Yeah

Recently I preached a sermon during which I touched on the project called "It Gets Better" .  This project is targeted at bullying in schools, specifically bullying of those who are gay or perceived to be gay.  The reason for this project...in the past few weeks there have been at least 7 reported suicides by youth who are between the ages of 12 and 16, who were bullied based on their sexuality.  

So, the "It Gets Better" project invites adults to minister to youth - to tell them that they are not alone, that this is not the end of the world, that there are people out there who will wrestle with them.  That there are blessings that come out of struggles - that things will indeed 'get better'.

As a mom of three boys ages 8-13, I am sensitive to 'sex talk' and 'suicide talk' and 'not wanting to scare them talk,' but I am also keenly aware of the fact that they live and breathe and play in the very same world that these youth did.

So, as we climbed into the van that day, after I had preached that sermon, I said, "So...does anyone have any questions about my sermon today."

silence.

Then...

"It was weird."
"Yeah.  Weird."
"I don't believe it.  That a kid would kill himself."
"I do."

Me again, "I thought I needed to say something, guys.  It's important that the church talk about things that really happen and where God is in those cruddy times."

"Yeah."
"Yeah.  I agree."
"Yeah, you think those kids knew that God was with them?"
"Yeah."

Me again, "Yeah.  I think they did.  Jesus knows a lot about feeling alone and the end of the world."

"Yeah."

Sigh.

Theological Musings of an 11 Year Old

Jackson: "You know why I think God lets people do what they want?"

Me: "You mean, like 'free will'?"

Jackson: "Yeah.  Well, you know how God's eventually going to make earth part of heaven?  Well...God wants us to help make earth into heaven, so we have to learn how to do that.  And....the only way we learn is by doing.  At least that's what my soccer coach says."

Me: "So, we learn through our mistakes and successes?"

Jackson: "Yep.  But if it takes us too long, then God will just fix it or send some more angels or something.  Maybe a bunch of pastor angels."

Me: "I don't know if people turn into angels.  It says that God made humans 'just a little lower than angels'."

Jackson: "I guess, but seriously Mom, if God can make people out of dust, then I think God could make angels out of people."

Me (giggling):  "You're right, buddy.  Time for bed now..."

Jackson: "Okay.  Don't forget prayers...."

On frogs and such

This blog has always been called the "Tiny Dart Frog," based on the beauty and strength and smallness of the poison dart frog.

When I was in college I got a poison dart frog tattoo.  I got it to remind myself that I may be tiny, but I am strong and I am okay and I am made by God.  Okay, the "made by God piece" wasn't quite formed that solidly when I was in college, but it's still true.  

But, when I got it, the tattoo was about me.  About me claiming myself.

When my youngest son was around two he began kissing my frog tattoo.  For some reason he thought tattoos are for kissing.  Once, when we were at the bus-stop another mom's tattoo was peeking out the bottom of her short's leg and he walked over and kissed her tattoo...because that's what he thought you do.  I had a bit of explaining to do.

My tattoo had become about him.  It was about him claiming me; carrying a piece of us around as he experienced the world.

When I started blogging my random thoughts, however insignificant they are, it was about sharing something more.  Something that wasn't only about me....but about God, about life.  It was about connecting all the 'me's' of the world in cyberspace. 

I've been given a lot of frogs over the past 15 years.  They sit on my desk, hang on my wall, rest on my bed, ink my body, and sometimes find their way onto the lobes of my ears.  I can tell you who gave me almost every one or where it came from.  My tattoo, which started out about me finding me, became me finding others and others finding me.  I like that.

Recently we moved and my youngest son was scared getting on the bus.  Scared is not an adequate word - terrified maybe, distraught possibly, insecure probably.  So, I grabbed the closest thing to me - my work bag.  My work bag is covered with pins and patches.  Quickly I unpinned a little frog pin and fastened it on his pocket.  

I pin that frog pin to him everyday right now.  I wish I didn't have to.  I wish he didn't need that visible reminder, but he does, at least for now.  I know what that's like - to need a reminder.  Heck, a pin is a whole lot less permanent than a tattoo.

It's little bit of me attached to him.  And in some ways, it's a little bit of you too, because all of us have our insecurities, worries, and fears.  Pinned to him right now is the whole "you may be tiny but you can do this" piece.  A little courage in his pocket.  A little you are loved and beautiful and made by God tacked on him.

Frogs and whispers.  Birds and songs.  Me and you.  These are the things that get us through and make us who we are.  May you learn who that person is and may you help someone find who they are.  

Sermon from Epiphany Lutheran on Sunday, September 26

My normal practice is not to publish sermons, because I feel they are 'moment' and 'time' driven....  It's always impossible [in my opinion] to capture the Spirit afterwards or on the paper.  However, after a few requests for this one based on Luke 16: 19-31.

"So, almost every day I drive by someone holding up a sign that says:

“Homeless, please help.”  Or, “Will work for food.”  Or, “Wounded Veteran.  God Bless.”

You too?  

