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City Planning

I've been going to church my whole life....

Whenever my family moved, one of the first things we did was go church 'shopping'.  I carried this practice on into adulthood.  Surrounded by uncertainly in unfamiliar areas, the church was always a safe place to land.  I wanted a place where people would love me (and my children) and people whom I could love and relate to.  It really wasn't that much about God per se as it was about what I needed (Yes, I am aware how self-centered that sounds...  ).

There isn't a town I've lived in that I haven't had a church home. 

When I was in college, I trudged down to the campus church (Yes - I even went to church in college).

As a young adult, well...  there weren't a lot of other young adults in church, but...  I found one that was young enough.

When I had rug-rats hanging on my sweater tails and wrapped around my legs, I settled into a church that where toddlers crawled under the pews and moms came armed with Cheerios to get them through the worship service.    

I'd look for what felt like (or had the promise of being) an extended family.  I mean, isn't that what we all want in a church?  Family.  That's what I wanted.

Heck - If I'm being honest, that's what I still want, but (and now I'm going to sound like a total hypocrite).....  

You know what I got as I searched around for what worked for me?

A bunch of people... Just.  Like.  Me.
I mean, they were/are lovely people and that's how a family often is:
We look like one another because of genetics or clothing styles.  

We act like one another because of tradition or influence.  

We have the same interests because of education and exposure.  

And - well, that's nice.  I'm so NOT trying to demean 'family' at all, but I do not think it's a good model for a church.  

A church that functions as 'family' is:  Insulated.  Siloed.  Segregated.  Incestuous.  

We are not called to birth families; we are called to build cities.

Cities on hills, which will be lights to the world (Matthew 5:14).  

Cities which are not hidden or separated from all that is going on. 

Cities where there are people who do NOT look like me.

Cities where there are people who do NOT think like me.  

Cities where there are people who do NOT act like me.

And maybe even cities where there are people who do NOT actually like me. 

That would be hard...  

City planners know that everything which surrounds the area and everything within the area must be taken into account.  They look at the land, they look at the transportation systems, they look at the job industry, they look at what needs to be preserved (and what needs to go by the wayside), and they look at the people - all the people.

They take into account poverty and wealth; language and literacy; lifestyle and generational dynamics.

Wrestling with all these things - and yes, it's a lot - helps city planners raise up healthy, vibrant cities in the most unexpected of places.

City planners don't look to plan in a place that's already what they desire...  

No.  City planners look for the rundown city, the unsafe city, the city that the world forgot... 

And city planners use the gifts within the city to help shape the city into what those who live there need.  

What if that's how we did church?

What if as 'city builders' ourselves we did two things:

1) Don't search for the church that gives us what we want, but land in the church which needs what we can give.  

I mean, I'll tell you what....  there are some churches that have finance people coming out of their ears and some that are hoping to just be able to find someone to write checks.  There are some churches where plumbing issues are never a problem because there are at least 8 plumbers within the congregation, but there's not a single person who can figure out who to launch a webpage.  

'City' churches need all kinds of people.  Not the same kinds of people.  

2)  Don't be a family.

I know.  I know.  But really...  let's think about this practically for one second.

Families allow for many many great things, but they also tolerate dysfunction and unhealthy behaviors. In a family there are those that sit on the couch and there are those that take the garbage out.  In a city - everyone works, everyone has ownership... and if they don't, well there are consequences.  

I'm not saying that the church become all 'law' orientated, but treating people with respect and expectation means they are integral parts of the system.  And well, I'm fairly certain that God actually expects a lot out of us.  

Families stick by one another no matter what (at least most of the time) and that can be a lovely thing.  But not so much when the family unit becomes more important than finding out what others have to say or what others think...  

Find a place where you don't fit....

And you just might find that that 'city' needs you desperately for the sake of the Kingdom of Heaven...  

Because what's the Bible say Heaven will look like?

And I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down from Heaven...  

A City.

Heaven and earth are joined in a City.

A City which shines light not only on a hill, but in the valleys and deserts alike.
In the name of God there is no place where Heaven should not or cannot be raised up.
Does the resurrection not tell us that?!

Dear God, I'd like some pancakes with a side of hot chocolate, please....

I'm Lutheran...  a Lutheran pastor no-less.  Lutherans are all about one thing (well, besides Jesus - I mean we are totally about Jesus) - GRACE.  Lutheran theology is founded on this one overarching principle...
That it is by grace we are freed and saved and given life.  Namely God's grace.

But, and I mean this in all seriousness, what is grace?  I mean, really?
I remember when I was in seminary I was taught a 'working' definition of grace:
Being given more than you deserve.

And juxtaposed with 'grace' was 'mercy'.  And mercy was:
Not getting what you deserve.

Seems stale to me.  Seems like someone left the communion bread out for a few weeks and it started to grow green fuzz.   That type of 'grace' just isn't going to 'stick' to my bones.  

Maybe that's why Jesus used bread and wine.  Something substantive.  Something earthy.  Something that fills the hollows of your bones.

Last summer I was having a conversation with a very good friend and it somehow must've been about God.... I have no recollection of what we were actually talking about, but I know I used the word 'grace,' because they looked at me and very matter-of-factly asked me what grace is...

Um.... You know - the grace of God.
      No.
Um...  Like getting more than you deserve from God.
      What do I get from God?
Um...  Well, everything.  Everything is a gift from God.
       [Blank stare.]
Um...  Kindness, you know, grace is the promise of kindness.

CRAP.  Grace is not kindness.
Kindness is getting a kitten out of a tree.  Kindness is setting the table when your mom asks.  Kindness is letting the lady behind you in the check-out line go ahead of you because she only has four items in her basket and your cart is overflowing.

I'm a pastor for God's sake.  I should be able to flippin define grace, right?!

Anyway, as I said, this question about grace was posed to me more than a year ago, but this morning I remembered it.  

