100 Days in One Dress

I'm wearing the same dress - not just all week, not just all month, but for 100 days straight. 

Why would I do such a thing?

If you can believe it, I've been considering doing this for a couple years already. I have over the past several years been trying to live more simply. I learned early on that living simply does not always mean living easily - for example, trying to avoid plastic was hard right from the start, but all the more so when kids came along with all their plastic toys and individually wrapped snacks that somehow taste better to them than the ones I make and pack in Pyrex. Similarly, the end point of major decluttering sounds spectacular, but the process of getting there while my family brings in more and more stuff is like shoveling while it is still snowing. Result: discouragement, followed by tossing up my hands and giving up.

I don't want to give up. As life has gotten more complex, I have longed for a way to simplify in a way that does not add more stress to my life, but truly does make my existence simpler, even more peaceful. Similarly, I have been focusing my attention lately on finding what makes me feel real joy - not happiness, which is so often circumstantial, but real joy, the sort that makes me feel whole and my heart at peace - and I find again and again how I too often let physical and emotional clutter compromise my joy. Life is too short; ain't no one got time for that.

After several months of thinking almost every day,  "How is it that I have so many clothes, and yet never feel like I have something to wear? How can I not like so much of what I have?" I resolved to try something drastic, something that would force a reset at least about this basic activity I have to do every day, something that was somehow taking a lot more energy than I want or can afford to give it: getting dressed.

Cue the 100 Day Dress Challenge. I had a couple of friends who had tried this wacky challenge put forth by the company Wool&. The company insists that their merino wool dresses are so versatile, so durable, so classic, that one dress can be worn for 100 days straight. They have several styles and colors to choose from; you just pick one, and then take pictures of yourself wearing the dress every day for 100 days to prove you did it. If you can complete the challenge, you are awarded a $100 gift card, almost enough to cover another dress. (The marketing here is brilliant - they are investing in their very satisfied costumers to do their marketing!)

It was just quirky enough to interest me and my NorCal hippie heart, just the thing to force the reset I craved. Honestly, I didn't intend to do the whole challenge. I received my dress right before Advent began, and I thought, "This will be a way to simplify my life during Advent, but that's all." But then we left for vacation for a week, which is the perfect time to pack a simpler wardrobe, right? And by then I'm almost halfway there so why not just finish it?

Hence, I'm just over 1/3 of the way through (okay, it's not THAT close to halfway!), and I will tell you what, I'm having such fun. I haven't repeated an outfit yet, and still have a bunch of outfits in mind that I haven't tried. Here are some of my looks from the first 29 days:

Here are some things I have noticed:

1) Knowing every day that I am putting on this dress takes one thing off of my mental load, which in turn leaves more room for things that truly bring me joy. I don't spend those few moments each morning standing in front of my closet thinking, "I don't want to wear any of this." If I have the energy, I get creative with the dress (something which, when I have that energy, DOES bring me joy). If I don't, I just put on a pair of leggings and a cardigan or jacket and call it done, and put my energy toward other things. 

2) No matter what I end up with, I look put together and am super comfortable. I wear a lot of black anyway due to my work, and it always makes me feel classy. The material is incredibly soft (not itchy), and doesn't hold odors, and de-wrinkles itself just by hanging on my closet door. Even when I'm "dressed up" I feel like I'm wearing pajamas (side note - some women do actually sleep in these dresses because the merino wool is temperature-regulating!). 

3) Using this as the base of every outfit is helping me to see my old clothes with a new eye. I find myself thinking,  "I wonder if I could..." and often, lo and behold, the crazy ideas look good! I'm simultaneously simplifying my routine AND getting out of my comfort zone - the best of both worlds! This exercise is breathing fresh air into my old wardrobe. One of the ideas behind this challenge is that you "go shopping in your own closet," pulling out things you haven't worn in a while to give them new life. People commonly exclaim, "I'm rediscovering my scarf collection!" If you buy something "new," you are urged to buy it from a thrift or consignment shop. (I admit I did get some new-new things for Christmas - mostly tights and leggings, which aren't great second-hand!)

I have much more to say about this experience from a faith perspective, but for now I'll just say: I'm having a lot of fun with this. And finding joy in getting dressed and in my life. I'm looking forward to what other lessons I will discover in the next 2/3 of the challenge!

Sermon: Incarnation, all the way (Christmas Eve, 2021)

 Christmas Eve 2021

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

            I came across a comic shortly after my first child was born that made me laugh out loud because it hit so close to home. In it, a woman clearly meant to be the new mother, Mary, is talking to a young boy with a drum, who is ready to play a little rump-a-pum-pum for the baby. She says, “I appreciate the thought, but I just got Jesus to sleep.”

            It gives a little comical insight into what it was like for those new parents. There is not much written about Mary and Joseph’s experience in those first few weeks of Jesus’ life, but the topic has been the fascination of mystics and theologians for centuries. I remember that first Christmas as a new mom, with a 3-month-old. That year, this mysterious story of the incarnation hit me a totally new way. The church I was serving at the time put on a pageant for the community – not with children, but with adults. The Rehbaum family, with our new little bundle of joy, was selected to play the holy family. And so, yours truly donned a white robe and Mary’s signature blue veil, and walked the walk (or rather, waddled the pregnant waddle) of Mary. After so many years of hearing and telling this story, participating in this allowed me to experience it in a new way. Kneeling in prayer, I heard the angel’s announcement that I would bear God’s own son, and my hand instinctively moved to my belly, imagining this truth. I stood with Joseph (aka my husband Michael) in the crowd as we heard the centurion deliver the decree that we must travel to Bethlehem, and I remembered the fatigue I felt late in pregnancy just from walking upstairs, let alone 70 miles. I felt anxious as Joseph and I debated whether we should even bother knocking on the door of the inn with the sign that said, “No vacancy.” I waited in desperation for the innkeeper and his wife to figure out where they could put this pregnant lady, and smiled with relief when they said they had room with the animals. And I waddled my pregnant bones down the steps toward the makeshift stable we’d set up in the sanctuary, sneakily slipping out the pillow from my robe and grabbing my own real-life baby, and laid my child in a manger – then grimaced at the prospect of letting her stay there, and quickly picked her back up. While Joseph and I kept our holy spots in that stable, we sang to our daughter, stroked her and bounced her, and when she started to cry we discreetly checked her diaper, and bounced her some more, and whispered soothing things in her ear, and let her suck on my pinky… and because she clearly hadn’t gotten the message that “little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes,” we finally took her someplace more comfortable so the show could go on without distraction. 

Of course, Mary and Joseph didn’t have that last option. The stable was it for them. They were stuck with a manger instead of a rocking, vibrating bassinet, and bands of cloth instead of a cozy, zip-up fleece sleeper, and lowing cattle instead of a smart speaker ready to play whatever the new parents requested. They were stuck with this newborn baby boy, with no experience, no conveniences, and presumably no clue what to do next.

            My heart goes out to Mary and Joseph, trying to figure out how to parent this child under the worst of circumstances. Joseph being unable to get proper paternity leave and Mary fretting about fitting into her jeans again were the least of their worries, as Jesus literally had his bed eaten out from under him by his bovine roommates.

            All this makes me wonder anew: Why on earth would God decide to come to us this way?! To two faithful, but inevitably faulty parents, with no clue what they were doing, and in such crude circumstances? As a friend of mine said after having her first child, “Every day, new aspects of parenting daunt me. Every day I have to ask for help. I rely on others to care for me... Sometimes, I feel as tender as a newborn myself.” And God entrusted the Savior of the world into the arms of two such parents?

Such a tender, vulnerable being, in such unpracticed arms. It wasn’t so long ago that I was in a position of doing absolutely everything for another human being – feeding, burping, carrying them from place to place, dressing them, wiping that cute little behind – and when I remember those days, this reality that we celebrate tonight baffles me: the King of Kings, the Prince of Peace, Wonderful Counselor, Almighty God… come as a baby? And even before he gets to the vulnerable baby stage – did God not know how risky getting there was, how many things can go wrong with a pregnancy, not to mention labor and delivery? How likely it was that Mary would die in childbirth, like so many women did in that time? Entering the world by way of childbirth was not only an incredibly messy choice on God’s part, but also a terribly dangerous one, in which too many things could go wrong. Couldn’t God have come as a fully formed man, just like Adam had?

It’s definitely crazy, but also… I can’t imagine the incarnation happening any other way. Some traditions say that Mary’s labor was quick and painless, even that she immediately resumed her pre-pregnancy figure as Jesus happily nursed (having had no trouble, of course, with that initial latch). I find this possibility frustrating and disappointing. If I’m going to worship an incarnate deity, a God who is willing to become human, then I want – I need – God to go all the way. The thing is, life starts with pain. Every one of us here today came into the world through pain and mess and fear. Since that messy day of our birth, the pain and mess and fear of life have changed and evolved, but those things have always remained a part of the human experience. For God to be truly human, God has to experience the whole kit and caboodle, including the risk, and the fear and pain of birth, and the vulnerability that follows.

