Eating Chocolate for Lent

I once had a professor who, as he was talking about spiritual disciplines, shared a 'discipline' of his wife.  His wife often wore dangly earrings...and all during Lent she gave up wearing earrings.

I remember thinking, "This is the most ridiculous' sacrifice I have ever heard of.  I mean, there's hardly anything hard about giving up wearing earrings".  My pious theology got in my way.

But he went on to say that since she wore these swingy, chandelier - type earrings, she played with them.  When she was bored she would touch her ear, when she was nervous she would touch her ear..probably every time she tucked her hair behind her ear, she felt those earrings.

So, for her, not wearing them during Lent was an amazingly conscious experience.

He then said, that every time she would go to touch her ear and found that her earring wasn't there, she would remember...

to pray
to focus
to sacrifice
to serve.

She remembered God.

As Lent began, I told my Office Administrator this story.  And then forgot I had told it to her.

On Ash Wednesday I said, "I'm not giving up anything for Lent...it never works for me."  Of course - all about me, huh?  But then I said half-jokingly, "Maybe I'll give up chocolate."

She looked at me with wide-eyes and said, "Oh no, you can't give up chocolate.  I have an idea."

Now, let me tell you that she has a coffee mug that sits on her desk which is regularly filled with dark chocolate Hershey kisses.  I probably eat 5 of them a day... and give her a hard time about feeding my sweet-tooth.

On Ash Wednesday we were all out of chocolate...I know, because in the morning I went to grab a kiss and there were none.

But, later in the day, I went back into her office and the mug was full of chocolate kisses.  But on the kisses was taped a little prayer:
"Pray for Carter and his confirmation class."
"Pray for Lucille."
"Pray for the children who receive blankets from Blanket Buddies."
"Pray for Epiphany."

There were numerous little intercessory prayers.  I picked up a kiss, unwrapped it and let it melt in my mouth as I read the prayer.

Having the chocolate melt in my mouth while reading the prayer and thinking about what those words said, slowed me down...connected me with God...helped me remember others.

So, I'm eating chocolate for Lent.
And, truth be told, I am eating less chocolate, because it takes much longer to read and pray and think as you eat a piece of chocolate.

It's true that it is really hard for us to 'give up' something for Lent and that we are called to a life of sacrifice as we follow Jesus.  However, our salvation is not based upon our ability to sacrifice, whether it be chocolate or our very lives.  It's only grounded in God's grace, which sometimes happens to rest on us slowly and sweetly...like a kiss from Heaven.

I am....

I have a tank top that has ingeniously sewn into the hem: "I am a runner because I run" and every once in awhile when I contemplate slipping into a life of less physical dedication, I realize that would mean not identifying myself as a 'runner'.  I'm the kind of person who's not going to wear that tank top (and it's such a great color) if it's not true.  I know it's silly...

But that tank top hem holds a lot of truth.  I am only a runner...because I run.  And, it's part of who I am.  To not run, would be to let go of part of my identity.

I am not a swimmer.  I never have been and I do not long to be.  I know swimmers.  I admire them, but that discipline doesn't 'click' with me.

However, I have  been thinking about this identity piece and how it is tied to things.  I think it's also possible to tie our identity to unhealthy things.  Running is probably not an unhealthy identity marker, at least not for me.  But you know what?  I also hold as part of my 'identity' that fact that I drink copious amounts of Diet Mountain Dew.

Really.  Ask anyone who knows me well...and to not see me with a soda can would be....well, strange.  Sometimes I think about trying to give up my soda habit, but when I really get down to seriously thinking about removing it entirely from my life, I have to face the truth that it would mean a change in my self-understanding.  And, if I'm nothing else, I'm certainly the 'Mountain Dew girl'.  Heck, that would mean other people would view me differently too.

In essence, giving up my soda addiction means that part of me has to die.  I'm not so sure I can do that.

So, I've been thinking about these identity markers: running and soda (yes, I know those hardly make sense in the same sentence)...about how they are these outside agents which define parts of my life.  They only are markers because I participate in them.  Right?

I am a runner because I run.
I am a soda-aholic because I drink too much soda.
I am a mom because I play and care for and love my three children.
I am vegetarian because I don't eat meat products.

Good and bad identity markers.  In which I do something so that I am something.
But here's the clincher.