I remembered it as I stood in my kitchen mixing pancake batter, frying up bacon, and making sure I did indeed have mini-marshmallows for hot chocolate later on in the day.  See, school was cancelled and the church offices were closed due to a 'significant weather event' (ie. we're getting snow here in DC and we really don't know what to do when it snows), so my boys and I were home for the day.  

A whole day.

Me and them.

Pj's and ping-pong.

Snow drippings and red cheeks.  

Laundry and movies.

Emails and books.

As we ate a late, leisurely breakfast I thought:

Grace tastes like this - like pancakes and hot chocolate.

I don't know how to tell you exactly what the grace of God is...

But I can tell you how it smells:

Like warm bread.  

Like milk, and eggs, and flour, and vanilla all mingled together.  

Like dryer sheets (the kind that don't have that heavy perfume-y smell).

And I can tell you how it feels:

Like a fuzzy blanket on a snow covered day.

Like a hot mug of cocoa in red chapped hands. 

Like cool, wet lips of a happy child on a warm cheek.  

And I can tell you how it tastes:

Like fatty bacon.

Like deep, red wine.  

Like licking sticky syrup off your fingers.  

And I can tell you how it sounds:

Like deep breaths coming in from the cold.

Like sniffly noses from hard played snowball fights.

Like unrestrained giggling.  

Like...

I love you.

Always.  

I cannot tell you what the grace of God is exactly, but somehow pancakes and hot chocolate come close.

Solid theology?  I'm not sure.  Solidly 'of God'...  I'm confident.

When all else fails....

Sometimes you inherit strange things...
Like ceramic kittens or gaudy costume jewelry or needlepoint artwork.
And the items sit there and you wonder 'why'...

Recently I inherited a peculiar item.
No.  Nobody died in my family.
But, in my professional life I changed positions.  I'm still a pastor; I'm just a pastor at a different congregation, which meant I moved offices.

My new office same with all the things you'd expect - a desk, a computer, bookshelves and a couple of chairs.  All those are expected....

But I also inherited hula hoops.  And not one, but two hula hoops.  I ushered the hula hoops to the side of the desk not quite sure what to do with them and certainly not willing to get rid of anything.   I figured that they were left over from Vacation Bible school.

And yesterday, quite by happenstance I found out about the hula hoops.
The conversation went a little like this:
Co-worker: "Oh I've been meaning to tell you about the hula hoops..."
Me: raising eyebrows
Co-worker: "See when the other Pastor was here she kept the hula hoops and said that whenever we were having a particularly rough day to just hula hoop."
Me: raising eyebrows more
Co-worker: "You know - when all else fails you can always hula hoop."

The past few days there's been a little too much sad in some parts of life - my friends lives, my own life, my professional life.  I probably wear my heart on my sleeve a little too much.  While I can cry easily, I also laugh abundantly.

Today a hard conversation with someone I respect immensely shook my core  and something reminded me of those hula hoops.  So I got up from my desk and put that hula hoop around my waist and tried to hula hoop.

I had grand notions of actually making the things go 'round my waist, but apparently I have forgotten the technique to hula hooping...

But MAN did I have fun trying.
Me in my black heels, goldenrod colored wool skirt, and dangly gold earrings in the middle of my office spinning that thing around my waist trying to make it go...

I hadn't remembered that hula hoops make a lovely whirring noise once you get it going.  I wondered what other simple joys I forget.
Yeah.  When all else fails you can always hula hoop.

It's funny because there are two hula hoops.
One for me and one for whomever else.

Wanna hula hoop?

Hat Tip to my dear friend Sarah Scherschigt who left the hula hoops behind for me.

I'm trying this again....

I'm trying this again...
What's 'this' you ask?
Kicking the habit...not being an addict...

As I write those words I'm keenly aware of the highly-charged liquid 'heaven' which is coursing through my veins.  It's one of my 'allowed' Diet Mountain Dews.

Yes.  I'm addicted to Mountain Dew.
Maybe you think I'm tossing 'addicted' around lightly, but I'm not.  I can drink 9 of them a day.  Now... I may not finish all 9, but I certainly pop that many tops.

Nine.  Mountain.  Dews.
Yes, I believe this makes me an addict.
No, I'm not a smoker; I'm not an alcoholic; I'm not a binge eater (although I've had my battles with not eating enough, which is a whole other kind of addiction); I'm not a drug user.

I am a socially accepted addict.
I don't know if this is good or bad, I just know it to be true.  What I say frequently to people to 'justify' my Dew habit is, "Well, there are worse vices I could have."

And that's true.  I'm not going to miss work because of the Dew - heck, half the time I feel like the caffeine helps me get to and through work.  Mountain Dew isn't going to make me throw-up from drinking too much of it, nor is it going to affect my weight (I drink diet... If I didn't that would be a whole other story).

There are things that are more unacceptable than my addiction.
But the truth is:
I'm basically drinking formaldehyde.
My insides could probably glow-in-the-dark under a 'black light'.
And... well, you've probably read the same reports I have, the ingredients are linked to: cancer, thyroid dysfunction, liver failure, tooth decay, bone loss....

UGH!  I have to stop there.  There's more.  A list, a multitude, a plethora, an abundance of things 'wrong' with Mountain Dew.

And yet.... I've frequently called it: the nectar of the gods.
I love it.
I crave it.
It calms me down when I need a fix (Yes, it has caffeine, but I've been drinking it for so long I no longer get a caffeine buzz).
It makes the world spin 'right'.

It's my breakfast.
Ok, you get the picture.  I am an addict.  I'll go to the grocery store at 11pm to get a 12 pack if I'm out, but I won't do the same if we're out of milk.

I vacillate between wanting to quit and not having the stamina to quit.
And, well, I tried seriously to quit once before.  And I did.
For two months I quit.  Mostly.  I was down to one a day and I felt like I could live with that.

And then...  life got crazy, the world started spinning fast, and...
I grabbed my fix.

Plus, I'm the 'Mountain Dew' girl.
People give me gifts of Mountain Dew.
People give me T-shirts with Mountain Dew insignias.