When I lived in Virginia, there was a man just like this, that I saw every day.  I saw him over and over – every day he was in the same spot.  Rain or sun; day or night.  And, whether it is right or wrong, whether he used what was given to him for good or ill, I almost always gave him money.  In my mind I sort-of adopted him – I felt connected to him.  

I doubt he hardly remembered my face from time to time, but for some reason, his stuck with me.  Even my kids would say, “Hey, mom.  There’s your guy…”  

Don said once, “You know your guy?  He’s not looking so well.”  And then, I didn’t see him for a really long time.  I wished I had done something else for him.  But honestly, I didn’t know what that would be.  Eventually he returned to the corner of Lee Highway and Sycamore Street.  

At first, it bothered me that they referred to him as “your guy”.  After all, I didn’t even know him, really, and it felt like such 'ownership' language.  But after awhile, when I would talk about him, I called him ‘my guy’.  I didn’t know his name, but he did matter to me.  I needed some type of relationship language to talk about him.

He’s probably still there, I’m sure.  I’m fairly certain I would recognize him anywhere.  But why him?  

I’ve been thinking a lot about him, because the other day, I exited 495 onto Connecticut and at the bottom of the ramp was another man, holding another sign.  And I looked down, pretending I was looking at something.  Pretending I didn’t see him, when I really did.

His sign, it said, “How much does it really hurt to give a little?”

Really, that’s what it said.  Since I still remember that moment and what his sign said, I think maybe it hurts more to not give.  The not giving has been eating a little hole in my heart.

So, why not him?  Why the one and not the other?  Why these giant chasms between people?

I don’t know about you, but I envision ‘The Rich Man’ on one side of the Grand Canyon and Lazarus and Abraham on the other side, with this giant hole in-between them. 

The ground they both stand on is solid, firm, fixed.  And, between them, carved out of that which would be whole, is this chasm, this hole.

The words which really haunt me though, especially when I confess my own inadequacies and failings to you all, is the part in this parable that says, “And besides all this, a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.” 

It’s the chasm piece, the hole piece, that just makes me squirm, makes me worry.  Basically, scares the hell into me.  What’s Jesus’ point in this parable?  

First, I’m going to need you to think back to 3rd grade when you learned about homophones.  Homophones are two words that sound the same, but are spelled differently and have different meanings, like hole [h-o-l-e] and whole [w-h-o-l-e].  

A hole, like a chasm, is a hallowed out place in something solid, making the whole, less than whole.  This is the problem here....in this parable.  There is a hole or a chasm between two people.  Lazarus and the Rich Man.  Between me and the man standing on Connecticut, a great chasm has been fixed.  

The two men, begging on the street corner for some money, for some food, for a chance.  Not so different from Lazarus.  Let’s face it though - it’s not two men, it’s around 3 Million, at any given time in America that are homeless.  

Their lives are not as God would have them.... God does not desire people to stand on street corners, or lie at gates, or rummage through trash.  That is not the whole, abundant, fruitful life God has planned for his children.

My new little green bungalow is only going to provide so much insulation and safety.  If take seriously the words, “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them,” and I don’t...then I am tossing not only the poor at the gate, but myself too.  

The Rich Man - he didn’t listen, really.  He didn’t see, really.  Why?  Who really knows, but I’m guessing for the very same reasons that it’s hard for us to hear the words, “And a great chasm was fixed....”.  Maybe it was just too hard to hear, too hard to see... too much to give up.

It seems to me, that the place I stand, that we all stand sometimes, is just on the edge of the chasm.  We want to be relieved of distresses without having to move, change, or grow.  Without having to suffer, see the unseeable, and hear the unhearable. 

Often, especially in the church, we talk about being the ‘hands and feet’ of Jesus, which we are, which is beautiful.  But, I think, before we can actually be the hands and feet, we have to be the ears and eyes of Jesus.

We have to see as Jesus sees.  Hear as Jesus hears.  Not as I hear or see; or you hear or see, but as God experiences the world.

The reason I cared about the one man was because I saw through Jesus’ eyes.   I saw his humanity when I saw his wounds, his pack of cigarettes, his brown tussled hair - which at some point became a buzz cut.  The day he wore a trash-bag as a rain coat and his hand touched mine a bit longer than usual as I passed him some money, his eyes met mine and he said, “God Bless you.”  Jesus saw him, and I got to take part.

We miss a lot when we see through our eyes and ears.  We miss seeing the scars of the world as the scars of Jesus; the wounds of Lazarus as the wounds of Jesus.

We can lie in a bed next to someone and be a million miles away, just as easily as we can cast our eyes away from the gates of hell which scatter the world.  Out lives are riddled with gaping holes which seem impassible.   

But Jesus promises us that the chasms can be bridged.  It doesn’t specifically say that in this parable directly, but underlying it, rests that promise.  Jesus promises us through this parable that when we, “See.  Hear.  Hold.  Love.  Touch.  Talk....then the chasm never gets dug.”  

But we know, just by looking at our own lives, there is erosion; there are holes in our lives and our relationships with others.  We know that distances exist.  

Jesus isn’t going to do the hard relationship work for us, but he will do it through us, if we allow him to.  God wants nothing more than to bring wholeness to this world.  