I am a Christian.  Why?
Because I did something?  No.

At least this is what my theology tells me.  Being able to be a Christian has very little to do with anything I've done.  It has everything to do with what Jesus has done and is doing.

And - I believe that.

And - it's not enough.

Because our identities as children of God should do something....shouldn't they.

I'm thinking about Jesus.  His identity wasn't as a Jew, obviously wrapped up in being a Christian, but in being the Son of God.  And essentially Jesus spent his life doing Heaven.

In some ways (and hopefully t his doesn't sound heretical) his identity was more Heaven come to Earth than Sonship.  It may just be semantics though.

I'm wondering what it might be like to claim part of my identity as Heaven.  Since so much of me is probably more Hellish...something would again have to die.  And, as I said...I'm not sure I can do that.

I'm better at killing Jesus than letting Jesus take over my life.
I'm sorry, but I am.

And...I'm a Christian.  I want to have the where-with-all or gumption or whatever word you might choose to be better at being a Christian....but truth be told, for some reason I have no qualms about wearing a cross necklace and simultaneously 'fail' at being a Christian.

Here's the thing...I actually think I can do that because I know there's nothing I've done to deserve this part of my identity.  It's the whole conferred upon me piece - the whole act of God in the cleansing waters of Baptism, marked my the Holy Spirit for eternity piece.

I get to claim that as part of who I am regardless of how 'good' I am at doing it.

I recently read someplace that the 'entrance exam for Christianity is admitting you're a failure'.  I've got that down.

But it's not just that...right?  It's admitting it AND allowing God to do something with that.

I am a mom.
I am a runner
I am a soda-alholic.
I am a sinner.
I am a saint.
I am a failure.
I am a success.
I am a child of God.

Getting Inked

After a few requests for the 'written version' - proclaimed at Epiphany Lutheran Church in Burtonsville, MD on February 27, 2011 - the 8th Sunday after the Epiphany.

Some of you may remember when I first came here, I was asked to answer one of those  get-to-know-you questionnaires...you know, answer questions like:

Favorite word: onomatopoeia 

Favorite sound: windchimes my parent’s gave me

What do you do when you are bored: run or read

And then, one of them was, “How many tattoos do you have?”  Uh, 3.  Really.

I remember Sara Hart saying to me, “You know, you don’t have to answer that question if you don’t want to.”  I have no idea what she was thinking, but it may have been something like, “Oh boy.  What have we gotten ourselves into?” 

I mean, not one or two tattoos, but three?  Yes, 3.  I’m going to tell you a bit about them.

I have a poison dart frog tattoo.  I got it in college...to express this idea that no matter our size, we are all beautiful and strong creations.  Given the fact that I’m 5’1” - I was making a statement about myself.

I have a cross on my back with the words “Light of the world” under it in Greek... I am literally ‘marked’ with the cross of Christ.

And finally, circling my ankle, I have the word “Ruah” in Hebrew, which means spirit, wind, or breath.  We all have different ways of making sense of God, and for me understanding God as spirit, as movement, as force is so very compelling.  I like that it’s on my ankle; I sort-of think of it as God’s spirit guiding my feet and walking my paths with me.

Sometimes I hear people say, “If you’re going to get a tattoo, you better be sure you want it for the rest of your life.”  

True enough.  You are ‘marked’...visibly and permanently.  But, what I always tell people when they ask me if I’ve ever regretted getting tattooed is, “No, because I know why I got them.”  In my opinion, a ‘genuine’ tattoo tells a story, if it doesn’t, then it’s just decoration.  

Often when you ask someone about their tattoo, they’ll invite you into a moment of their life....some sort-of pain or passion or love that you just wouldn’t have known about if the tattoo hadn’t been there to ‘say’ it. 

Like my dart frog...it says that...I’m tiny and at times I hated that about myself and I’ve struggled to know that I am strong and ok just the way I am... but with a lot of help and God, I finally figured it out and it’s made all the difference in my life. 

Now, I am not up here advocating that we should move worship today over to “Inkers” or “Great Southern Tattoos”, but..

As I read the words from God to us, “See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands...” I can’t help but ponder this tattoo imagery.  That we are God’s living tattoos - inscribed upon the hands of God. 