People give me chapstick flavored like Mountain Dew.

People wonder why I don't have a can in my hand when I walk into a meeting...

I'm the 'Mountain Dew' girl.  It's my identity.

Um, stop right there. 

It's my identity?!  THAT is precisely what's different this time.  It isn't my identity.  

See, I've always understood it as part of my identity.  Who would I be if I didn't drink the Dew?  But I've been thinking about it differently recently.

  

Mountain Dew is a demon.  At least it's my demon.

Now, before you think I'm a total zealot, let me tell you my 'working definition' for a demon.

A demon is anything other than God that tries to tell me/you who I/you are.

Hence...

Mountain Dew is a demon because it tries to tell me that I am the Mountain Dew girl and Mountain Dew 'owns' me.  

A demon, for me,  happens to look like a shiny aluminum can adorned with neon green splashes.

And well...  it sorta has taken hold of me.  

But, (and I am aware of how corny this may sound)... I am trusting that God's got a stronger hold on me than any silly demon.  And yeah - God's got bigger things to worry about than Mountain Dew, but knowing that my identity is actually 'Christine Louise' - Child of God...

Helps me to tell that demon in my head to go the hell away.  

I'm gonna drink my cold water and like it (Ok - wishful thinking)...

But...

Go away devil.

I'm God's.

Writer's note: 

I don't know where I theologically stand on an external devil (and his legion of demons) raging against the world.  But, I know there is darkness in the world and plenty of evil.  I've also seen those with mental health problems or those who have made major mistakes in their lives labeled as 'demonic' or 'possessed' and thereby presumably far from God.... And this is a mistake of the church.  I don't believe anyone is too far from God... 

All I see in the Bible is Jesus doing battle with demons, throwing them out... 

So, my official stance on demons is:

Jesus is battling them, however they look.  This seems solidly Biblical. 

Driving with my 16 year old - AKA: a surefire way to talk with God

"Do you have any children?"

"I have three sons....my eldest is 16."

When I say that, that I have three sons, typically the person asking the question looks at me with a bit of sympathy. I've gotten used to this 'look' and I typically laugh it off and say, "Yup - God knows there's a special place in heaven for me."

Which I quickly follow with, "At least I've been spared from the teenage girl squealing...".  To which I can almost always get an, "AMEN!" (especially from moms who have three teenage GIRLS)

Anyway, my eldest IS 16, which means one thing: Driving lessons.

And dear GOD... now I know there is actually a special place in heaven for me, because I may just die in this new venture of parenting.

As I sat clutching the door handle until my knuckles were white (ok - actually blue because at some point I do believe I lost all circulation to my hands) I thought a lot about God  - mostly because I was sure I was getting ready to meet Him on a whole new personal level...

But seriously - there's nothing like placing your life (and the lives of the entire neighborhood) in your son's hands as he controls a 4000 pound moving object, which is basically a moving fireball if throttled into the 'right' object.....you know, namely another vehicle or gas pump or traffic light, or....

Anyway - that will make you grasp the fragility of life in a whole new light.

So, things I learned about God while driving with my son:
~The prayer that God actually answers quite frequently: "Dear God, don't hit that car!"  (This is actually a prayer that works best if you SCREAM it - at least that's been my experience)

~God is actually INSANE.  I mean - God gave us the keys to the car (AKA - freewill and expects us to actually know how to drive this thing called earth)...  Yeah.  Nuts.  The God of the universe is actually  certifiable.

~We, in church and society, toss the word mercy around way too easily.  I'm pretty sure mercy feels a whole lot more like - HOT DAMN - I am still alive after weaving around the girl on the pink bike, the pick-up truck with tools loaded in the back, the woman raking her leaves, and the dog that - thank God! - (there's a lot of thanking God that goes on...) was on a leash...  WHEW...  I'm pretty sure mercy feels like that.

~Which brings me to grace....which feels like a parking spot.  The car is safely turned off and your teenage son is doing a fist pump because he made it in between the two white lines (almost) and you let go of the door handle for the first time in a half hour.  Grace.  It also feels like a deep breath.

~There's no brake on the frickin' passenger side.  Probably you know this, but as you go just a touch too fast down that hill you are acutely aware of this truth.  Pressing your right leg into the floorboard as hard as you can while biting your lip does not make the car stop.  Life's scary and there's no brake.  Sorry.  But there isn't.  Sometimes you just gotta let other people drive (this is pretty hard for me, because I'd actually like to be in control all the time, which I think makes God laugh).

~Lastly, and I mean that with the utmost respect, God has a wicked sense of humor...  because this feeling - on the edge of your seat, afraid you might just loose your life at the hands of another, while all the while being filled with joy, is what LIFE is.  This is the kind of life God wants for us: never knowing what's next and yet always trusting that somehow you will make it around the next curve.  Like I said - wicked.

So... those are my God lessons from my afternoon jaunt with my son, who is not only an amazing gift from God, but not a bad driver.

Oh - one last thing...
I'm certain the God forgives the parent that cusses a bit too much in this whole endeavor...
which makes me think God may do a fair amount of cussing as we learn to drive.

View from the front seat

I write this for the 11 year old baseball player (and his or her parents) that's been doing their best, trying their hardest, showed up at every practice....  and still never gotten the game ball, still sat the bench, still struck out with two 'men' on and two 'outs' ....still holds fast to the game.... not to win, but for love.)

Recently, my youngest child has started sitting in the front seat....
At least occasionally... When he's the only kid being transported he takes advantage of sitting up front.   His two older brothers wrestle over the front seat on a regular basis.  He never gets in that mix... always just takes his place in the passenger seat, directly behind me.  However, when given the chance to sit 'shot gun', he grabs it.

It's a different view sitting up front.
Nothing blocks your view.
Things are clearer.

It's odd for me, not because he's sitting there, but because he talks to me a lot more.  When he sits behind me, he's quiet as he looks out the side window, but seated beside me he chatters....