Because if God was willing to share that experience with us humans, then I can truly believe that God means it – that God is willing to get down with us in the darkest, messiest, scariest moments of life, that God loves us enough to want to understand, that God cares enough not to bypass any part of the human experience, especially not the scariest, most demanding, and most vulnerable parts, even if that means coming into the world to the sound of groans and screams, and being clumsily fed by a young teenage mother, and inexpertly swaddled by a novice father. God came on that night and continues to come this night and every night into all the mess and fear of life – the pandemics, the grief and loss, the mental illness, the job loss, the impossible family dynamics, all of it.

Ted Loder tells about an experience he had during a rough patch in his life: his mother was dying, his dad depressed, his marriage hanging on by a thread, his kids angry about it, and his professional life on the rocks. One night, as he walked down Lombard St. in Philadelphia to meet his daughter for coffee shortly before Christmas, he saw a home that had dedicated their entire front window to an elaborate nativity scene. He was quite taken with it. But as he looked more closely he noticed two curious things: first, that all the characters seemed to be looking right at him, standing out there on the street; and second, to his surprise, it was missing a key piece. He writes, “There was no manger, no infant Jesus in the window! In effect, the street was the manger, and I was standing in it.” He goes on, “I stood there with tears in my eyes. With a force that lumped in my throat, I realized that just where I was standing, the Christmas miracle happens. In the street, where human traffic goes endlessly by, where men and women and children live and limp and play and cry and laugh and love and fight and worry and curse and praise and pray and die, just there Christmas keeps coming silently, insistently, mysteriously.” (Tracks in the Straw)

            Just there – in all the fears and joys and sorrows and mess and beauty and vulnerability of life – just there, the Christmas miracle came that night in the form of a teenage mother giving birth, to an audience of sheep and cattle, and it continues to come to us, in whatever situation our life finds us in this year. God cares enough to do that. God loves enough to do that, tonight, and every night.

            Let us pray… Everlasting God, you came into this world through pain and fear, just like we did. When we feel overwhelmed by fear and sorrow, pandemics and pain, loss and uncertainty – come to us again, and again, so that we would know your love with us. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Mary's response to the turning world (Dec 19, 2021)

Full service can be view HERE. 

 Advent 4C
December 19, 2021
Luke 1:39-55

INTRODUCTION

Finally, on this 4th Sunday of Advent, we get some texts that sound Christmasy. Micah will announce the importance of the little town of Bethlehem, and Hebrews will tell us why the coming of Jesus is important. But the really Christmasy texts will be the Psalm and the Gospel – and I need to tell you, we will hear them out of order. They are actually part of the same passage, but reversed. So let me situate you: Just before the part of the Gospel we’ll hear today is the annunciation, when the angel Gabriel comes to Mary to tell her that she will be the mother of God. When Mary is, understandably, perplexed by this news, Gabriel adds that in fact, Mary’s cousin Elizabeth is also with child, and “it is the 6th month for she who was said to be barren, for nothing is impossible with God.” Then the angel departs from her, and that’s where our Gospel reading will pick up, with Mary leaving “with haste” to go see the cousin the angel mentioned. Upon hearing Elizabeth’s greeting, Mary will sing the Magnificat, which is today’s Psalm. 

So look carefully at the text of the Psalm and keep it in mind as you hear the story that precedes it. Notice especially how very revolutionary the text is, describing a major reversal in the usual order. In fact, the song our Advent series features today is a paraphrase of Mary’s song, and keeps repeating the line, “The world is about to turn.” So watch in our readings and hymns phrases and imagery of the ways God is turning, changing your world, or the whole world. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Magnificat window in Taize, France

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

Throughout our Advent series, “My heart shall sing,” we have been highlighting two themes: one is that the world is always ending and beginning, sometimes even in the same place, and second, that throughout scripture people’s response to God’s marvelous ways of bringing about new beginnings is to sing. Today, the final Sunday of Advent, we see both of these themes come to their peak in the story of Mary’s visit to Elizabeth, and the song the springs forth from her.

And just like in the other stories we have heard during Advent, that song, while joyful, doesn’t necessarily spring forth from a place of happiness. Last week when we talked about joy, I said that while happiness is often dependent on circumstance, joy is not. Today’s story shows how that is true.

Now, I used to think the annunciation, when Mary finds out she is pregnant, which happens right before the reading we just heard – I used to think this was an unequivocally happy moment for Mary. “Oh, how nice!” I thought. “She must have been so happy to be chosen as God’s mom!” But now that I am a bit older and wiser, I realize: no. She must have been terrified. Pregnancy in the first century was always a little scary, because of the high rate of women who died in childbirth. But just look at Mary’s particular circumstances. She is unwed, and engaged to a respectable man. By the laws of the day, he could have her stoned for what clearly looked like a sexual indiscretion. At best, she would be dismissed by Joseph (which was originally his plan before getting his own angelic visitation). This would leave her alone to raise this child by herself, and without much or any hope of any other man ever wanting to marry her. By all counts, this is a very dangerous situation for a girl who, tradition says, was only maybe 14 years old. 

What Mary does with this terrifying reality can guide us as we face our own terrifying or unsettling circumstances, our own moments of uncertainty. The first thing Mary does is seek out a faithful community. When the angel spoke to her, the angel mentioned that Mary’s relative Elizabeth, who was said to be barren, had also conceived and was in her 6th month. And so, in her uncertainty and fear, as well as her hope and trust, Mary packs up to make the long journey to the hill country. 

I read a commentary this week that named this gathering of Mary and Elizabeth as the first Christian worship, the first time people gathered around the Christ to proclaim the good news, to prophesy, to bless, to sing. I love that, and I love that Mary was compelled to do it not alone, but in community. There is certainly power in being with other people – something we have learned profoundly during this pandemic when that possibility was taken away from us. There is strength in community. There is hope. There is the assurance that we do not carry our fear and uncertainty, nor our joy, alone. And, we know that God works through community. 

Some time ago, I was going through a very scary time in my life, that involved a lot of discouragement and uncertainty. I remember one night in particular, sitting in my house and feeling so desperate and alone. I picked up my phone and started scrolling through my contacts, searching for someone, anyone who might understand how I was feeling. I found someone, another Christian woman, and called her, at 10pm. She listened, and said things like, “Oh, I have felt that way, that’s so frustrating.” And when we finished talking and I hung up the phone, I felt stronger. I felt more hopeful, and yes, I even felt some joy – not happiness, but the peace that often accompanies true joy. I was empowered to seek out more support from faithful women, and I found a support group. And suddenly, what had been a very scary situation became one that brought me purpose and hope. 

I imagine Mary feeling similarly after the angel departed from her. I imagine her sitting there, alone, and thinking, “Who will possibly understand? Who can I talk to? Who can share what I am carrying?” And then she remembers those words, “Even now, your relative Elizabeth is with child, and this is the 6th month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing is impossible with God.” And she is driven to seek out that faithful community, for she knows it will bring her the strength that she needs.

Once she gets to Elizabeth’s doorstep, she makes her next move – she sings, and in so doing, she calls upon an even larger community, one that spans across time. The song Mary sings, the Magnificat, is not an original piece. It is based on the song sung by Hannah, the mother of Samuel, who prayed and prayed for a child, and when she was given a son, she dedicated him to the service of God, and sang a song of the greatness of God, and the great reversals God brings about, and the ways that God is always bringing about a new thing. It is the perfect song for Mary to reference as she and Elizabeth rejoice in their own divinely ordained new thing, and as they anticipate the wondrous things God will do with the children in their wombs.

That is not to say that their fears and questions have disappeared. While we may think we need to leave our questions and doubts at the door when we come to worship, Mary and Elizabeth do no such thing. Imagine the questions swirling in their hearts: Will they survive the rigors of childbirth? Will Joseph leave? Will Zechariah ever speak again? Will Mary’s family disown her? Will Elizabeth, in her old age, live long enough to see her son grow into adulthood? What will it mean for these children that God has some special plan for them – will they bring about God’s kingdom, or will they die trying? Yes, those questions still remain… and yet, still, these faithful women lean into their trust of a God who has been and will always bring about great reversals, who is always doing a new thing.

I first heard this week’s featured song, Canticle of the Turning, when I was on the precipice of my own new thing – I was about to head overseas to serve as a missionary. At that point, I didn’t even know what I would be doing, just that I would be living in a Slovak village called Vrbovce, working through a church. Gathered with the 60-some other young missionaries, we heartily sang, with Mary, “My heart shall sing of the day you bring. Let the fires of your justice burn. Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near, and the world is about to turn!” We did not yet know how the world would turn as a result of our missionary work, nor what tears we may shed that would need to be wiped. But we knew that the justice burned in our bones, compelling us to service, and we knew that, come what may, God had called us to this time, this place, this mission, and was somehow using us to turn the world toward God’s vision. And so, we went forth with trust. And, like Mary, our hearts and voices sang.