Today for the most part, if we’re going to get a tattoo, we choose to do so.  God chose too...but back then...back when Isaiah was a prophet, the only people who were tattooed were servants and slaves.  Not teachers, not students, not home owners or renters, not pastors or lawyers, not engineers or retirees.  

Just slaves and servants. 

So, it’s stunningly amazing that God, GOD - turns the tables and says, “I’m going to become your servant!  I belong to you and to prove it, your name is tattooed onto my hands.  I cannot go anywhere without remembering you.”  

Since I’ve had a few tattoos carved onto my body, I can’t help but wonder: 

“Was it, is it painful for God...inscribing us into his very self?”  

Because I bet it was, I bet it is...

It’s the nature of making yourself that vulnerable.  Jesus has got nail holes and sword holes and thorn pricks and whip marks all over him because he is absolutely determined to let all of us know that he has our names written into his very flesh.

And that grieves my heart a bit to know that in our being made whole God had to give up so much. 

I also wonder, “Did God know...know how very permanent it would be?” 

  I’m sure.  And I’m confident that God would have it no other way.  Because it seems to me that every time a child is born, and another named is etched on God’s hands, God doesn’t remember the pain.  God sees the creation and wouldn’t change that for anything...just so that child’s name, just so your name, can be on God’s hands.

 And I also wonder, “Does God like his tattoo?”

I know God loves his tattoos, because they are an expression of God’s very self.  We are an extension of God....

God knows why he got tattooed:

We are an expression of who God is and what God is about. 

We cannot be wiped away or forgotten.

We matter a lot to this God who loves us

Even when we think we are forgotten, even when we cry as Zion does, “The Lord has forgotten me!”  The LORD hasn’t.

That’s the promise God makes.  “Never.  Ever....will I forget...you.”

It’s we who forget.  As I was thinking about this, how sometimes we forget, or question who we are, or what we are about, I remembered that in Jeremiah and Isaiah and Deuteronomy and Exodus and Hebrews...throughout the Bible, God also promises to tattoo us.  Really.  

God says, “I will write it on their hearts, and I will be their God and they will be my people.”

So....whether you like it or not, you’ve got a tattoo... right on your heart.  

While it may sometimes be really, really hard to believe, we never are really alone.  Not in life’s prisons or dungeons or any of the ways we exile ourselves.  

“See, I have engraved you on my palms.”

He remembers us.  Thanks be to God.

From there...to here

Ugh.  It's 5am - time to get up.  The truth is, I've been awake since about 4:40 - my body automatically wakes me up.  Since that ungodly hour I've been having a little internal debate with myself.  It goes something like this:

"I really want to sleep.  Yes, but you have to get up in an hour and a half anyway."

"One more hour would feel so nice.  Yes, but you're already awake."

"Maybe later...  Who are you kidding?  You aren't going to do it later."

"I'll make up the miles later on in the week.  Really?  Your week's going to get easier?"

"I really want to sleep - still.  You'll be mad at yourself if you don't get up."

BEEP!  BEEP!  BEEP!

Fine.  Up.  Throw a t-shirt on.  Smooth my socks on, straightening the tongue of my shoes.  Strap my ipod on my arm...down I go.

Why?  Why am I getting up to run 12 miles at 5 o'clock in the morning?  It's ridiculous. 

For the first 2 miles all I can think about is going back to sleep, but as I make my way through the first 15 minutes, I begin to realize that I'm relaxed.

My thoughts are clear.

The sunrise is lovely.

Music is loud.

I am strong...

and happy...

and sad...

and excited...

and scared...

and....

The list could go on.  These early hours are when I most connect with myself, which means it's when I most connect with God.  

I used to get up early to stay competitive; to maintain my 'girlish' figure; to eat chocolate.  None of that is true anymore...at least not now, not as the mother of three boys who is not nearly as competitive or young as I once was (although I still eat the chocolate - dark Dove chocolate, if available).

Last week, while doing some reading, I came across a piece in Deuteronomy (30: 4), which said, "Even if you are exiled to the ends of the world, from there the LORD your God will gather you, and from there he will bring you back."

That's what I need - every morning.  I need God to bring me back from all the places I exile myself.  Mostly, and I would say this is true for just about everyone, I exile myself from myself.  

Somehow, I decide that there's something wrong with me.  I know this isn't true - intellectually.  Just like you know it isn't true - intellectually.  But - I get beat down....exiled sometimes.