He seems to get a good view from the front seat...
not just on what's rushing by, or the traffic lights, or the bumper to bumper traffic.
But he gets a good view on life from the front seat (actually, he probably always had this view, he just hadn't stated it).

Yesterday, he climbed up front as we headed to his 6th baseball game in 4 days (the previous 5 had been played over the weekend in a tournament).  Since I hadn't gotten to see the final game of that tournament he shared some of the notable hits, the hard ball drops, and the excitement.  He also shared the pain... because they lost that tournament in the final inning.

10-9.
Hard loss.

I said something about it being so hard to loose when you give it your all; something about how they had made some good comebacks throughout the weekend and how important it is to never give up.  And, of course, since I'm a mom, I said one of the most overused statements by any parent:
It isn't about winning the game, but doing your best.  

He sat there for a bit, bending the brim of his hat between his hands, looking out the front window.   Quiet for a long time....
Finally he said,
"You know, there's no difference between hitting a home run and there being a guy on third that someone hits in.  Everyone thinks there is, but there isn't."

I don't think he had any idea how much that sentence hit me.
I thought about it the whole time I watched his game that night.
All you need is a hit.
All you need is to step up to bat.
All you need is the front seat view...

That it doesn't have to be grand or memorable...it just has to do the job.

You just need an RBI.  Run batted in.

Sometimes you may need a bunch of RBI's if you're down by a bunch... but you don't need a powerhouse hitter, fantastic plays, or even a home run...

It's a whole different view...
NO difference between a single and a home run.
And not just on baseball...

In some ways his view is actually the backseat view...
It's the view of life not being about the glory, but about the simple.
It's the view of life not being about the individual, but about the team.

Hit the guy in...
And if you're on third, run and slide and get dirty.
And if you strike out swinging...
You've got another bat coming up.
And another one after that.

I used to be a good mom

There was a time, which seems like eons ago, when I was a good mom.

I subscribed to 'Family Fun' magazine (ok - everything is online now, but at one time...) and scoured the pages for cute crafts to do on rainy days.
I organized playdates, for which my house was typically clean and the Thomas the Train railroad track was assembled and ready to be used (no longer strewn about the playroom from the last time the tracks were used as swords).
The kids made snowmen pins out of white buttons for Christmas presents and every birthday party had a theme, along with the perfect cake.
My kids went to bed on time, their clothes matched, and I even mopped the floor every evening (Yes - this is a true story).

I was a stay-at-home mom of three young boys.... and I really, really wanted to get it 'right'.

When my children were little and I was busy being the perfect mom, my mom told me that what would be important as my children grew up was to make sure I spent 10 minutes a day with each of them.  I may not have looked at her like she was out of her mind, but I definitely thought it.

10 minutes a day?  Please...

I'm a good mom.  I spend hours a day with my kids.

And then I went back to school for my Masters (with three small children just graduating was a feat), got divorced (hardest thing I've ever done), and started working as a pastor (a joyous and heartbreaking job).  My kids were lucky if they had clean underwear and I could scrounge up something besides pop-tarts for breakfast.

I see posts on facebook promoting adorable cupcakes found on Pinterest (seriously - cute bunnies with marshmallow ears and coconut fur) or a new fangled way to decorate the yard for Halloween (shoot - I'm aiming for getting the pumpkin carved on time) or some amazing cubby system that will surely tame the beast known as homework (WHAT?!  Just spreading it out on the dining room table doesn't work?).

And two things pop into my mind: "Who in the world has time for this...?"  Which is closely followed in the thought process by: "Me.  I used to have time for that."

I used to be a good mom.  I'm not anymore.

And I honestly sometimes mourn that.  Wish I could give my children more or make sure somehow they know that they are my whole reason for living.

Now, sometimes I'm exasperated beyond belief because somehow one cleat is at their father's house and the other is at mine.  And sometimes we really have eaten pizza for three days in a row.  And sometimes the only time I sit down with my children all day long is when tuck them into bed to say their bedtime prayers.

10 minutes a day, with each of my kids....individually, that sounds like heaven.  And impossible.  Where do I find 30 solid minutes where nothing is pulling at me?

Or them.  Because let's be honest... their schedules rival the President of the United States.

But...
My 16 year old son still lets me tuck him in (if I don't hit the sack before him)...
And my 14 year old son still kisses me on the lips (I'm confident he would die if he read this)...
And my baby, who is 11 - which seems downright impossible, still cuddles with his blankie...

Maybe I'm still a good mom.  My kids might tell you otherwise when I'm harping on them about homework or having a psycho-mommy moment...

But at the end of the day, I love my kids as much today as I did when I was impersonating June Cleaver.

And they teach me that there's more to being a good mom than what the glossy pages of magazines and flashy adds tout.  Sometimes being a good mom is smelling the T-shirts to find the least stinky one.  Ok, ok.  It's not typically this bad.

I try really hard.  And my kids try really hard.  We make family work the best way we can.

Here's what I've learned through all my reiterations as a mom.
All families look different.  All kinds can be good.
All moms look different.  All kinds can be good.
All dads look different.  All kinds can be good.
All kids look different.  All kinds can be good.

Sure, continue to 'pin' or 'post' or 'publish' the latest and hottest trend in baking or crafting or home organization, because I may just pick up one of the ideas if it works in my small corner of the world.

But sometimes, I honestly just need to know that someone else out there wishes they didn't have red gatorade stains all over their van and ran out of toilet paper and is trying to figure out what to make for dinner when all you have left in your fridge is a bag of saurkraut and 3 eggs.

So, anyway....If you've ever felt that way and thought, "I used to have it all together.  I used to be a good mom..."

Me too.
And I love my kids like crazy.
I'm still a good mom.
(Just don't ask my teenage son...)

As a sidebar - the cinquain above was written by my youngest son.  I'm not sure what 'mom' he was thinking of when he described me as 'calm' but..... whatever.  MOM.  Nothing like it.

Dry dock

I'm not a boater - at all.  I don't know how to set a sail or begin to read a nautical map.  I haven't even had enough experience on boats to know if I get sea sick or not.  