In the wake of the incredible, life-changing, world-turning news that she would carry the Holy-of-Holies in her womb, Mary no doubt felt a healthy fear. Yet still, she trusted. She found strength in the promises of God, and the ways God had already acted throughout history, and she also found strength in a community of faithful women, present and past. And in response, she sang – sang a song that is a revolution, that testifies to the ways that God always has and always will bring about new things, and turn us toward God’s justice, God’s vision, God’s hope. In her story and her song, Mary has given us words to empower us, too, as we continue facing the constant stream of endings-turned-beginnings that come our way. The world is about to turn, yes, and has always been turning, and always will turn - toward God's justice, mercy and love.

Let us pray… God of our hearts, our spirits sing of the wondrous things that you bring to the ones who wait. When we are confronted with a new thing that brings about fear and uncertainty, increase our trust, show us the way toward a supportive Christian community, and make our hearts to sing of your strength. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Where joy comes from (Dec 12, 2021)

We had some issues with the software, and the service is in three parts. THIS is the part with the sermon. 

Advent 3C
Dec. 12, 2021
Luke 3:7-18

INTRODUCTION

This third Sunday in Advent is called Gaudete Sunday, Rejoice Sunday. It is when we take a break from the sometimes penitential nature of Advent and instead embrace the joy. You will see this sense of joy in our first three readings – though none of them are written from a place we would call joyful. Zephaniah writes from a context of spiritual and political corruption, in which leaders exploit the poor. The entire book up to this point has been lament and calls for repentance. The context of Isaiah, from which today’s Psalm comes, is the Babylonian exile, and all its suffering and humiliation. And Paul is writing his letter to the Philippians from prison! He is awaiting trial and death, having been threatened, rejected, beaten, and shipwrecked. And yet from each context come these words calling us to sing aloud, shout, rejoice, rejoice again, and sing praises. You see, joy is not dependent on circumstance.

Knowing these contexts prepares us to hear the Gospel reading, which is… less overtly joyful, unless of course you like being called a brood of vipers. And yet Luke will end today’s reading by saying that by saying these things, these tough words and calls for repentance to those gathered, John was “proclaiming the good news to the people.”

So as you listen, listen for the good news. Hear these readings as acknowledging that life can be hard, but joy can still exist, and find how God might be drawing your attention to how joy comes about in your life. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Photo credit: my dad on his morning walk, North Ponds, Webster

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

After all those weeks of apocalyptic texts, I was looking forward to this week, this “Rejoice Sunday,” because I am ready to talk about joy! I approached these texts with relief, smiling as I read Zephaniah. Yeah, that’s the stuff, I thought. The Psalm, this week from Isaiah, is one that always brings to mind a certain song I once performed, and that fills my soul right up. Philippians is obvious – rejoice, and then say it again! This is great, I thought. So many options!

Then I got to the Gospel. Nothing says “joy” like, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?” Yup, all the warm fuzzies. Nothing like axing trees and unquenchable fire to warm our hearts this Advent season! 

And yet, Luke tells us in that last verse that it was with words like these that John proclaimed the good news to the people. And good news certainly is joyful, so… what good news are we to wrestle from this text?

Let’s look first at the fact that all these people are swarming toward John’s difficult words. You might not think that “you brood of vipers” would be an effective opener, yet there they all are! And not just humoring him, but engaging with him. “And what about us?” they ask. “What can we do?” They’re into it! People don’t ask question about how they need to change their lives unless they, you know, see a need to change their lives. If everything is going hunky dory, I can’t imagine they would stick around, but it is not hunky dory. They heard John’s message and felt that stirring in their hearts, that voice saying, “Listen to this. Don’t turn away.” Boy, turning away from difficult messages is tempting, isn’t it! Not many people take criticism well. More often, when criticized, we make excuses, or dismiss the criticism, or bite back, flipping the comment back on someone. “Well, what you need to do is…” because it could never be us who has the problem, right? And yet, deep down, we know that we do have the problem. We are feeling restless, resentful, angry, depressed, lonely, afraid, tired. Things are not how we’d like them to be. And those flocking to hear John’s message feel that, too. They know a change has to happen.

So that’s the first, difficult step toward finding the good news, and with it, the joy: recognizing that this message is one we need to hear. That message may be an ending, one of those endings that we try so desperately to avoid. But we’re not stopping there at the end. We’ll keep going toward the message that will bring a beginning. So now, what is that message we need to hear? 

Menacing as it is, I find good news in that image of an ax at the root of the tree. The ax and the fire tell us that the time has come to get rid of the things that do not bear fruit in our lives – that keep us from living joy-filled lives. Get rid of them! And really, why would we want those things in our lives anyway, if they are keeping us from joy? Yet, making a big change is hard. In my head, I think it is easier to chip away at it, little by little… but man, that gets exhausting, right? Having to work so long and hard and tediously? Sometimes we need someone to say, “Hey, I’ve got an ax here. Want some help?” 

When I was undergoing chemo treatments at age 15, I was terrified of losing my hair. I didn’t want to look like the cancer patient I was, because my 15-year-old ego was already fragile enough. But sure enough, the hair started to go. For several days I woke with hair on my pillow and in my mouth, and watched it gather round the shower drain. I was heavy with despair. One day, we invited my hairdresser to come out to our house (I wasn’t well enough to drive there). She tried to style what was left, to no use. So… she buzzed it. Took the hair styling equivalent of an ax to my beautiful curly brown locks. And I. Felt. Liberated. My heart was lighter, I was smiling, I didn’t cry again for the rest of my treatment. I was rid of this thing I had been insistent about hanging onto, this thing I thought I needed to feel strong and confident. Of course, my strength and confidence never came from my hair – it had always come from God – and now, with my hair gone, I could see that.

I wish that cutting off our sin was that easy and fast! It isn’t, but, the work of repentance is as effective at bringing about joy. It may take some digging to find what exactly needs to be buzzed, because, like my hair, things that need to be cut off may look very much like the things that are giving us what we crave. But don’t be swayed. With God’s help, you can discern the difference. Some things may make us happy, but that happiness is only fleeting or surface deep; this is not what will bring us lasting joy. But if you can look at some aspect of your life – not another person, or another person’s problem or a circumstance outside of yourself, but rather, a habit or feeling or common reaction that is yours –  when you look at it and imagine it gone, and you feel in the depth of your heart a lightness, freedom, peace, and joy… that is a good indication that this is something that needs to be thrown into the fire. Repent of those things: turn away from them, go a different way. Don’t let them any longer rob you of that joy that God desires for you.

Once we’ve turned away, how do we know which way to go? It is so much easier imagining how someone else needs to change, right, which way they should go, rather than do the hard work ourselves! John gives some suggestions for a direction: be generous, kind, merciful, and just. Don’t give in to the greed and selfishness that the world tells us will put us ahead of others. Live your life with an eye more toward those godly qualities; live it more like one who loves and is loved by God. 

I love this earthy advice, which speaks to any vocation – whether tax collector, soldier, stay-at-home mom, doctor, teacher or custodian, you can live into your vocation in a way that is generous, kind, merciful and just. You don’t have to take on a bunch of extra in order to find a joyful life. You just have to live the one you’ve got in a way that embodies the life God wants for you.

Our featured song today, which we will hear during communion, is another that I would not normally associate with Advent, but it beautifully illustrates this life that John describes to the crowd. “When the poor ones, who have nothing, still are giving; when the thirsty pass the cup, water to share; when the wounded offer others strength and healing: We see God, here by our side, walking our way.” The people in this song – the poor, the thirsty, the wounded – refuse to be limited or defined by their label. They are poor, but still have something to give. We all do; we all lack in many things, and we all are gifted in many things, and we all have something to share with our neighbor, whether it is a coat or a listening ear. And in these ordinary ways, when we are kind, generous, merciful and just, the hymn claims, “We see God, here by our side, walking our way.” Or as Paul says in Philippians, “The Lord is near.” And suddenly, with that nearness of God and that faithful living – in our work, in our daily lives – suddenly, there we find the joy we crave. 

That is what needs to be fed as we look toward the coming of our Lord. So much demands our energy – our responsibilities, yes, but also all those things we considered earlier, things that we think are giving us what we need but are not, things we need to cut off, like an ax to a tree that doesn’t bear fruit. Those things suck our energy and they don’t deliver what they promise. Our joy, our life, comes in taking an ax to those things that do not give life, and turning toward the things that do: the things marked by generosity, kindness, mercy, justice, and joy.

In a recent conversation with my spiritual director, we were talking about joy – how to find it, how it feels, what keeps us from it. As I described how I experience joy, how I really know I have found it, she looked me in the eye and said, “That feeling of joy and wholeness that you described – that is your natural state. It is God’s intention for you. Follow that joy.” And that is what we do in this Advent season: we follow the true source of our joy, our Lord and savior come to us, to love us and show us the way to life.