And in the wee morning hours, with cotton candy pink clouds peaking over the trees, and sweat dripping down my back...God gathers me and brings me home - to myself and Godself.

Guess, I'll keep getting up at 5am....now if I could just go back to sleep after the run.  Guess not though, because by mile 3, I'm in God's hands.

So, how about you?  What gets you up early (or keeps you up late), just because it's your place to be with our God?

Working it out

This past week my mother-in-law* died.  So, I will begin by freely admitting, I am working some stuff out.  Working out some stuff with God, working out some questions, working on some anger and heartache in my heart.

She died young of a rare disease - one in a million 'they' said  (creuzfedt-jakob disease).  The percentages don't matter.  The fact that she's gone matters.  The truth that she left behind 6 grandchildren under the age of 13 matters.  Left behind a daughter and a son and a husband....it matters.  A lot.

People have been wrestling with the age-old question of, "Why do bad things happen to good people?" forever.  Or for that matter, why do bad things happen to people who do bad things?  If God is such a good and loving God, then.... why doesn't God just do something?

It's natural to pose this question at times of crisis in out lives.  I've heard people say that asking, "Why" is the wrong question.  I get why they say it's wrong, but I think it's inevitable.

Because, the truth is, when you're the person who's life is failing apart, who feels like you can't possibly face crawling into bed and sleeping alone for the rest of your life, or when you're the person who can't call your best friend anymore or when you're the bright-eyed child who has one less grandparent today you're going to ask "Why?"  Why ask why?  Because we need to - at least I do and I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in this.

Sometimes I joke about feeling like Job when a slew of bad things happen to me.  If you remember, Job is the guy in the Bible who does everything right.  He loves God, he follows the commandments, he lives an upright life (he probably eats his greens beans and keeps his sodium intake low too).  And yet, his life is filled with horrendous despair.  He loses his house, his animals, his family...everything.  In my opinion, Job gets to ask, "Why?  Why me, God?"  I mean, I would.

But his friends, oooo, his friends make me so mad.  His friends say, "Why?" and point fingers.  They decide surely Job has done something to deserve his pain and suffering.  Instead of asking Job, "How can we help, my friend," they leave him alone in  his torment.

Ultimately, the "why" is really unhelpful, but most of us need to ask it.  But for those of us who aren't lost in a pool of tears, we should consider asking ourselves, "How can I help?"

Because, I am really sorry, but I cannot answer the question of "Why?"  I just don't know...  I know the God I love and worship and trust doesn't plague this world with war and disease and sadness as justice, but I sure know it exists.  I may be a pastor, but the only thing I know to say when people's worlds are falling apart is "I'm sorry".  There are very few words to say besides that.

I hugged a lot of people this past weekend and said a lot of, "I'm sorry's."  And then I heard about a young man at my home congregation who committed suicide.  Why?  My heart broke for his family.  "Unfair!" my head and heart screamed.  Yes, unfair and awful, but to leave it there - leave it at 'why did this  happen' is unfair too.

So, as the "why's" rumbled around in my head I remembered the people who had surrounded my mother-in-law's family.  They got through constantly caring for her because people answered the question of "how" with food, with phone calls, with hugs, with laundry....  They got through the death because they responded by loving, by crying, by holding hands.  I can only hope that in these coming days that we remember to keep on responding....

Because, here's what I think - I think that in some ways God ultimately told Satan he was done playing games with him when Jesus came to earth.  Satan can taunt us and death may still haunt us, but God in Jesus has definitively answered the questions of: why? how? and what?

Why did this happen?  I don't know, but I do know why it will get better.  God promises to be as present in death as in life.

How can this be?  I don't know, but I do know how it will get better.  God is amazingly gracious and will send comfort in and through unexpected people.

What will I do?  I don't know, but I do know that you may only have to open your hands.  I do know that what will happen will be different than what you envisioned and that God will be in it with you.

And, if you are someone who is currently ok, currently able to breathe deeply and see straight, then I know that you will be called upon to help God with the why's and how's and what's of this world.  Don't shy away because there are people sitting next to you who need to know the gracious, unwavering, unyielding presence of God.

As I said to someone when I was the person who didn't know why or how or what....God with skin.  Sometimes that's what we need.  Be that - be God with skin to someone.  It just might make all the difference in that person's world.

Still working it all out.... with God and you.