I like the idea that I conjure up in my head of what it's like to boat - the freedom, the wide open space, the adventure....  All of that sounds appealing to me.  Truth be told however, haven't always thought I'd like to boat.  

I grew up in the mid-west.  Mid-westeners don't boat.  I don't know what we do that takes the place of the past-time of boating, but not having bodies of water nearby pretty much makes boating for recreation near impossible.

Boating and accessibility to water is much easier and more common on the east coast.  I have friends that boat, that grew up going to the beach, and that steam crabs.  I have one friend in particular that loves to boat (although he doesn't do it as often as he'd like) and his generous sharing of his love of the water is intoxicating.  

Because of this I see boats differently now.

I want to know more about boats now.  

I pay more attention to boats now.

A few years ago I would've passed by a boat raised up out of the water in a dock and not given it a second thought.... A few years ago I didn't know there was such a thing as 'dry docking'.

Now I do.  

And I'm a little jealous of boats.

Ok.  Ok.  That sounds ridiculous.

But in my metaphorical mind a boat has it ALL.  Adventure and rest.  Open waters and dry docks.

I should maybe explain a little better, just in case you, like me, aren't aware of what dry docking is.  When a boat is dry docked it is floated into a vessel-like platform.  The platform is drained of water and the boat is allowed to rest in the dock - it's weight supported - while it is repaired and cared for. 

I don't know about you, but my life has been hectic lately...  much adventure, many seas to sail, multiple places to visit...but not a whole lot of dry docking.  Not a whole lot of rest.  I was recently speaking with a dear friend and we were both talking about how our lives were seemingly whirlpools of activity.  And I said to her, "Too bad we don't get the luxury of dry docking...".

The words surprised me.  Not only do I not typically think in 'nautical language,' but it's not often that I'll admit out loud that some rest and some care and a chance to not sail the open seas sounds appealing.    I've been longing recently for a chance to just stop.

If the boat gets to have it's engine cared for, it's body repaired, it's haul brightened, it's underneath supported, the I imagine dry docking a person to be similar.  Care for the heart, strength for the body, rest for the soul, and support for the whole being...

Dry dock.  

I'd sail a few ocean lengths for that.

Sometimes I over-theologize Jesus - wondering what he was thinking, what he meant by this phrase or that, and curious about where this whole ship known as the church is going.  Sometimes I want the ship to just go....

But as I said to my friend how appealing a dry dock is to me, I realized that maybe sometimes the church can and should dry dock.  Take some time to regain it's strength; give the crew some time to catch their breath.

I'll be the first to admit I'm a terrible dry docker.  See, as I thought about this, I realized that I am given chances to dry dock, I just don't take them.  Maybe I'm afraid of what might go on without me, maybe I'm afraid of sitting idle, maybe I'm afraid to let someone care for me.  

All of which I think is true.  

It takes courage to take a boat off the waters for a time being...

Now, I'm not taking myself off the waters..  that's just crazy talk (ie - I have three children to love, a full-time job, amazing friends and family to visit, carpool, groceries, bills...) Oh, you get the picture.  You have them too.  I can't truly just do nothing...

But I can savor the moments when I could just sit....

So, I'm keeping an eye out for the next chance to dry dock and maybe let the world pass me by for a bit of time.  

Stepping away from the font - on the Boston Marathon

So, early Monday morning I sat around Athletes Village in Hopkinton, Massachusetts waiting to head over to the start of the Boston Marathon.  Putting on a marathon as large and as prestigious as the Boston Marathon is a logistical nightmare... so everyone has to arrive 3 hours or so before the race even starts.  So, my running buddies and I laid down a tarp, kicked back and chatted.  The energy level was high and the laughter was intoxicating.  

As it got closer to start time, we began to take off our extra layers of clothing so we could get ready for the race.  That’s when the sharpie markers come out.... If you haven’t run a race before, you may not know this, but racers mark their bodies up with their names, inspirational messages to themselves, and their desired race splits. 

It’s part of what we do - mark ourselves.  It’s bonding.  It says we’re in this together.  And it also names us - to unknown people out on the course who shout out our names as we pass by.  We become a person - not just another runner.

So, as we did this, one of my guy friends (who I’ll just say is a little nuts) whips his shirt off and another friend draws a giant smiley face on his chest and belly.  Use your imagination - I’m sure you can figure out the eye placement of the face...

Anyway... I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and laughed...  And my friend sorta shook his chest at me and said, “Let’s see you turn this into a sermon...”.  Well, I laughed and said, “Let me tell you - I can turn anything into a sermon..”  

And then I remembered that this week’s reading was about baptism, about being marked, about bonding...  And about Philip - who is a runner!  The greek word for what Philip does alongside of the chariot actually says he’s running, so he’s often referred to as the ‘running prophet’.  I like Philip.  He and I could be best buds.  

Anyway, I laughed harder and said, “Actually, I can make us all being ‘marked up’ as part of the sermon.  That’s what baptism is all about...”.

I think that reference was lost on most people sitting there.  But it wasn’t on me. 

So much of what baptism symbolizes is bonding and naming us into a community, about us participating in what we profess to believe in.  And so being marked by a sharpie said something about my being part of that running family, just as being marked by a cross says something about my being part of God’s family. 

I don’t need the sharpie to tell me I’m a runner, but at mile 24, when I’m about to fall to the ground from exhaustion, I can look down at my hand and see my little inspirational message to myself:

I am a runner, named Christine, who is loved and supported by a whole team of people.... the mark reminds me of that.  

And that truth is true whether or not I’m running a marathon, trudging through daily life, or skipping through joyous times.  I’m loved, named, and claimed.  

And so are you.  That is, in essence, what baptism’s promise reminds us.   

That truth is easy to embrace when baptism feels like water being poured over an infant’s head, looks like a warm loving family surrounding you, tastes like a white frosted cake....  I’ll embrace that type of love and family any day of the week.  