Let us pray… God of joy, it can be terrifying to make the necessary changes in our lives, even when we know they will lead to joy. Give us courage to move toward joy, to live our daily lives in ways marked by generosity, kindness, mercy and justice. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Sermon: Freedom is Coming (Dec 5, 2021)

Full service HERE. Sermon is at about 34 min.

Advent 2C
December 5, 2021
Luke 3:1-6 and Luke 1:68-79

INTRODUCTION

The second Sunday of Advent always focuses our attention on John the Baptist. Though you won’t find John in any nativity set (at least not one I’ve ever seen), he is an essential character in Advent, because he is the one who announces Jesus’ coming, urging us repeatedly to “repent.” 

We’ll first hear this message today in our reading from Malachi – though John was not likely who Malachi was talking about (he was likely speaking more about the temple priests as messenger), we have nonetheless come to think of John the Baptist as “the messenger” Malachi refers to, the one who calls us all to repent and prepare the way of the Lord. Philippians reflects some of the fruit that preparation will yield.

The Gospel reading has the most obvious John the Baptist story, as John bursts on the scene with his famous quote from Isaiah: “Prepare the way of the Lord! Make his paths straight!” Luke, a historian, tells us the very specific time when this happened, citing 7 different rulers of the day, before adding that the word of God came not to them, but to this guy in the wilderness. 

But I actually want to highlight our Psalm today. You will notice it is not a Psalm at all, but actually from Luke. Luke’s Gospel gives us three different canticles, or songs, around the preparation and birth of Jesus. Most well-known is the Magnificat, Mary’s song, which we’ll hear in a couple weeks. Today is the song of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist. John’s parents, Elizabeth and Zechariah, were both associated with the Temple – Zechariah was a priest. In their old age, they dearly longed for a child, but were barren. When an angel told Zechariah that Elizabeth was pregnant, he didn’t believe it, and so what did the angel do? Took Zechariah’s voice, of course! For 9 months, he was mute. At baby John’s circumcision, when Zechariah finally accepts this miracle, his mouth is opened, and he sings this song of praise. In my humble opinion, they are some of the most beautiful words in scripture, a powerful song of praise and liberation. 

In fact, that liberation theme can be found throughout this morning’s worship, so keep an eye out for it, and consider, in what ways does God continue to free us from that which would keep us bound? Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

South Africa has been in the news a lot this week, with the rise of the latest Covid mutation, Omicron. But I have been thinking about South Africa for a different reason this week: I have been reading about apartheid, because this week’s featured song for our Advent series, “My Heart Shall Sing,” comes out of the anti-apartheid movement. Apartheid, as you likely know, was the system of legislation in South Africa for some 50 years, in which the white minority upheld segregationist policies against non-white citizens of South Africa. Though it claimed to bring peace and prosperity to a diverse South Africa, it actually did the opposite; as Americans ought to know, separation does not bring equality. Indeed, the non-white majority was oppressed, stripped of all power, relegated to shantytowns and other far inferior facilities, and often victims of gross human rights violations. The word “apartheid” means “apartness” in the Afrikaans language, and “apart” was certainly a defining characteristic of the system: not only were whites separated from non-whites, but the non-white majority was also separated into different groups, divided along tribal lines, splitting the majority into many smaller minorities, so to further decrease their political power.

Various forms of resistance arose, of course – some peaceful, some more violent. That is bound to happen when a group is oppressed; we’re seeing it unfold in America right now. Whatever the cause may be, one frequent characteristic of resistance movements is that they often give birth to songs of resistance – folky, easy to learn songs that bring together those fighting for a common cause. Think of America’s own Civil Rights Movement, and songs like, “We Shall Overcome.” The anti-apartheid movement was no different in this way. One of the songs that arose out of that movement fighting for an end to apartness and oppression, was one that is likely familiar to our ears, one that looks to the future hope of freedom, proclaiming an insistence that the freedom they crave is coming – we know it! 

[Choir sings]

Freedom is coming… freedom is coming… freedom is coming, oh yes I know.

Oh freedom! Oh freedom! Or freedom! (Freedom is coming, oh yes I know!)

Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus! (Jesus is coming, oh yes I know!)

Oh yes, I know! Oh, yes I know! Oh, yes I know!

I have heard this song most of my life, but never thought of it as an Advent song. But as I read this week’s readings, and reflected on the themes and messages of Advent, I suddenly saw freedom all over the place – all the longing for it and the assurance that it was both on its way, and already here. The already-and-not yet of God’s kingdom, a kingdom in which we are free from sin, from death, from all our enemies, even as we continually strive for that. 

Listen again to these words of Zechariah’s song: “Blessed be the God of Israel! You have come to your people and set them free! … This was the oath you swore to our Father Abraham: to set us free from the hands of our enemies.” You see, freedom is what God is all about, and what the coming of our Lord and Savior is all about. We say as much in the prayer of confession: “We confess that we are captive to sin, and cannot free ourselves.” We suffer from this thing, this sinful human condition, that puts separation, apartness, between us and the God who loves us and made us. While there is certainly plenty of physical oppression and captivity in our world – whether imposed politically, or socially, or in more personal ways, perhaps an addiction or another disease – we all, every one of us, long for freedom, don’t we? We all find ourselves captive to something. We all find ourselves captive to sin.

But freedom is coming. Freedom is coming. Freedom is coming, oh yes, I know it is. I know it is! Freedom is coming, as a babe in a manger, as a peasant itinerant preacher, as the leader of a resistance movement against Roman oppression. Freedom is coming. 

My attention was captured this week by the meaning of the word apartheid: “apartness.” We experience our own apartheid, don’t we, our own apartness, from God – that is what so often holds us captive, that distance from God. But freedom is coming. God’s closeness is upon us. Advent is about preparing for the apartness to grow smaller, even to disappear. It is about preparing the way for that to happen: bringing down mountains, humbling our inflated egos; filling in the valleys, how we get stuck on the endings without looking up to see the beginnings God is making; making straight the pathways, so that all the distractions would prevent us from seeing the salvation of God, would be removed.

And when that nearness comes to us, when the apartness is truly gone and God is not only near us but in us, in every step and thought and word and deed – that is when we have true freedom, when the power of sin and death is no more, when we are no longer blinded by the fear and threats of ending and loss, and can instead see the salvation of God, bringing about new beginnings. 

“In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness, and in the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace.” Jesus is coming, my friends. Freedom is coming. Our salvation is near.

Let us pray… Oh Jesus… Yes, we know that freedom is coming. Help us to see it. Help us to trust it. Help us to live in. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Lives Touched, Lives Celebrated: CELEBRATION (2021)

 This is part 3 of a 3-part talk I gave for the Breast Cancer Coalition of Rochester's event, Lives Touched, Lives Celebrated. Part 1 is about hope, and Part 2 is about healing.

Celebration 

Hope, healing, and celebration. My story is laced with these words – and yes, also with their opposites. I know I don’t have to tell you that cancer brings out all of the emotions, sometimes simultaneously. During my experience with cancer, I have had some of my highest highs, and my lowest lows, and their being so intertwined made them all the lower and all the higher!

I have felt the despair and grief one feels with the recognition of losing something that was so important to you (whether that is a breast, or a lifelong dream, or a way of life that you previously enjoyed)… And, I have felt the hope that comes with knowing the strength of the community around you, and the deep knowledge that none of them will let you fall, but that if you do still fall, they will be there with you, even down in the gutter, letting you cry, and then getting you a glass of water to replenish your tears.

I have felt the anguish of waiting for results, and of making impossible decisions, and of not knowing what thing is the right thing to do, and of looking at yourself in the mirror for the first time after surgery and being repulsed by what you see… And I have felt the sweet relief of being on the other side, and feeling my broken body and my broken heart start to come back together, of finally hearing, “Scan and blood work were all clear – see you in a year!” 

I have felt the fear of not knowing how things would turn out. I felt the anger that cancer would happen to me – again, and again. I felt how difficult it was to pray, and to stand up each week and tell other people about God’s love and grace, even when I didn’t always feel like I was experiencing it myself… And, I smiled broadly, and I fell in love with my nurses and doctors, and invited them to my wedding, and gave thanks every day for another day of love and life and joy and grace. I witnessed the incredible ways that those deaths I was experiencing in my life were turning into opportunities, how relationships blossomed and grew in ways they never would have otherwise. I rejoiced in the warm, strong arms of my beloved, and in the frequent phone calls from my parents in California, and the notes I received from strangers who were thinking about me. I gave thanks for the many circles of prayer in which I was held. 

In short: in the midst of all those dark emotions, I also experienced celebration. I looked out from the darkness of all that loss and fear and anger and uncertainty, and found in each of them that there was always something there to dispel that darkness.  

Here is what I have learned: sometimes celebration is balloons and cake, but the much more profound celebrations are the ones we wrest out of the hands of struggle. Because these celebrations are all the sweeter precisely because they have been hard-earned, and we have seen the opposite and said to its face, “No, you cannot take my joy. You cannot take my life.” 

