of Christ. When you have filled out your card, hold onto it and put it in the offering plate later as your offering of sacrificial, kingdom-seeking service to God.

Now, I invite you into discussion and discernment with those sitting near you, discussing how you see each of these ministries as an opportunity to live your faith, and also what you might have to sacrifice to participate in that ministry.

(After a time of discussion…)

Let us pray… Gracious God, you give us life and you give it abundantly. Inspire us to seek your kingdom by using that life to give to others. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Wedding Part: II - still a success!

We truly are blessed to have been able to celebrate our marriage in two very different settings with two very different sets of people. (Not to mention I got to wear my beautiful dress and fantastic red shoes two times!) I admit it was pretty stressful to return from one wedding only to be thrust into planning another huge party. Without the help of our amazing mothers this would not have happened. But the joy of the day was worth the effort.

We had all kinds of plans for how the day would work, and some of them happened (really, the most important ones), and some of them didn't, but in the end we were very happy with how everything went. (You can't be too picky when you don't actually plan much!) Everyone kept asking me, "How do you want this or that?" but once again, our primary concern was the ceremony itself, not the reception. I took care of the big things - reserving the shelter, a tent to put food under, getting some extra tables and chairs to the park, an officiant, sign-up sheet at church to get numbers and a sense of what food was coming, and Michael arranged for PA system, beer and wine - and we hoped the rest would fall into place. Thanks to the hard work of our mothers and several other helpers, it did.

In addition to family, we had a few friends in town on Friday night, and everyone wanted to see the new house and get to spend some time with us, so we hosted a very casual open house on Friday night. Got some pizza, threw together some salad, got some beer and a box of wine, some Skittles in a bowl, and called it a night. It was wonderful to get to touch base with all these people before the hubbub of the next day! This was also the first time I met some of Michael's family, including his aunt, dad and step-mother! We all got along famously, of course. And I also got to meet my 6 week old goddaughter for the first time, and even though she was pretty tired from a long drive, we were fast friends. I'm already head over heels. It was definitely an evening full of love.

Saturday morning, we put people to work! But even with the best laid plans and all the extra hands we had, we were rushing at the end, and as people were arriving, I was moving stuff around in my dress and heels, and Michael wasn't even there yet! (He was home showering, having spent all morning setting up the PA system.) I guess that sort of set the casual mood, huh? For the first hour or so, I flitted around talking to people, thanking them for coming, inviting them to get some hors d'oeuvres. We had plenty of food (we contributed some). Kids played on the playground, and Klaus was a great big hit, especially among the kids. We had suited him up as "Best Dog" and put him in a yellow bow tie to match his dad's, and he was quite a charmer for the whole event. (My Bethlehem folks sat near him and watched over him for me, as well as my now former landlady, who adores Klaus and I think came to the wedding as much to see him as to see us!) Here's our family portrait - note the matching bow tie.

Sometime around 3pm, we had our ceremony. I had arranged for my aunt and uncle and aunt's brother to sing a processional, and invited everyone to sing along - it was a rewritten version of "As I Went Down in the River to Pray," with lyrics my aunt and uncle had used for their wedding:

As I went down in the river to pray,

Studying about that good old way and who shall bring

A gift to share? Good Lord, show me the way.

Sons and daughters, let’s go down, let’s go down, come on down.

Sons and daughters, let’s go down, down in the river to pray.

As I went down in the river to pray,

Studying about that good old way and who shall bring

The gift of faith? Good Lord, show me the way.

Oh sisters, let’s go down, let’s go down, come on down.

Oh sisters, let’s go down, down in the river to prayer.

Gift of joy… Oh brothers…

Gift of hope… Oh mothers…

Gift of peace… Oh fathers…

As I went down in the river to pray,

Studying about that good old way and who shall bring

The gift of love? Good Lord, show me the way.

With the Genesee River behind us, and our family all around, and faith, joy, hope, peace, and love almost palpable, it was the perfect way to be sung into Wedding Part II. I sang my heart out, and of course, I cried too. :)

The ceremony was very similar to the first one, with fewer readings, less music, a couple different prayers, and a different sermon. Our friend Jen, our pastor, drew on the river analogy, reflecting on Genesee Valley Park (our venue) being where two rivers converge, and on the journey our lives have taken and will take. It was lovely. We said our vows again - this time Michael cried first! And I got through "in sickness and health," but then got choked up and couldn't get through the next bit.

Near the end of the marriage liturgy is a marriage blessing. We had this in California, the standard one. This time, Jen had all of us gather in the center of the shelter, and everyone gathered around us and extended hands of blessing. She gave a shortened version of the standard blessing, and then opened up the space for anyone else to offer a blessing. As we were gathering, Klaus started barking, right on cue, as if he was offering his own blessing to his parents! Hilarious pooch. Apparently he was also "singing" with us (aka whining). He's such a show stealer.

The blessing was lovely. Among those who spoke up, there were family and friends, neighbors, my nurse from the breast care center, church members... It was very moving. When Jen finished up the blessing and closed the ceremony, we had arranged for my mom, dad, and uncle to sing a German round, a nod to our shared German heritage. Also, this particular round was sung at both my grandparents' funerals, my ordination, and my installation. It means, "I want to praise the Lord. His praise is always in my mouth." At the last minute, my brother and I jumped in, too. One of my parishioners captured it on video and threw it on YouTube. Here we are!

We had planned on the rest of the afternoon and evening being for food, schmoozing, and a jam session. I had also dreamed of Michael and I singing something together, but we didn't have time to practice and pull it together. My friend Noelle had prepared a toast, but we never even got to that. We didn't really have any program at all, actually, which is too bad because that also means we didn't get to thank people for being there or anything like that. What actually happened was we got some food, and tried to eat, but people started leaving right away, heading to other Labor Day events or traveling great distances home or what have you. And for the rest of the time, we were pretty much saying goodbye to people as they left. At one point, we opened one of our gifts, a gorgeous quilt pieced and hand quilted by the quilters at St. Martin. We also took a lot of pictures, including family pictures for Michael's side of the family.

Some folks danced a little, and Michael and I did get in one dance after most people had left, and after I could no longer wear my shoes. It was Michael Buble's "Save the Last Dance For Me."

When it came to be time to start closing down, Klaus dog was quite an asset to the clean up team. Once people really started leaving (a few hung back to help us clean up - thank you!!), we started cleaning. We also let Klaus off his tether, and he circled the perimeter, picking up all the food that people had dropped. While this really was helpful in the cleaning process, and it did keep him close by, that dog had the worst doggie hangover I have ever seen. Poor kid (and our poor carpet). His stomach was so upset. That night, he could not be moved, and even as people talked and moved all around him at our house afterward, he didn't move a muscle. We fed him rice and bullion for the next two days, and now he seems to be doing all right. 

So, all in all a great day! We got to see some close family and friends again the next day (and Noelle gave her toast to the family, which she said was fine because she gets anxious in front of big crowds), and we did our best to just relax a bit, while still enjoying family.

And now we are 200% wed, and still as in love as we were a year and two days ago when we got engaged. No, we are much more in love, and more by the minute. We love being married! And we were so delighted to be able to share our joy with so many people - and for them to be able to tell us that they could really and truly see that joy in us. Several people said to us, "You are an inspiration - your love and your relationship!" It is mutual - we are so blessed and inspired to be surrounded by so many good folks. Thank you for all your joy and prayers!