If your Pastor seems disinterested in masks and sanctuaries--it is not that they don't care. They may simply be grieving.

     Yesterday the skies opened up and it finally rained here in Maine. I was overwhelmed with such sadness. The rain came down by the buckets and it felt like God was weeping. Weeping for more than 500,000 lives lost. That is filling Gillette stadium, which holds about 66,000 people, more than seven times and having all those lives lost. So much loss in these past months. At this moment I was overwhelmed, and I admitted to myself that discussions over masks and when we will be back in the sanctuary are, for me,second to the grief of the world.

     Every pastor answers a call that comes in a different way. We share similarities but we also have calls that are specific, some of us have been called to be with people as they end their time on earth. This includes caring for and walking with the grieving. This has always been an important part of my call. It seems that for the past months I, like many, have been looking to the future without adequate response to all that has been lost. I have been running, not walking.

     Like many of you I move through these strange times feeling like I am walking through mist, the air feels different, the world moves slowly, I am a stranger in familiar places---exactly how we feel after we lose someone we love. And as most people in grief do--we move in silence, we know society is uncomfortable with grief. But there was a time and there are still places where people give way to great lamenting. They take to the streets, they let the world know that the one they love is gone.

     If you have lost someone you love, you might know that quite often with new grief we work our way through all our old griefs. Like worry beads we move through each one, holding, rubbing, and remembering. 500,000 lives have caused us to move through life upon life.

     George Floyd was the life that caused a ripple of remembering, his life lost came when the burden of pandemic loss was on our hearts. People were free to finally weep as Rachel---gone, gone, gone--my children are gone, there is no comfort for me. Their lament is renamed “rioting” we are more comfortable with that. Anger, a natural reaction to grief, is palpable. Anger at too many years of slavery and oppression, too many wrongful deaths.

     There is anger with pandemic grief as well, anger at wearing or not wearing a mask, anger that things are no longer the same. I have anger with my grief as well. I am a social science major, I know about survival of the fittest, I even appreciate it in the greater scheme of things, but as a pastor I am mad. I am mad at a virus that preys on the weakest and most vulnerable. I am mad that the elderly, the compromised, and people of color are seen as expendable. The elderly in particular, dismissed as ready to go anyway. I have lifted an 80 woman off the grave of her brother--gone, gone, gone.

     I do not live in fear of death, I have been with the dying too many times to not see beauty in our exit as it is in our entrance. But I also believe the Kin-dom of Heaven is at hand. The family of God is at hand. I see that this beautiful life is too good to be tossed away for even one minute too soon. I see my parishioners and I see whole lives, I see this corner of our world changed forever with their departing, I see the Kin-dom would be disrupted with their absence.

     It is raining again today, the earth rejoices, my heart is comforted with permission to cry. Tomorrow is a new day, I believe that good will come from this time of struggle, I believe there will be a time to rejoice. But today, I am grieving.

“Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before--more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.”

― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

As we listen to the world's lament, may we be the community that gently unwraps the wounded.

Remnants 

As I was making masks, I noticed the pile of remnants that grew on the bed. I was reminded of the remnants that would have laid in a similar pile from Lazarus.

It seemed to me that getting well, and new life, often come with a bit of a mess.

When Jesus comes to the tomb for Lazarus, Mary and Martha are upset that he is too late. He did not come in time. Jesus has let them down--and they were his friends.

This virus is a leveling event. No matter your status, your politics, your denomination, your place of worship, your social status, or the number of times you pray in a day, this virus is not picky, all people are vulnerable.

I think that sometimes we can be like Mary and Martha and think that if we pray just right, that if we have an "iin" with Jesus that bad things will not happen to us.

There is promise in this scripture, when we think Jesus has shown up too late, Christ meets us in our grief and weeps with us. And that new life comes with a mess and often requires community.

  When Lazarus is called out of the tomb, Jesus turns to the community and says; "unbind him." Now Lazarus has been in the tomb for days, so we can imagine that this is not a pleasant job. There will be an odor, there will be dirt, and maybe even some bugs.

How appropriate to think that the healing of this virus will require community.

As we look at the remnants of the hospital wards may our prayers acknowledge the mess that comes with healing and pray for the healers.

  As we stand unable to do much from our homes, remember that Christ's comfort may simply come in shared grief. Christ cries with us.

  As we listen to the worlds's lament may we be the community that gently unwraps the wounded.

  And when this is over may we stand at the door of our neighbor and call them back to the living. May we remind them that the world waits for them.

Toni Morrison wrote:  “It started that way: laughing children, dancing men, crying women and then it got mixed up.  Women stopped crying and danced; men sat down and cried; children danced, women laughed, children cried until, exhausted and riven, all and each lay about the Clearing damp and gasping for breath.  In the silence that followed, Baby Sugg, offered up to them her great big heart.”