And so I celebrate. I continue to live in hope – that light will shine in the darkness, that small gestures can break apart even the hardest of despair, that empathy heals all manner of ill. I continue to heal – recognizing that healing comes in all sorts of forms, sometimes of the body, sometimes of the spirit, and accepting that it sometimes hurts a bit to heal, and that’s okay. 

But most of all, I celebrate. I celebrate so many brave women and men who have faced this mess that is cancer, and not let it crush them. I celebrate the gifts I have gained from the experience, the depth I have grown, the ways I have experienced life even when death looked me in the face. I celebrate love – the love of my people, my village, and a God who never left my side.

The three words that structure this event are cyclical. We hope. We heal. We celebrate. We find years later that we fall back into a need to heal. We grasp once again to look for hope. And then we are given little gifts to celebrate. Rinse and repeat. One does not negate another; indeed these beautiful words only serve to enhance each other. 

Tonight, I celebrate, but most of all, I am grateful – grateful to see so many beautiful survivors and caretakers. Grateful for the hope you have shown just by being here. Grateful for the ways you have shown others how to heal, even as you are just figuring it out yourself. Grateful for opportunities to celebrate all these things. Thank you. Thank you for being a light in the darkness. Thank you for being an inspiration. Thank you to you, and thank you for you. 

Lives Touched, Lives Celebrated: HEALING (2021)

This is part 2 of a 3-part talk I gave for the Breast Cancer Coalition of Rochester's event, Lives Touched, Lives Celebrated. Part 1 is about hope, and Part is about celebration.

Healing

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about acceptance. I remember when I first starting thinking deeply about acceptance was during an activity at my church, during our Epiphany service, where we picked out of a basket what we called a “star gift” – a word to take notice of throughout the year as a way God is being made manifest – and my gift, the paper star I drew out of that basket, was acceptance. I had just found out I was pregnant with my first post-cancer baby, a pregnancy I had feared would never happen, and my first instinct when I saw that so-called “gift” was to throw the star and the gift back in the basket. There was too much at stake, too much that could go wrong, too much I was 100% unwilling to accept, and I rejected any possibility that I might have to. 

I did keep that gift of acceptance as one to reflect upon that year. And everything went fine. But I think it is only in recent months, really, that I have finally started to see it as a gift – and a gift, it turns out, that is intimately a part of healing.

We all know a thing or two about healing, right? But if you’re like me, you have often thought about it in very physical terms. Healing is the absence or successful management of a physical disease. But of course, it is not merely physical. A mental illness, for example, definitely requires healing. And emotions need healing. And, Lord knows, relationships need healing. 

But all of these ailments share something in common: they all cause us great pain. Right? Sometimes the pain is physical – I remember all too well the pain I felt in my bones when I was having chemo treatments, and the excruciating pain right after mastectomy that seemed insurmountable when all I wanted was to go to the bathroom, and the aching pain in my chest that remained for weeks after. 

But pain is not relegated to our bodies. Just as bad or sometimes worse, is the emotional pain we experience, and the suffering we endure because of it. And healing from that, is a pain that cannot be addressed by chemo, radiation, or surgery. You can’t just cut out the heartache! What I’ve come to learn is that the best treatment for that heart pain, is acceptance. 

In the well-known book, The Road Less Traveled, Scott Peck begins with these words: “Life is difficult. This is a great truth, one of the greatest truths. It is a great truth, because once we truly see this truth, we transcend it. Once we truly know that life is difficult, once we truly understand and accept it, then life is no longer difficult. Because once it is accepted, the fact that life is difficult no longer matters.”

In other words, what is truly the cause of so much of the suffering we endure is not our pain, but our resistance to that pain. It is feeling out of control. It is dwelling on how unfair it is, how hard it is, how irrational it is. And our response is to push away pain and suffering, to avoid it at all cost. We strive to grasp for pleasure to avert the pain. Perhaps we just refuse to talk about the hard stuff, focusing only on the positive. Or less constructively, we just blame something or someone else for our pain, because this takes the pressure off of us to deal with it. It’s someone else’s fault, after all. We become victims, the issue is someone else’s problem, and we are off the hook to address it. 

But that tactic is not where healing happens. Ironically, the place of healing, of the joy and serenity that we all crave, is the place of surrender to the way the world is. And you cannot surrender to what you cannot admit is there. And the first step to surrender, is acceptance.

Acceptance of pain. Acceptance of loss. Acceptance of grief. Ugh, all those things we would rather avoid, would rather toss back into the basket and choose a different path. But the more I encounter these things, the more deeply I have learned that the only way through them is, indeed, through them, not around. They need to be not avoided, but engaged, to be approached with curiosity and openness. To be questioned, and heard. And yes, to be accepted. “Yes, I feel a sense of loss,” we can say. “I have lost something important to me – a previous way of living or thinking, a dream I once had, a life I once lived. I’ve lost it. This is the hand I was dealt. This is my life. I can gripe and complain and lament it all I want, but the fact remains: this is my life. Now, where is the invitation in this? Now that I have accepted it – where will it take me next?”

And then, a remarkable thing happens: once you accept it, it begins to lose its power over you. Once you have accepted something, you regain your agency, to see the invitation, the possibility, the what’s-next. The purpose. 

That is where the healing happens. That is where we no longer are beholden to the pain, the anger, the fear, the resentment, the sadness. That is where we begin to grow back into joy. And that healing, my friends, it cannot be seen in blood work or on a scan. But you can be sure it is felt in every other aspect of your life. Acceptance is where healing truly happens.

Lives Touch, Lives Celebrated: HOPE (2021)

This is part 1 of a 3-part talk I gave for the Breast Cancer Coalition of Rochester for their "Lives Touched, Lives Celebrated" event. Right before I gave the talk, I tested positive for Covid, and spent the next week plus feeling miserable, and then trying to make up for all the time feeling miserable, and well... a month later I'm ready to post it! Since the first part is about hope, it is a good way to start the Advent season. Part 2 is about healing, and Part 3 is about celebration.

Hope

“Hope is the thing with feathers –
that perches in the soul –
and sings the tune without the words –
and never stops at all – ”

That is from an Emily Dickinson poem you may have heard. I’ve loved Emily Dickinson since I first encountered her in 7th grade, but this year, that image of hope as a bird perching and singing without stopping gained a deeper meaning for me.

It has been a tough couple of years for everyone, right? Even more so if you have been dealing with cancer or loss on top of everything else. My husband and I have dealt with our share of challenges in 10 years together – including two bouts of breast cancer, now 8 and 9 years ago – and this year brought us new struggles, like it did to so many. We have been grasping for hope, seeking it anywhere we can find it. 

During one day when I was feeling especially low, I sought to process my sadness and hopelessness the way that has worked for me so many times before: I wrote. I wrote several pages. And then, feeling somewhat lighter, and renewed, I closed my computer, threw on some running shoes, and went out into the sunshine for a walk. As I walked outside, a huge flock of birds that had been just chilling on my front lawn took flight, all of them flying right before my eyes to find shelter in a nearby tree. 

My friends, I stood there simply stunned by their beauty. I thought, “Oh my goodness, they are just so… so free.” In that moment I realized that this was my deepest desire: freedom. I realized how bound I had been feeling – by circumstances, by unprocessed emotion – and I longed to be free of it. And the hope of that freedom was indeed what would give me feathers, so that I could sing my own tune, words or not, and never stop at all.

Hope has that sort of power, doesn’t it? To give us voice. To give us lift and flight. To give us freedom. 

In a pandemic that took from us the ability to sing together, I could feel my spirit withering. Singing and making music with people has always been something that gives me life, that fills my soul and calms my heart. When we are facing a trauma – whether it is a pandemic or a cancer diagnosis or a loss – that’s when we need those gifts most of all. Without the opportunity to sing, it became harder for me to grasp the hope that brings freedom. 

And yet hope has never left. It was harder to grasp, yes, but it never left. It didn’t leave me through three different cancer diagnoses, it didn’t leave me in a pandemic, and it didn’t leave me through the other struggles I have faced. Sure, it sang more quietly on some days, but it didn’t leave me. It remained that thing with feathers, perching in the soul, singing without stopping at all. Sometimes it didn’t have words. Sometimes I don’t have words. But the day that I saw those birds fly across my front lawn, I remembered that even without the words, the thing with feathers never left me. 

Knowing it was still there (hope is resilient, after all), I could find ways to nurture and feed it. As I did, I began to notice more and more birds – literal birds, perching not only in my soul, but on my roof, and flying across my path, and showing up in songs my randomly chosen in my car. And when I noticed it, I could acknowledge it, and thank it for showing up. And over time, the hope grew. And sometimes, it did sing a tune with words. And sure enough, hope grew some more. And with hope grew again the possibility of freedom – freedom to fly and to sing. 

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. Can you feel it? Can you find it? Can you hear its sweet tune, even if you can’t hear the words? If you can, then feed it. Nourish it. It will, finally, make you free. 

Sermon: The interruption of Advent (Nov 28, 2021)

 Full service available HERE.