Jesus, we pray, that somehow you will help us to see others through your eyes and hear with your ears.  Amen."

Lost

I've been lost a few times...okay, maybe more than a few.
You too, you say?
It's a damningly hard thing, this being lost bit.
Isn't it?
The truth is though, once lost and then found...
You're never quite lost again.
Just in-between, waiting for the day
When home feels like home,
Alone doesn't feel lonely,
And the dawn, in some ways, doesn't feel fresh anymore....
It just feels 'normal.
Lost.

I, YHWH, am the LORD your God.

This post may be many things: a disclaimer, an excuse (at least for my text study group), a rationalization...but mostly, I am fairly certain, in the end I will know this experience as a true gift.

Yesterday morning, I sat, prepared to lead text study with a group of colleagues - I had actually prepared and I had decent theological thoughts (heck, I even knew what I was going to preach on - on Wednesday no less), and then...I started to cry.  We aren't talking about wet eyes here; we are talking about giant crocodile tears, streaming down my face...I couldn't talk.  Thankfully, someone took pity on me and told me to 'take a break'.  What I couldn't express then...the reason for my tears, I will express now.

One of the texts was from Deuteronomy...at the beginning it says, "See, I have set before you life and death.  If you obey the commandments of the LORD....then you will be blessed".  I happen to love the book of Deuteronomy.  It's not that I like laws [which much of the book is filled with], although the control freak in me appreciates it, but I like the involvement of God in our lives...appreciate the specificity.

The reason I adore it really has always been the statement God continuously makes: "I am the LORD your God".  The entire book is based on this fact.  That God is for us, that God lays claim on us.  I like knowing that I belong to someone that can spin entire universes into being.  It's pretty cool.

So, yesterday, I was all prepared to talk about this fact...God's claim on us.  And I looked at my note to myself that said "I, YHWH, am the LORD your God" and I was angry, and sad, and knew in a very real and true way God's claim on my life.

I had just moved my kids away from their friends, away from the only home they had ever known because of God's claim, God's work in the world.  I uprooted them for no other reason than that statement, "I am the LORD you God"....in my heart when I read that, I heard, "and you shall go where I ask you to go".

All of this sort-of happened in a blink...I heard that and I thought,
"I'll go, but you could pave the path a bit.  Not make it so hard on the kids.  Make it hard on me, not them." I was, for lack of an educated way of saying it, "GRRRRR!"


I was furious at this claim of God.  Downright furious.  And when I am mad and I try to talk...then I start to cry.  Well, I am a crier anyway, but that's what happened yesterday.

It is not so easy following this Jesus we follow; the claim of God on us sends us into unknown territories.  God does promise life and does give the promised land, but it's also true that it's a 'little by little' kind of thing (it says this in Exodus 24).

Here's the thing, as ticked off at God as I was in that instant yesterday, the reverse is true today.  Today I said to my son who looked at me with scared, weepy eyes, "You can do this."  And - I know he can and I'm going to keep on reminding him of it.  God has a claim on him too...a claim to bring him to a new life, to a new home, to very, very good things.

Following Jesus isn't easy and never was meant to be.
Dear text study group....I sort-of meant to say something like that yesterday rather than, "Please excuse me...I'm so sorry....sniff, sniff, sniff".

Listening when your head is screaming...

Not too long ago I preached a sermon about prayer...prayer as a practice in listening.

Well....I happen to be failing as a listener right now.  I am a 'doer' when there are things to be done.  My prayer life feels like a woodpecker picking at a tree over and over again.  Like I just keep shooting thoughts, worries, concerns up at God... peck, peck, peck.

This morning as I was doing this, I was so frustrated with myself.  I felt like I was participating in everything that I feel prayer is not - basically 'telling' God what I think God should do....leaving no room for God to speak, act, or even breathe.

My prayers were making me more anxious.  So - I began to pray about this.  Pray about my anxious prayers.  It was then that I realized that as much as I believe prayer is about listening, sometimes it's hard to get into a listening frame of mind when one is carrying around so much.

I was in a quandary.  What to do?  I needed to voice stuff, but I needed to slow down to do that, so that I could listen.  What I needed most was not answers, but rest.  I needed my brain to chew on something that wouldn't make me think of my 'to do' list.

Something (or someone) said, "Chant".  Now...let me tell you, there's no way I could do Gregorian chant while running.  Plus - gotta say, with a nod to the Church Fathers, that Gregorian chant is just not my thing.  At least not normally, but there was something about the humidity, rain, and steam of the morning that felt a bit like a hot yoga studio, so I began to chant [in my head] the words to "Jesus Remember Me" in conjunction with my breathing.  This was as close as I could get to a chant.

"Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom..."  Over and over it went through my mind.  I had heard it last week during the offertory during worship and it seemed so fitting now.  An offering, a prayer, a chant, a plea, an acceptance.

Eventually, my brain did become occupied with these thoughts...I did feel a space open up between my temples.  "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom..."

Listening is so hard, when there's so much to say.  But it's hard to listen if all we think about is what we have to say...  Today was my very first realization of what a chant actually provides, beyond being 'traditional church music'.  The chance to listen while speaking.