Time for an emoji--this one is for the kids (big kids too) or Since "Rona" Came to Town

                    👀😋😓😑😏😝

             As an almost 60 year old woman, I often feel foolish when I use an emoji at the end of a text message, but it just feels so good.  Sticking my tongue at my sister still makes me laugh.
         
            Given our current situation, with our schools closed, emojis may be a valuable way to share our expressions.

           I know as I watch my own grandchildren adjust to being at home, being taught by their parents, being away from their friends and understanding this new word "Corona" that they may very well want to just put a big poop emoji next to all their comments.  For those without contact with young people--the poop emoji is pretty popular.   How can they express themselves now that they are under the microscope of parents watching them watch videos, doing homework, and washing their hands?
 
          This is the perfect time to talk about how we are feeling with our children. It is okay to share with young people:
 I don't feel like getting off the couch either,
I feel a bit like crying too,
it is normal to be happy because we are together so much even though it feels weird at the same time, I miss our family,
I am worried,
 and I get scared too.

        Someone recently shared that they were in a group that referred to the Corona virus simply as "Rona" like a person.  They asked each other "What does "Rona" have you doing today?"  Like it or not we are in a relationship with this virus and relationships can be complicated.  I imagine children are struggling with this unknown, unseen virus that has upended their world.  It may help just a bit if they could talk about "Rona" in a way that allowed them to say how mad, scared or even happy they are since "Rona" came to town.  Maybe we could all benefit from sharing our Rona emoji--😫
         
            No matter our age, sometimes a picture speaks a thousand words--even if it is an emoji.
     

       

“Therefore comfort each other and edify one another, just as you also are doing.”.

2 Thessalonians 16-17

Hebrews 11:3 “It is by faith that we understand that the universe was created by God's word, so that what can be seen was made out of what cannot be seen.”

            Each spring I wait for these snowdrops to show up.  What I see for only a short time goes unseen for most of the year.  This is a time when we may find ourselves missing what we are used to seeing.  Our family, our friends, our favorite restaurants, our places of business, and even our churches might go unseen for a time.  But God's creative hand is still at work.

--What new thing waits in us?

--What unseen thing has been waiting to be revealed, revealed in the silence and in the empty spaces?

--What might we notice as we walk through our neighborhoods with the air almost dense with solitude?

Without snow to shovel, and with plenty of electricity and hot water, our bodies move awkwardly through space and time. Anxiety, fear, and even anger move like electrical currents, zipping and zapping, this way and that through our brains. Many of us feel like we are on the edge of something...but what?

Our grandson was born early and he was a fragile little peanut. On one of his first outings, my sister was with us. I was walking, carrying him down a flight of stairs and that walk was one of the longest walks in my life. Each step took effort and seemed to bring me no closer to the end. The floored loomed before me, daring me not to trip. My arms felt like they belonged to someone else as they cradled the baby.

Once I stepped off the last step, I paused and let go of my breath, I was unaware that I had stopped breathing. My sister looked at me and said; "I was so worried you would drop him." She has walked each step with the same caution and worry even though her arms were empty.

Now we have six children between us, most very close in age, and I can promise you that we never took a walk like that with them. We swung them, we held them with one arm, and we even let 4-year-old arms hold new born babies, they may have been sitting but those arms were only 4-years-old!

There was something new in that walk, something we did not anticipate, being a grandparent was not the same as being a parent. The value of time and life have a different meaning. It all goes so quickly.

The snowdrops usually come before I am ready. I have not raked the pine needles away and to be honest the weather may be too chilly for me to spend much time admiring them. When all is said and done, they will have gone before I know it. All the waiting, including the waiting I didn't even know I was doing, is worth the first sighting of them. It is all worth the skip in my heart and the promise of more to come; the unseen is brewing just below the surface.

       As we wait for life to get back to normal, consider this a time of tilling the familiar soil for new growth.  A time to prepare our hearts and minds for what is unseen.

       Alana Levandoski sings: "Behold I make all things new--God unseen is taking form--Let there be light--Let there be light."

            

Lent has begun and it started as it always does, for me at least--with a smudge of ashes across the forehead. As a pastor I have the privilege of smudging the shape of a cross while saying the words; “From dust you were born and to dust you shall return.”

This past Ash Wednesday, as we gathered around a fire, I walked among the people and shared this act before landing on the forehead of a young parishioner. As I finished making the cross and saying these powerful words, he said; “I want more.” So I moved my dusty finger slowly down his forehead and one could feel the Holy Spirit in that moment. When I moved my hand away he whispered; “I don’t know why.”