Advent 1C
November 28, 2021
Luke 21:25-36

INTRODUCTION

“The world is always ending somewhere.” This quote from poet Jan Richardson is the basis for the series we are using during Advent, called, “My Heart Shall Sing.” The writers of the series go on to point out, “[The world] is always beginning somewhere, too… perhaps right in the same place.” 

This is indeed the feeling of this Advent season. It starts each year with a bang, with texts about the second coming of Christ, and the terrifying signs that go with that time. Advent 2 moves into John the Baptist telling us to repent – which as I mentioned a couple weeks ago is its own sort of apocalypse, a moment of asking God to disillusion us about the lies we tell ourselves and unveil the truth. Not until Advent 3 do we start to get some of the joy characteristic of this season (though I warn you that in this liturgical year, that week’s Gospel includes the phrase, “will burn with unquenchable fire…” so…). 

And yet, with each of these endings, there are, as our series highlights, beginnings, sometimes right in the same place. And so, our hearts shall sing – sing of the ways that God brings about new beginnings from all our endings. As you listen to today’s texts, and throughout Advent, listen for the endings and for the beginnings, and think about endings and beginnings in your life, and hear what song might burst forth from your heart in response. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

Decorations are going up, the Christmas music is in full swing, it is officially the Christmas season. Except at church – at church, we begin Advent, and we get to hear these terrifying texts! Yikes! Instead of the peace and calm we often associate with the story of Christmas, we hear today 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. We are grieving, and stressed emotionally and financially, and struggling with our mental or physical health, and dealing with broken relationships. And 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. So in that way, the rude awakening the first Sunday of Advent, provides us with a gift. A text like our Gospel today echoes the precariousness and complexity of life and the emotions we experience, and it reminds us of why we need a savior. And, it shows us the hope and joy that this savior brings. Yes, we need an interruption to the struggles we face, but in order to make itself known, to draw us out of what can sometimes feel all-consuming, that interruption had 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, one 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.

The interruption on this first Sunday of Advent is another apocalypse – but these apocalyptic texts are not really about the end of the world so much as they are about finding hope in the midst of struggle. I remember when I was making decisions about cancer treatments, now almost 10 years ago, and so many statistics were framed negatively: “with this treatment option there’s a 20% chance cancer will return…” It felt like I was making decisions based on my reaction to fear, not the hope of recovery. So instead, I started framing them positively: “this option gives me an 80% chance of living a cancer-free life!” It allowed me to live in hope instead of fear. The cancer was still there, but this gave me a way to look beyond it.

And this is the lesson of Advent: to live in the hope of what is to come, trusting that, come what may, God is there in the midst of it. Yes, fear happens. Life is full of the unknown, the frustrating, the scary, the devastating, and things can turn for the worse 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 deliver, and that is the hope that comes along with that babe in a manger. This is the salvation we experience right now. It is the salvation that Jeremiah promised in our first lesson today. 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 is and who was and who is to come. 

Well that’s all well and good… but how do we open ourselves to the possibility of that hopeful interruption? Or, in Advent parlance, how shall we prepare our hearts to notice and receive what God is giving us? 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.” A practice I always move toward when I’m worried or stressed is one of more intentional gratitude, finding ways to give thanks not only in the midst of stressors and worries, but even for those things, because that helps me to see how God is working even there. When I find the gratitude in them, I can feel my heart soften, as it encounters there the living God. 

As for dissipation and drunkenness… well, we can and should strive to avoid those literally, but also think of them metaphorically, as representative of all the distractions that bombard us this season. To get away from the persistent distractions, perhaps try to find a little bit of quiet each day, time for you to focus and not feel rushed – even if it is just sitting in your car in the garage for a few quiet minutes before walking into the house, or with your morning coffee, or before you fall asleep. Let this be a time just to breathe a few deep breaths, breathing in hope, and breathing out everything that would get in the way of that hopefulness.

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 to look internally and find peace and focus, we never stop paying attention to what is outside. “Look at the fig tree,” Jesus says. Notice this very ordinary thing in your midst, and be attentive to the details. God isn’t only present in church, or in those most dramatic moments of life. Notice God in the sprouting leaves, the subtly changing sky, the sights and sounds of your daily life, and the tiny movements of your soul and spirit. If God can show up in a teenager’s womb, God could show up anywhere! So pay attention!

And finally, Jesus tells us to pray. Pray for strength, for endurance, for patience as we wait. Really, 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, or at red lights. Maybe you could pray through setting up your nativity, or whatever other Advent and Christmas themed décor you have in your house, or while you’re reading this year’s congregational devotional. Find God in these ordinary things, too, and let them inspire you to prayer.

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.

Sermon: Who is your king? (Nov. 21, 2021)

View full service HERE.

Christ the King B

November 21, 2021 

John 18:33-37

Stewardship Ingathering, Confirmation Day

INTRODUCTION

On this last Sunday of the church year, the week before Advent, we celebrate Christ the King Sunday – remembering with thanksgiving that Christ is the ruler of the universe and of our lives, more powerful than any earthly power. The texts for Christ the King present us with some strange, end-times imagery, looking forward to the time when Christ will return to sit on the throne and visibly rule over heaven and earth, even as they recall that Christ has always done this. It’s a day of tension, both ominous, and thrilling, and it prepares us to turn our attention to Advent, and the first coming of our Lord.

    I want to say a quick word about our Gospel reading in particular, because today we jump back from Mark into the Gospel of John. This short reading brings us to Good Friday, in the middle of Jesus’ trial before Pilate. Through Pilate’s questioning, Jesus is resolute that he is exactly where he needs to be, doing what he needs to do. Their argument today is about whether or not Jesus is, in fact, a king, and what that kingship looks like. As with many things with Jesus, his kingship is not what the world might have thought or expected! Let’s listen and learn about what it means for Christ to be our King.

[READ] 

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

I’ve always had a special place in my heart for Christ the King Sunday. Maybe it’s because I was confirmed on Christ the King Sunday. Maybe it’s because we always move from this day into Advent, my favorite season. Or maybe it’s because it gives us a reality check each year about where our loyalties lie, where we put our trust, and who – or what – we really view as the ruler of our lives.

It’s the last one that I’m thinking about today, as we witness five young people affirm their baptism, and we make our stewardship commitments for the coming year, and we think about celebrating Thanksgiving later this week. Because believe it or not, I think they are all related to the question of who or what rules us.

First, let’s think about what it means for Christ to be our king. Generally, the character of the leader or ruler affects the character of the organization, especially if it is a long tenure (you know, like, 2000 years or more!). So, if Christ is the ruler, then what might we imagine a kingdom under his reign would look like? Well, loving, for sure. Self-giving. Humble, vulnerable, seeking compassion over power. Generous. Not afraid to speak truth to the ruler powers of the world. Not afraid to live and even to be that truth even when it is contrary to the ways of the world. Sound right?

So how would you say we measure up, as citizens in Christ’s kingdom? Eh, we do all right, I think. Sometimes. But if we’re being honest here, I suspect there are a lot of other “rulers” in our lives: things, people or concepts in which we really put our trust, that drive our decisions, that influence our thoughts and actions. Sure, we do strive to live in God’s kingdom… but I’m afraid we often miss the mark.

Can you think of some examples of some of the other rulers we make in our lives? I think one ruler in our lives that tries to overtake our loyalty to Christ the King is our own self-image. I told our confirmation class that I was about their age when my friends all got cool, and I stayed nerdy, and suddenly, I found myself without a real friend group. It was the first time I remember being aware that I may have to change something about who I am if I want to “fit in” with my peer group. But it was certainly not the last time. All of us are ever aware of how people view us. We make our decisions based on how they will be perceived by others, or how the decision will serve us, or how it will affect our place in society. That’s not always bad – these are also important considerations in decision-making. But when our priority becomes being accepted by the world or by our particular community, following their standards, rather than doing what is God’s will (even if it is contrary to the ways of the world!), then we have ceased seeing Christ as our king. Instead, we see our own reputation and status as our ruling and driving force.

Another very common “king” or ruler in our earthly lives is… stuff and money. This is so important to Jesus that he talks about it more than anything else, other than the kingdom of God itself. Society tells us that money equals power, comfort, success, value, and goodness. And so, we work to get more and more, and hold on tight to what we have. And these assets promise us so much, it’s no wonder we come to depend upon them – we have convinced ourselves that they have something to say about who we are and how valuable we are! They become our king. Now, I doubt any of us would readily say we view money and possessions as our most sovereign, and yet, we sure act as if they are! 

That’s why the Church, this little glimpse of God’s kingdom, spends time each year talking about faithful stewardship. Each year we ask you to make a financial commitment, an estimate of giving for the year. Though having this from people does help us make a budget each year, that’s not the most important reason we do this. The most important part of stewardship season is that it is a chance for us to declare, “I am not ruled by my money. My king is Christ.” And so, we commit to giving up some of our financial assets as a way of releasing or even denying the false narrative society teaches that our worth as people is tied to our financial worth, or that our money can bring us power and comfort, or that with enough assets, we can be self-sufficient. We write down that commitment, not as a binding contract with the Church, but as an expressed commitment to God, to keep looking not to our money, but to Christ as our power, comfort, provider, and king. We look to Christ for our worth.