So, on Monday morning it was easy for me embrace the oneness of being marked.  On Monday morning it was easy for me to claim being a runner.  On Monday morning it was easy to be a Boston marathoner.  On Monday morning it was easy to be a child of God.  

But, on Monday afternoon it was not easy.

It was painful.  And scary.  And tiring.  And I didn’t want to be part of it.  

But I was part of it.  And so are you. 

On Monday afternoon the story of Philip and the Ethiopian’s baptism cut much differently as I desperately searched for my friend on exhausted legs which would barely move and the sharpie marks were rubbing off from sweat, than it did in the morning as I lounged on a tarp in Athlete’s Village coloring myself.  

The story of Philip and the Ethiopian isn’t just about two people who have this perfect ‘chance encounter desert baptism’ experience...  

God’s baptismal story here - and in real life - is one which holds great dramatics between the outcast and the accepted; the followers and the seeker; the deformed and the healed; the broken and the whole...

God’s story says one thing:

It doesn’t matter at all who you are or what you’ve done...  

In God’s baptism there is no separation, no rejection, no alienation...

See, it’s true that the Ethiopian may be the one who technically gets baptized, but the truth of the matter is they are both marked by the days events.  Both fully immersed in a new reality that God loves and accepts everyone.  

That realization that’ll change you.  It’ll bother you actually.  It will make you question God.  At least it should....

Neither of them will ever be the same again...

By the encounter with one another...

By their encounter with baptism...

By their encounter with God...

So, what do a chariot, an Ethiopian, a follower of Jesus, and baptism have to do with a 26.2 race and a couple bombers?

Well...  possibly nothing.  Until you add in followers of Jesus and baptism.  Then, they have everything to do with one another.   

Because Monday afternoon we all became Boston Marathoners.  We all became one with one another as our hearts ached, tears streamed, and stories flowed. 

But there’s a really hard truth within that reality of being bound to one another.... it’s the baptism piece.  The follower of Jesus piece. 

None of us knew Monday morning that pain and forgiveness would be part of the how the post-race celebration needed to look. None of recognized Monday morning that we are as much bound to bombers as to victims.

Who thinks about these pieces of being marked when the day is to be of joy and celebration?  Well.... nobody.  We just don’t.  Not on the day of being baptized.  But those pieces of forgiving those we want to hate, about being joined to those we don’t even know, about being marked by pain are part of what it means to be marked by God.  

On Monday afternoon, and in the days that followed, I struggled with that piece of baptism.  My runner friends have been angry, and hurt, and sad.  I’ve been scared and struggling to process it all.  The news media and those hurt have lashed out calling for justice and vindication.  

And while I don’t want to admit it, when a friend wrote on our runner facebook page a message of hatred towards the bombers, my gut reaction was in agreement.

And yet... hatred and vindication only breeds more hatred and anger.  I know this.  The mercy and grace of God tells me this.  

Somehow, we must trust that part of what we pray for is that God will wash away those feelings which eat away at our hearts and that will will be able to pray for the criminals in this world as much as the innocent.  

We profess, even though the thought of it makes us want to vomit, that those who have killed and maimed others are as much a part of God’s family as we are.  

We enact, even though our own human hearts may tell us otherwise, acts of love and compassion for both the victims and victimizers.   

I do believe that God is horrified with such actions, and know without question that God is ‘with’ all those impacted by horrific events such as these...sending angels in unexpected ways.

But, I also commit to you that God’s love is so profound and utterly perfect that God does not give up on anyone.  Not even those responsible for acts of terrorism.  

As Good Friday and Easter people we sometimes live from bleeding scars on our hearts rather than holy oiled crosses on our foreheads.

Thursday evening we left Boston, before the lockdown hit and on our drive home we stopped for gas...

I dashed into the convenience store to buy some sodas and the cashier was speaking to a few other costumers in another language.  As I approached the register, he offered an explanation to me of what they were speaking of - the weather.  Apparently in Connecticut they’ve had quite enough of winter and were so thankful the weather was slowly starting to warm up.  Mind you - it still felt pretty chilly to me.

Anyway, as he spoke to me of their weather, he asked me where I was from.

I said, “Washington DC”.  He said that the weather must be much better in DC than Connecticut.   Then he asked where I was coming from.  As I dug around in my purse for the remaining 10 cents I owed him, he asked me where I was coming from.  I said, “Boston...” 

And he held onto my hand.  And didn’t let go and said, “Sorry...”.  He said something about not worrying about the 10 cents and kept holding onto my hand - to the point that I became uncomfortable; to the point where I was pretty sure my friend sitting in the car was beginning to wonder where I was.  And he just kept talking about children, about innocence, about fear.  I really didn’t even know what to say.  

It was clear that he was holding on to me as a piece of hope, as proof of life.  And was trying to give me comfort and assurance.   

He wasn’t even there.   And yet he was marked... 

Sort of a little angel along the way to say, ‘We’re all in this together.  Bound.  Marked.  Baptized.’

You know what the best line in this whole text today is?  Well, at least the one that seems to speak loudest after this past week?  

When Philip says, “Do you understand what you’re reading?”  Basically, do you have a clue what’s going on in the world?

Yeah....the answer to that would be, “No.”  

No.  I don’t understand how the love of God can be so vast to include everyone.  No.  I don’t understand how God forgives everyone.  No.  I don’t understand what just happened in the world.  No. No.  No.

That much love is pretty much beyond my comprehension.

You know, the symbol of the Boston marathon is a unicorn.  A mythical creature.  Symbolizing anything is possible.

Angels sometimes symbolize the same thing.  But yet, in God’s world, angels aren’t mythical.  

In God’s world angels are those which bring a message of hope and love and life into dark times.  In God’s world angels might just be you or me.  They might just be friends or family.  They might just be emergency workers and taxi drivers.  They might just be a gas station attendant....

The promise in the story is that when we are racing down confusing roads, unexpected strangers may very well be angels sent to guide us along to live from our ‘marks’.  And we might very well be angels sent to those we want to meet and those we’d rather not.