Almost 16 years of ministry and it took a child to verbalize what so many of us feel--we don’t know why. We don’t know why we want more, more of Jesus, more of the sun, more of the sky, more mud, more trees, more waves, more birds singing, really more of anything that connects us to the Creator of the earth from which we come and will one day return.


The Quaker hymn “How can I Keep from Singing” by Henry S. Burrage sings:

My life goes on in endless song

Above earth’s lamentation

I hear the real, though far-off hymn

That hails a new creation

Through all the tumult and the strife

I hear its music ringing

It sounds and echo in my soul

How can I keep from singing?

This is the mystery of faith that we cannot express--the contradictions of joy in the midst of sorrow, peace in the midst of loneliness, and the hymn that stirs inside us even on the most discouraging of days.

Snowday!

Photo by Stink Pickle on Unsplash

Every morning
    you’ll hear me at it again.
Every morning
    I lay out the pieces of my life
    on your altar
    and watch for fire to descend-----Psalm 5:3 (The Message—in part)

A meditation by Macrina Wiederkehr

I am listening to storms raging out my window, to storms raging in my heart.

I am listening to all that makes me pull my cloak a little tighter.

I am listening to trust buried deep in the ground of my being.

I am listening!

I am listening to the kind of permission of the season to rest more often, to reflect more deeply, to pray without words.  I am listening to the sacraments of non-doing.

I am listening!

I am listening to my dreams and inner visions, to the unknown wrapped in the mystery of my life, to tears trapped in underground streams of my being, to seeds watered daily in those tears.

I am listening!

I am listening to the quiet life in winter’s womb.  I am listening to winter, nurturing spring.  I am listening to brilliant winter sunsets and lovely frosty mornings.  I am listening to snowflakes flying through the air, to the cold winds that often blow out there, to bare trees so lovely in their emptiness, to one leaf that never did let go.

I am listening!

I am listening to winter handing over spring. I am listening to the poetry of winter.

I am listening!

https://youtu.be/U0aL9rKJPr4

The longest night.

    This is my reflection from our Longest Night service.  I am sharing as one who knows that sometimes we just don't feel like celebrating, sometimes the joy and lights are hard to take.  Christ arrived under difficult circumstances, Christ showed up amid the chaos and noise, the smell and the fear and that promise is no less ours today than it was then.  

Luke 1:26-38 New Revised Standard Version (NRSV)

The Birth of Jesus Foretold

²⁶ In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, ²⁷ to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. ²⁸ And he came to her and said, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.”^[a]29 But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. ³⁰ The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. ³¹ And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. ³² He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. ³³ He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.” ³⁴ Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?”^[b] 35 The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born^[c] will be holy; he will be called Son of God. ³⁶ And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. ³⁷ For nothing will be impossible with God.” ³⁸ Then Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Then the angel departed from her.

For Nothing is impossible with God, even when we are left sitting alone, even when the angel’s presence is no longer sensed.

You can do this, whatever this is—you can do it.

Love from afar, pray, walk away, walk back in, no guilt or failure in that.

You can say no and then say yes or say yes and then no.

U turns are allowed, no 1 way roads, no left or right turns only.

You can take the high way or the long winding road.

You can cry and laugh, moan and scream.

With God all things are possible.

Be selfish, waste time, then take time to be fully human, fully cared for, fully loved, and then you can fully love.

When the sun sets --embrace the dark and embrace the offering of rest, set free the dusty troubles of the day that have clung to your clothes, rinse away the aroma of worry, the ache of unfinished business.

When the sun rises- stay in bed one minute longer, slowly release your arms and legs, release yourself to walking and doing. 

When you feel assaulted by all the day has to offer know that the sun will set, that dusk and dawn can be your friend and that with God all things are possible.

You can do this—even when you don’t want to.

No one wants to grieve, divorce, lose, lose friends, family, lose the sense of hope that comes with Christmas, no one chooses that.

With God all things are possible--even when we don't believe it.

Mary surely couldn’t quite believe it, couldn’t fully know, on a night like this we are a bit like Mary—we are the bearers of Christ, in our weaknesses, in our questions, in our being driven out, in the violence, in the noise, the chaos, in desperation and in love—we are a bit like Mary. 

Hear these words from Jan Richardson

"Blessed are you who bear light in unbearable times, 

who testify to its endurance amid the unendurable, 

who bear witness to its persistence 

when everything seems in shadow and grief.

Blessed are you in whom the light lives, 

in whom the brightness blazes-

Your heart a chapel, an altar, 

where in the deepest night can be seen a fire that shines forth in you 

in unaccountable faith, in stubborn hope,

 in love that illumines every broken thing it finds."