And that brings me to my last point, about where that worth really comes from. It comes from the very thing these five young people will affirm in just a moment: our baptism. Each of us, when we were baptized, was given all the worth we need, as we were claimed and named as beloved children of God. We were promised forgiveness of sins and life everlasting, and were assured of God’s abiding presence with us. We also offered some promises in return: to trust God, proclaim Christ through word and deed, to care for others and the world God made, and to work for justice and peace. In short, to live like citizens of Christ’s kingdom, who view Christ as their sovereign and ruler. 

All of that happened in our baptism, and today, these five young people will stand before God and all of you and say, “Yes, I still stand by all that. I still want to try to live into life with Christ as my king. I still joyfully accept the identity I was given in my baptism, and the gifts of salvation and forgiveness. I am baptized, I am a child of God, and I am beloved!”

And as we witness this, all the rest of us have the chance to do the same – not standing up here in a white robe, but from your seats – remembering and giving thanks for all the gifts we received in our baptism and still receive today, and affirming the life they call us to. We all can commit once again to strive to live into the baptized life, living as if we do in fact view Christ as our ruler and leader, and making our choices accordingly even if they are counter to how the world would have us live. We all can commit once again to a life of generosity, releasing some of our dependance on our money and other assets, and depending instead on our good king to care for us. 

As we move from today’s celebration into preparing for Thanksgiving this week, we do indeed have much to be thankful for, not the least of which is a God who loves us and cares for us, who grants us the identity of “beloved child of God,” and who truly is a good and generous ruler over all the earth.

Let us pray… Christ our King, you are ruler over our hearts and our lives, even when we are swayed by other things. Help us to live into life as citizens of your kingdom, who are generous, loving, trusting, and grateful. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Disillusion me, O God (Nov. 14, 2021)

Full service can be viewed HERE and HERE (cut cut off in the middle of the sermon, ack!).

Pentecost 25B
November 14, 2021
Mark 13:1-8

INTRODUCTION

Happy apocalypse! Each year in November, as we prepare to wrap up the lectionary year and prepare again for the world-turning news of Advent and Christmas, the lectionary takes us through some of the apocalyptic texts in the Bible. And every year I think, “Man, these horrifying texts could be describing what we’re experiencing today!” 

Well for Mark’s audience, they did exactly that. Here’s a little church history lesson for you: In Jesus’s time, the Jerusalem Temple was indeed a glorious accomplishment, huge and glimmering with gold. But this Temple, and Jerusalem with it, were destroyed by the Romans in the year 70 – which happens to be when Mark was writing about it. In other words, even as Mark is writing that Jesus foretold the destruction of the Temple, Mark’s audience was either about to watch this, or had just recently watched this happen before their eyes. So, while it seems to us like Mark could be describing our world, he was, literally, describing his first century world. 

            I find some comfort in this, knowing that people throughout time have been dealing with one crisis or trauma or another, and that through them all, God’s word has stood as a solid beacon of hope. So as you listen to this collection of apocalyptic texts today, know that we can seek solidarity with people of faith throughout time, who have always looked to God in times of trouble. Let’s listen.

[READ]

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

Someone asked me this summer, “Doesn’t it seem like this is the end of the world? Why don’t Lutherans talk more about the apocalypse?” The answer is: yes, it does seem like this is the end of the world. But also, every generation says that. And people have been predicting the date of the end of the world forever, and so far, no one has been right. Not even Jesus knows! There have always been, as Jesus says, “Wars and rumors of wars, earthquakes, famines, nation rising against nation…” and if this is “but the beginning of the birth pangs,” well, then this is the longest labor in history! This is why people have always thought the end is coming.

As for what Lutherans have to say about this, there is a pithy quote attributed to Martin Luther that says something like, “If I knew that the world would end tomorrow, then I would plant a tree today.” I don’t know whether he really said that, but the sentiment rings true: Lutherans don’t spend a lot of time talking about the end of the world because the truth is, knowing the world is ending tomorrow wouldn’t really change the way we are called to live today. We are always working to bring about God’s reign, always living in the already-and-not-yet of that kingdom, catching glimpses of it already even as we long for it to come in its fullness. And knowing that Jesus is returning tomorrow wouldn’t change that. We live like the disciples we are, regardless. (Though I admit, if I knew the world were ending, I might at least forgo folding the laundry!)

Still, each year in November, Lutherans and all those who follow the Revised Common Lectionary get a chance to talk about the end of the world, as the lectionary takes us through some of the apocalyptic literature in the Bible. See, it’s not just Revelation that talks about end times. Daniel is known for it, for instance, and chapter 13 in Mark is known as Mark’s “little apocalypse.” So, hang on: we’re jumping in!

First, a definition of terms is in order. When I say, “apocalypse,” what do you picture? Maybe the stuff of the Left Behind series (which is, by the way, not very biblical!)? Or maybe zombies coming out of their graves? (That is actually somewhat more biblical – see the crucifixion story in Matthew!) Well, here is what the Greek word, apocalypse, actually means: it is a pulling back of the veil, a revealing or uncovering. The English word implies a disaster of some sort, and sometimes it is, but the heart of the word is less “end of the world” and more, “end of our world as we know it.” 

            There’s a wonderful word for this: disillusionment. Preacher and theologian Barbara Brown Taylor describes it this way: “Disillusionment is, literally, the loss of an illusion – about ourselves, about the world, about God – and while it is almost always a painful thing, it is never a bad thing, to lose the lies we have mistaken for the truth.” Oof. Boy, painful is the word for it. I have tried to do some self-reflection on that this week, in particular on the question, “What lies and illusions do I mistake for truth?” and I find myself resistant to even going there! Because if I spend some time doing that, I might discover that something I have held dear, that has kept me safe, that even has helped to define me, might in fact just be some illusion, some lie I have been telling myself. I’d rather just keep up the illusion, frankly, and hold onto those things that have brought me comfort and a sense of safety all these years, even if they are mere illusions, because if disillusionment is anything like what Jesus describes here, even if metaphorically, that sounds like a pain I’d rather avoid, if possible.

            Of course, it is not really possible to avoid pain, is it? We all have experiences, some small, some significant, in which we were disillusioned, where we suddenly realize something is not as we thought it was. For me, I think of an awesome internship I once applied for, for which I thought I was a shoe-in, and then I was not even offered an interview, though several of my classmates were. I think of sitting in my counselor’s office, and suddenly realizing that a pattern I had been living that I thought had been helping was in fact the very thing that was causing harm. I think of when I was an invincible 15-year-old one day, and the next, I was a cancer patient, and almost overnight I went from being healthy and untouchable, to sick and fighting for my life. Each of those disillusionments was painful. In each, I felt a sense of destruction – in my heart, and in the way I saw the world around me. Each felt like a little apocalypse in my life.

            And really – each was a sort of apocalypse, an unveiling, because each one showed me something that I thought was true was not, in fact true. Each one caused me to doubt what I thought I knew about myself, and to try to find the real truth. And each set me upon a path I needed to be on. Instead of that internship, I ended up in Upstate NY, where I met my husband and started a family. Because of the work I’ve done in counseling, I’m able to be a better, healthier pastor, wife, daughter, mother, and human. Having cancer taught me countless valuable lessons about life, and perhaps even more, showed me with such clarity the power of the Body of Christ, and of prayer, and in many ways it set me upon the path to become a pastor. Each apocalypse, though incredibly painful at the time, was an unveiling that led me back toward living the godly life God has in mind for me.

            Did you know, we actually experience a little apocalypse every time we gather to worship. It happens right at the beginning… the confession. Here, built into our worship, we have the opportunity to come before God and say, “Hey God, I’ve been hiding my sins, from you and perhaps even from myself, and choosing to live under the illusion that I am without sin. But now, I’d like to unveil my sin, to you. Disillusion me, O God. Pull back the lies I have been telling myself and others, and then help me deal with what is left there, so that I would be set upon your path, heading toward your will, rather than the path my illusions would lead me down. Forgive me, renew me, and lead me, so that I may delight in your will and walk in your ways, to the glory of your Holy Name. Amen.”

            And then the rest of our worship is about the fruit of that disillusionment: it’s about stepping into the new life that is possible because of the apocalypse we have experienced. It’s about hearing the Word, the promises of God in scripture. It’s about holding in prayer and in love all those around the world in need. It’s about seeking peace and reconciliation between one another – between nations and between individuals. It’s about welcoming new disciples into this apocalyptic faith, baptizing them and assuring them of God’s love and forgiveness for them. It’s about sharing a meal together, in which we remember and celebrate the incredible, self-sacrificing love of our God, as we come forward with hands extended, asking for a taste of God’s immense grace for us. It’s about being sent out into the world to share what we know about this love, this grace, this peace… this God. And it’s about praising and thanking God all along the way.