*[author's note: I am divorced, however, I have not yet learned how to make myself stop loving people who have been part of my life for 20 years, nor do I plan on ever learning how to stop loving someone.  So, technically speaking....my 'ex' mother-in-law, but I'll never think of her that way.]

Staycation

I've been on vacation this past week....but I didn't go anyplace.  I just stayed at home.  A 'staycation'.
Many people asked me, "What are you going to do?"
I had big plans:
massage and pedicure
volunteering in classrooms
just being a mom for a few days
checking things off my 'to do' list
and unpacking, organizing, shopping, running, reading.

Not very many of those things sounds that great (except of course the massage and shopping part...), but some of the things on my 'to do' list that I tackled were things like: finding a dentist and making appointments, dealing with my taxes (double YUCK!), hanging up pictures, getting stuff together so I can go to the DMV (affectionately known as the 9th ring of hell).

None of these are fun.  They are the kinds of things which I push to the bottom of my list every single week and they are the pieces which make me feel like I never have enough time to get things done.  They are the things that when I am already too busy and I see those sitting at the bottom of my list I feel over-whelmed.

This week, I took time to deal with these things.  I despised some of the things I did on 'staycation,' but I made myself tackle at least one thing I had let go each day, even if it was just making a phone call.  However, now as I look at my list, with all the fresh new check marks I smile.  My list is shorter and I feel lighter.

My house is starting to feel like a home.
If we get sick or need a dentist....we have someplace to go now.
I took control of  my finances.
I saw friends and allowed myself to have fun.

So often what happens when I go on vacation is I go to escape.  It's nice to pretend like all those burdensome pieces of life aren't really there.  It's nice to leave sometimes.  Next vacation I hope to be sipping a soda on a sandy beach with the wind whipping through my hair....but this year I needed to stay.

I needed to stay and find me again.

What has made all the difference this week is - in staying, I am no longer stuck.

Sometimes we may equate 'stay' with being in one place or being stuck.  Staying and facing things allows us not to be stuck.  

I breathed deeper than I had in a long time.  I prayed more than I had in a long time.  I cooked more than I had in a long time.  I 'stayed' with me.... and that's a hard thing for many of us to do sometimes.

We want to escape, we want to run, we want a 'Calgon take me a away' moment...

The problem is we always return to find that the things we most want to 'just go away' are still sitting there - making us feel stuck.

Jesus asked John to stay with him.  Mary stayed with Jesus.  Jesus stayed with Legion and sent the demons away.  It seems like staying sometimes means we encounter the presence of 'More'...

It may be uncomfortable to stay.  It may mean you have to face things you would rather leave at the bottom of your list forever.... but if I know anything, I do know that running away from problems never works.

Stay awhile.

Sit awhile.

Be awhile.

Beautiful mess

When I was a young mom, I had very fixed ideas about how the perfect mom should be and what she should allow her children to do.

For example, they would certainly never, ever play on those hand-held video games in church.
And...they would never pretend to shoot one another.  How uncivilized!
We would have set amounts of screen time and instead of listening to the radio in the car, we would of course, sing the alphabet song or recite our multiplication facts.

Besides all this, I was fairly convinced that organization was the key to keeping things running smoothly.  Books were alphabetized and legos were sorted according to color.  And...I vacuumed every day.

And then, one day my oldest son came home from preschool and promptly told me that his best friend's dad was a 'bad guy.'
What?!
He proceeded to tell me that his friend's dad must be a bad guy because he carries a gun and he's in the Marines.  "Bad guys carry guns," he told me.
Ah.  Not perfection.  I had some back tracking to do.

Now, I have a whole arsenal of weapons in my house.  I detest it.  And...I also think it's ok.
My kids have also been known to have a charger at church in my office, so they can juice up their pocket video games when the batteries run low.

It's not ideal.  It's not perfect.  But, I will tell you something.... it's a lot more authentic.  It's a lot more real.

Yes, my kids scope out places in the forest to battle it out with their nerf guns.  But, they are playing together.  And they could sit for hours (if I let them) playing video games.  But, they can't wait to show me the new level they've reached.  And, our legos are all mixed together and we don't follow the directions....

It's all just a beautiful mess.  I think I'll take that over 'perfection' any day (well, most days....a perfectly clean house once a month would feel like heaven, but that'll have to wait about 18 years).