At the close of the day, what makes God’s love different from any other type of love we could ever know is the vastness of forgiveness, mercy, and grace which it holds. 

When we step away from the font, Baptism is quite scandalous.  This is a scandalous God whom we worship.  A scandalous God by whom we are claimed.  One that runs whatever race is before us with us... no matter the course, no matter the person so that in the end... all might know the full grace of God - for this we truly pray.  Amen.  

Wrapped Laid Loosened Freed

There, you were, dearest LORD,

Your arms which held the poor and hugged the child

bound now....tightly in ragged strips of cloth,

And your fingers which caressed the blind man’s eyes and touched our lips with bread 

stilled... by nail and wood

Your eyes which peered into hearts and wept for love

brushed closed... by the darkness of finality.  

Wrapped....

Tightly.  It suffocates us.  And stifles us.  

There, you were, dearest LORD,

Your flesh and blood abandoned on that godforsaken hill

broken and poured...

By your own flesh; your own blood you were left

in a tomb, hewn from rock and earth

The world careened to a stop and silence crawled

as, tended by our own hands, we buried love.

Laid...   

Cold.  Creeping our spines and chilling our bones.

And then, and now... 

How now, dearest LORD?

Has unexplained sweetness slipped from your lips

as you kissed the cosmos

And beginnings stirred again

as your heartbeat quickened and your pulse throbbed once more. 

Your limbs stretched and reached; 

as you rose and turned towards light.

Loosened...

Softened.  Waking.  Yearning.  

Now, now, dearest LORD,

What was laid dead within you; within me 

returns.

For we are no longer wrapped tightly; no longer laid bare; no longer waiting...

for you are not.

Even in your death, you have kept vigil over us

Death and despair are exhaled from your body  

and our lungs are filled with the rush of new morning air.

Clean.  Cold.  Crisp.  New.  

And you are risen.

And so am I.  So are we.  

Freed.  Oh, dearest LORD, so now we live again too.  Freed.

So, you think you can ride....?

I'm learning to ride a motorcycle.  Yes, really.

For those of you who know me personally, I'm sure that the thought, "What in heaven's name is she thinking?" just crossed your mind.  If you don't know me, you should know that I'm all of the size of a tall dwarf.  The very act of holding up the motorcycle takes more effort for me than most people.  It's heavy and cumbersome and I could be easily crushed if it fell on me.  As the only woman in the class, I felt very conscious of my size and vulnerability 

But.... I've always wanted to do this and I decided now is as good a time as ever.

Let me tell you, it's intimidating.  Heavy, hot, loud, fast machinery.  With the only thing separating me from the ground if I crash is a helmet.  Indeed... What in heaven's name was I thinking?

After a little practice I was able to maneuver decently.  I could follow the large oval path we were driving and swerve around some cones.  I could stop without dropping the cycle on myself.  I could shift gears.

I was starting to feel pretty confident.

Until they put me in the box.  To do tight, hairpin U-turns.  On something that could, did I mention (?!), crush me under it's weight.  How to turn the handle bars, and balance, and see where I was going?

We were to enter at one end of the box, do two tight turns, and exit out the other side without falling over, without going outside the lines.

I couldn't do it.  My turns were too wide.  I was too scared.  I just didn't want to crash and burn.  This was, I decided, the thing that was going to prevent me from passing.

Exasperated, as I practiced, I'd shake my head.  Getting irritated with myself, I'd try it slower and then faster.  No avail.  I'd turn my handle bars more or less.  No avail.  I'd do positive 'self-talk' and get angry.  Still.  No avail.

Finally, my instructor said to me (in a not so nice and encouraging tone), "What are you doing?"
I wanted to 'hiss' at him.  Didn't he know what I was doing?  I was trying to get out of the BOX!
And then he said, "Where are you?"
Again, didn't he know where I was?  But, I responded, "I'm right here in the box."
He responded, "And that's the problem."  Which he quickly followed up with, "You don't know what you're doing, do you?"

Boy, was I furious!  I did know what I was trying to do.  I was trying so very, very hard.  Sweat was dripping down my face, my hands were hot, and my knees were bruised.  What in heaven's name was I thinking?  I had paid money for this?

And then he said, "Christine, you have the skills to do this.  But you're looking where you are...  You need to look where you want to be."

What?

"Look ahead.  Pick the point you want to get to and the rest will follow, if your gaze is right."

Well, in U-turns it isn't as easy as looking ahead.  It's looking to the side, and sometimes behind, and sometimes the 'look' is a blind look...  But I tried it.

And... I hit the point.  I made the turn.  I got out of the box.  If I'd had more gumption I would've fist pumped the air I was so thrilled.

FINALLY OUT!

Look where you want to be.  Not where you are.

It's easy to get crushed under the weight of all the things we're trying to figure out.  For me, that day, it was figuring out how to manage this giant beast of a vehicle, but that's tame compared to some of the crushing things we get dealt in life.  In some ways that cycle was an embodiment of my life: Powerful, dangerous.  exhilarating, and scary.  The unwieldiness of it all...  Life can be like that.

And once you're in the BOX, it sure feels as if just one wrong move will send the whole thing tumbling down on you.  The box becomes all there is.  All you can see.  No way out.

But, if you look where you want to be, where you want to get to....this amazing thing happens....  The rest of you follows.  Your heart follows,  your mind follows, your body follows.  And suddenly, you've left the box.

Now, the truth here is there are always more U-turns to make and more boxes to maneuver, but, as my instructor told me, I've got the skills.  It's one thing to drive blindly around the path you've always taken, shifting predictably up and down through gears.  But, it's a whole new adventure to take the twists and turns and not loose your balance.

Where do you want to be?
I know where I want to be.  Jetting out of the box, with the wind whipping in my face, and the taste of salt on my lips...because I'm having just that much fun learning to live.