            In the middle of Jesus’ words in Mark’s “little apocalypse” are buried these words that end today’s reading: “This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” It may at first sound sort of ominous – just the beginning? How long must we endure this pain, O Lord? Having experienced the beginning of birth pangs a couple times now, I can resonate with that sentiment! There is physical pain, and there is fear and anxiety and uncertainty… but there is also excitement, and hope, and the palpable sense of possibility. The best thing someone told me about labor pains as awaiting the birth of my first child, is that they are pain with a purpose. And so, as labor continues, there are inevitably moments when the one giving birth thinks, or even says or shouts, “I can’t do this!” Yeah, disillusionment, apocalypse, can be like that, too. But through it all there is a purpose. At the end of all that pain… life. Newness. Everything changed forever. A brand new path to walk, one that leads us toward God’s intention.

            And most importantly, God is with us all along: in the initial awareness, in the unveiling, in the realization of a new normal, and all the life that comes from that. Disillusionment is no easy process. But as we approach the Advent season, when we celebrate a God who promises to be Emmanuel, God-with-us, we can trust that we will never be abandoned. As the Psalmist writes, “God will show us the path of life; in God’s presence there is fullness of joy, and in God’s right hand are pleasures forevermore.”

            Let us pray… God of grace, we would so like to feel safe, even if it means living under the veil of lies we tell ourselves. Disillusion us, O God. Help us pull back the veil so that through all the muck, we can see your purpose for us, and then lead us lovingly toward fulfilling that purpose. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Freedom for generosity (Oct 31, 2021)

Full service HERE.

Reformation Day
October 31, 2021
John 8:31-36

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

The book, Sensible Shoes, tells the story of four very different women who all find themselves together at a spiritual retreat center. One of the women, Charissa, is a young, beautiful grad student pursuing a PhD. She is driven, a perfectionist, and she has never had a teacher who didn’t love her. She is at the retreat center at a professor’s suggestion, to enhance one of her classes, but she is appalled to discover on the first day of the retreat that there is no syllabus: no objectives, no intended outcome to the retreat. How is she supposed to measure her success? How will the instructor know how well she is doing? From day one, she is frustrated by the experience. 

She brings her discouragement to her professor. She asks him what she is supposed to be learning from this unfocused “spiritual journey” thing he’d recommended. He tells her plainly that her desire to learn has become an idol for her. He says, “If your desire to learn is keeping you from encountering Christ, then the right place to begin is with confession and repentance. You begin by acknowledging the truth about yourself: you’re a sinner who needs grace.”

Tough words for a perfectionist – and indeed, it sends poor Charissa reeling. All she has ever tried to be in her life is Good. She is a model Christian, a good student, she is focused and responsible and always follows the rules. How dare her professor call her a sinner! She has done everything right! How could God not be pleased with that?

Charissa’s story resonates with me… maybe with you, too. In so many areas of our life, we do have near complete control over our fate, or at least we’ve convinced ourselves that we do. The American dream says as much: you work hard, you do well, you follow the rules, or at least know the appropriate time and way to break them, then you’ll get ahead. And if you don’t, well, that must just mean you have done something wrong, and need to work harder.

This is the message society tries to teach us. And yet then we come here to church and the very first thing we do is speak aloud those words, “We confess that we are captive to sin and cannot free ourselves.” How counter-cultural is that! 

Because it is so counter-cultural… I wonder how many of us really believe those words when we say them, more than we believe what society teaches? Or, how many of us instead think, “I’m a pretty good person, I always try to do the right thing, I’m kind and generous with my time and resources. Yes, I know I’m a ‘sinner,’ but really I don’t sin that much.” I admit that when we get to that part of the service where there is some silence for self-examination right before we pray the prayer of confession together, I sometimes struggle to think of specific sins because, like many of you, I am, for the most part, a pretty good person. 

But this view of sin misses the point. It makes us sound like the crowd in today’s Gospel lesson. When Jesus tells them the Truth will set them free, their response is, “What do you mean free? Free from what? We’ve never been slaves to anyone!” Like Charissa in Sensible Shoes, they are aghast at the mere suggestion that they could be held captive by anything. Well, first of all, this is, for this Jewish audience, entirely untrue – they had been literal slaves several times throughout their history. But more importantly, humans from across the ages have been held captive by any number of emotional, mental, and spiritual threats, by “hordes of devils filling the land,” as Luther calls them. We are held captive by our guilt about the past, our anxiety about the future, and our resentment about our inability to control our situation. We are slaves to our work, to a need to stay busy, to achieving at least the façade of success. We are bound by disease and health limitations, both mental and physical, and by a general sense of apathy. We are trapped in the heartbreak surrounding so many broken relationships – with our partners, our siblings, our in-laws or parents or kids, our neighbors. 

It turns out, we are slaves. We do long for freedom. 

Now, those things are not necessarily inherently sinful. It is not a sin, for example, to be sick. But they are a part of the broader understanding of the condition of sin, because any or all of those things has the potential to threaten our relationship with Christ. They can drive us away from trust in God and toward trust in our own abilities. Or, they convince us that we are somehow less than a beloved child of God who is made in God’s image. Or, they cause us to turn in ourselves, to focus on our own navels, rather than look up and out to see God and neighbor. And when we do any of those things, the cycle of captivity to sin just continues.

But on this Reformation Day (and every day!), we celebrate that this captivity to sin does not define us. Now, I want to be realistic here – those things do exist, because we are human, we are captive to sin, and we do experience the brokenness that goes along with all that. But this brokenness does not define us. What defines us first of all is that we are beloved by our merciful Creator. We are loved. 

What defines us further, and what counter-intuitively offers us hope in the midst of brokenness, is the very thing that society might try to tell us is a failure: We are captive to sin and cannot free ourselves. But God can, and does, free us. It is by pure grace that we are freed from, forgiven for, this brokenness; even though we are sinners, God still does this for us. It is God’s promise that we are not responsible for achieving our own salvation: God through Christ does that for us. As Paul writes, “All of us have sinned and fallen short of God’s glory. But God treats us much better than we deserve, and because of Christ Jesus, he freely accepts us and sets us free from our sins.” (CEV) He forgives us, as Jeremiah says, and remembers our sin no more.

That’s good news, but that’s not where it ends. When we hear this news, we might be tempted to say, “Great! I’m off the hook! I don’t have to do anything!” But if we truly grasp how incredible this news, this promise, is, we can’t sit back and do nothing. Instead, we are compelled to serve, to give, to love even the unlovable, to share this news with others, to do all we can to make sure the world knows how great this is. That’s what we do, when we really believe and trust in God’s promise. You see, Christ provides us two kinds of freedom – freedom from the crippling power of sin, and freedom for service and generosity. This latter freedom, the “freedom for,” when we truly believe and accept the former, spontaneously springs forth from us. 

And that’s the sort of freedom we are beginning to think about at St. Paul’s today, as we kick off our stewardship campaign: the freedom to be generous. The freedom to say, “I know God’s got my back, that nothing can defeat me since Christ defeated death, that my God is trustworthy and good, and so I want to thank and praise, serve and obey him. I want to love and serve my neighbor. I want to be generous with my time, talents and treasures for the sake of God’s mission in the world, of which I am blessed to be a part. I am free to give of myself and my assets, just as God so freely gave of His.” 

Over the next four weeks, we will be hearing about some of the exciting ways that St. Paul’s is dreaming about living more intentionally into God’s vision for us. We’ve been thinking, praying, talking and dreaming about it for months, and now, we have the chance to ask you to commit to making some of this happen, by pledging your time, talents, and treasures to the service of this vision. You should have received (or will shortly) in the mail a letter describing some of those things, as well as a time and talent sheet, a pledge card, and a chart to help you consider how you might be able to increase your giving this year.

Maybe, as you prayerfully consider your involvement in this, you will feel moved to pledge for the first time, or maybe you will commit to increasing your gift by 10%, or maybe you will commit to give more regularly and intentionally and not just when you happen to think of it. Maybe you will join a new ministry, or volunteer in a way that is a little out of your comfort zone. Maybe you will commit to praying for the success of these ministries. Whatever your commitment is, whatever you, your family, and God have decided, this is an opportunity to pray and worship and thank God with our hearts and our bodies, to say, “I love you, God, I trust you, I thank you!” 

500 years ago, the Spirit moved in the Church and did something new. That Spirit never stopped moving in the Church as a whole, and it never stops moving in her members. I hope you will listen to what the Spirit is changing, reforming, in your heart, to live more intentionally into God’s mission for us.

Let us pray… Generous God, thank you for our abundant blessings, and especially for freeing us from all that enslaves us. Help us to trust that you are our provider and true source of joy and satisfaction. As we begin our stewardship campaign today, free us from the worries of financial insecurity, and help us to give according to the blessings that you have so generously given us. Thank you for how you have been using and will continue to use our congregation to bless the community that you have called us to minister to. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.