Pacing

This past weekend I ran the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, Ohio.  I've run marathon's before, so the question of whether or not I would finish never really crossed my mind.  I knew I'd finish, but I felt insecure about my 'readiness' for this race.  My training had been great, up until about 4 weeks ago and then everything hit at once.

First, it was Holy Week, then it was Easter, then I was sick, then there were all these other obligations - too numerous to mention, but probably not so unlike your own life, so you know what I'm talking about.  Every time I turned around there was another 'then...'.  It was, as I told many of my friends, the 'perfect storm'.  No way I could keep up or catch up.

And...this doesn't take into account my family.

I thought I knew one thing though: the way to make it to the end (which ironically, the marathon was the culmination of all these events), was FULL speed ahead.  Press on through.

The morning of the marathon, as I found my corral, [the starting position each runner is assigned based on previous times and anticipated finish times] I was not only acutely aware of my lack of 'readiness', but also my 'aloneness'.  Almost every other race I've run I've been with someone.  This race, I did have a friend with me, but she was in a different corral.

I knew that I was going to have to run a different race than I'd done in the past.  So, I positioned myself in the corral in proximity to the 3:30 pacer;* standing just far enough away that I knew where he was and waited for the gun.

I don't run with a pacer.  Ever.  Or at least, I should say, until that day - I'd never run with a pacer.  I run my own race....

I go out fast and hard for as long as possible.  That's my usual strategy.  I run my own race, my own way.

But this morning was different.  My uncertainty left me longing for support and so, as I stood there, I decided to run with the 'pacer guy,' which is what I was calling him in my head.  But I didn't tell him that.  I didn't tell the pacing group that.  I kept it to myself, figuring I would run on the fringe.

As we took off, I looked out over the river, and tears crept into my eyes.  It struck me that the 'marathon of life' had finally caught up with me.

I hung out there on the edges, holding myself back with the pacing group, maintaining a steady pace.  Not rushing ahead.  Not dashing around the guy in front of me.

It was hard.  I race.  I compete.  I don't hang back.

But I had made a decision that morning to try a new way.

At about mile 9, when my legs were itching to just GO and I was about to leave the pace group behind, Doug, the 'pacer guy,' asked the group where they were from.  Well, everyone was from Ohio, except me.  I had my headphones in, because as I said, I really didn't plan on committing to the group.  But, I piped up, "Maryland".

Doug glanced over at me and said, "Hey.  How long did it take you to get here?"
"Oh, not a long flight.  An hour and a half.  About nine hours if you were going to drive it," I responded.

He sort-of did a head bob and said, "Well, tuck yourself in here, because we're coming into some tight turns and we don't want to loose you."

So, I did.
It was.... odd.  Didn't want to loose me?

As much as I believe in team and community and supporting one another, I often get scared of relying on someone else.  So, I end up running my own race, in my own way.... Full out all the time.

Until I crash and burn.

Which is typically how I end a marathon.  Towards the end, my miles get slower and slower, which by the time you've logged 20 miles, let alone 26 miles, makes sense.

But this time, I found myself inching closer to him as we ticked off the miles.  We chatted.  We ran.

And, as I pressed the lap button on my watch at each marker, I noticed that every single mile was consistent - within seconds of one another.  And I wasn't tired.  I could maintain this for a very long time.

I was keeping pace.  Not rushing ahead.  Not falling back.  Just in the moment.

Keeping pace...

And while it's true that I could 'feel' the wear of the miles, around mile 20, Doug asked me, "How are you feeling?"
And I said, "Well, I'm starting to 'feel' it..."

His response, while most likely not profound to him, resonated deep within me.  "If you weren't starting to feel it by now then you should've been in another pace group.  You are exactly where you are supposed to be, Christine."

Keeping pace...Exactly where I was supposed to be.  That felt nice.
And the pace helped me arrive exactly where I was supposed to be in so many ways.

Not too tired to enjoy the ride, but tired enough to feel the burn of satisfaction.

As we rounded out the last few miles, we were both quiet - just putting one foot in front of the other - drawing energy from the other.  Committing ourselves to that pace for that race, committed us to each other.  We were in it together.

This, this, was new to me.
I most certainly let people push me forward...but not often do I let people hold me back.
I most certainly give of myself to others...but I'm not very good at receiving.

So, at mile 25 when he looked at me and said, "Just GO.  You got this....".

I went.
I went strong.  And certain.  And with energy.  And gratefulness.  And I experienced the end....
because I never hit the 'wall'.  Mile 26 was even just a touch faster than my overall average.  I enjoyed the culmination without crashing and burning.

When I crossed the finish line I turned around to see Doug cross the line and I smiled.  My whole sweaty, exhausted, weak body smiled.  I walked over to him, shook his hand, and said, "Thanks."

And he leaned over, put his hands on his knees, and looked up at me and smiled.  A 'whole body' smile and said, "You kept me going there at the end.  Thanks...".

And that, I didn't expect.
I actually probably expected nothing...at least not from 'pacer guy'.
The race and he.... and well, God, through those miles gave me so much.
A huge metaphor for my life.

Going into this marathon I was so very tired.  The 'marathon of life' was racing along, making me feel as if I wasn't running my race, but that the race was running me.  I wasn't pacing.  I wasn't slowing down.  I wasn't letting others do (at least not without feeling guilty)... and, well, it wasn't working in terms of being able to enjoy the 'ride'.

So, as I gingerly walked to meet the friend I came with, she ran up to me and said, "Wow!  Best time ever!"

And I said, "I ran it differently then I've ever done.  I ran with a pacer the whole time.  I totally recommend it.  I'll do that again."

I'll do it again for sure.  And not just while pounding the pavement.
See, what I really heard out there through the sweat and the cheers was a small still voice running alongside me pointing out a different way to do life.

Pace.
Give and Receive.
Pace.
Swift and steady.
Pace.
Go out in joy and finish in joy.
Pace.


*A pacer is a runner which agrees to help other runners maintain a given pace to help them achieve their desired finish time.  A pacer typically paces a group which is slower than his or her own marathon pace, so that they won't get too tired to help others.