Palm Sunday now

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The story of Jesus is not some long-ago drama we come to church to hear.

 

The story of Jesus is NOW.

 

All of the things that Jesus did and taught and longed for us to know with our whole lives.

 

Those things are NOW.

 

And the wild hope of Hosanna and the brutal chill of silence as lives are hung on a cross and left to die.

 

Those things are now too.

 

Jesus rides into Jerusalem yet.

 

Jesus rides in on the back of a humble beast meant to remind us that the way of power used by the world is not the way of God.

 

Jesus rides into the halls of power yet and the hopeful raise their song yet and Palm Sunday is now.

 

It is now.

 

Palm Sunday is now while the legislature of our state is in session hearing the cries of the hopeful – save us! – as housing for homeless and marriage for same-sex couples and health care for the poor and adequate education for our children are tussled over in the halls of power and Jesus rides into schools where bullying is being addressed and Jesus rides into nations grappling with how to deal with violence that mangles the souls of women.

 

Palm Sunday is now.

 

On Palm Sunday we acknowledge that Jesus is riding toward the cross.

 

The cross: the place where the passion of love hangs in agony as the wounds borne by those who work with their lives to overcome hatred and injustice are hammered time and time and time again.

 

The cross is the price of hope and loving:  tell me that is not so.

 

It was and it is and Jesus teaches us that we must be willing to know the pain of the cross.

 

It is our own.

 

The cross, as theologian Dorthee Soelle names it, is the world’s answer, given a thousand times over, to attempts at liberation.

 

In long ago Jerusalem, Jesus rode into the streets to the cheers of his hopeful followers.

 

He knew that the audacity of his message – that we are to love God with all our hearts and minds and imaginations and our neighbor as our very selves – he knew that such teaching was going to challenge those who made money and wielded power through cultivating a world where money and privilege were enjoyed by the few when the needs of the non-elite were deemed a non-issue.

 

Jesus knew that liberating the poor and the marginalized from the grinding injustice that kept them invisible and powerless could not be allowed to be imagined in the hearts of others.

 

He knew keeping people cowed and poor kept the privileged in power.  He knew.

 

And yet he got onto the back of that donkey and rode toward the cross.

 

The cross.

 

The place that waits for all who dare to love.

 

Come, you that love the Lord.

 

Allow yourself to feel and feel deeply.

 

Allow yourself to be swept into the hope in Christ Jesus that swells your heart with Hallelujah and shout it shout it shout it and follow it to the place where God calls you to witness for justice – in your school and in your work place and in your community and in your nation and in your home – and allow yourself to feel the pain of loving because through the present power of Christ Jesus – through the NOW of Christ Jesus – you are no stone.

 

You are a called disciple of Jesus. You are walking love and you will not let hatred and indifference to the pain of others numb your heart.

 

Oh, that we would ride into the Jerusalem that awaits us each.

 

Palm Sunday is now.  Jesus rides with us yet.

 

Amen

signs and wonders

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The seminary that held and stretched me as I trained for ministry has a giving opportunity that is providing me challenge and grace.

Said seminary was also the place where my pastor father served as adjunct faculty for a time.  United Theological Seminary of the Twin Cities sent into my growing-up church and life long-ago seminary interns that are kindred yet.

United Theological Seminary is a place of life-change for me and for so many.

The seminary is offering the purchase of paving stones to complete a stunning chapel that now radiates grace on its campus.  On the paving stones the donor may inscribe names and words of gratitude and witness.

I will purchase one to name my father.  I am hungry for a place where his name will be made permanent; trod upon by those seeking ground.

When we were in Ireland this past fall, Cooper and I were moved by the power of memorial.  We spent silent and powerful time beside the graves of people who made life so very long ago.  To read their gravestones and wonder about their stories made us aware that we too will be in that number.

What do we want, we who are living?  What do we want for others to remember as they pause and remember our being?

How can I speak in five lines or so the quirky power of my father?  What words can name his witness and the snargle and shine of his remarkable life?

It is a powerful question.

For now, I am paying attention.  I am paying attention to the deep longing that calls me to this witness.  My father lived.  He lived and touched and blessed and provoked.  His witness spools yet.

I trust that the words will come.

In the meantime, I savor the assignment.

home

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Carole King’s Tapestry album was the soundtrack for my teens.  The album somehow found each part of me and gave it voice.

One of the songs that has been sounding in my being this past week is the song “Home Again”.  It begins: “Sometimes I wonder if I’m ever going to make it home again, it’s so far and out of sight.  I really need someone to talk to and nobody else knows how to comfort me tonight.”

Besides the fact that the song is soul-woven, it has sung in my heart because of the power of the story of the Prodigal.  Jesus tells a story about a man who loses himself in the so-many distractions that can lead us to groundlessness.  Jesus tells us that the man “came to himself” and decided that he wanted to return home to the place where he is known and taken in, stupendous stumbles and all.

It is our story in so many ways, is the story of the Prodigal.  We sing the song of “Home Again” so many times in our lives.

We wander seeking home throughout our lives.  We convince ourselves that home can be found in chemicals or time fritters or shopping or something someplace someway that will take away the great lonely of living.  We wander and long and wonder and then, oh then, we come to ourselves and remember Home.

Home in the great expanse of the Holy whose song dances through us yet.  Home in the wrap of claiming and welcome that awaits us if we would but cease our scurry.

Home in the heart of God;  taken in, welcomed and fussed over are we.

Home.

time and rivers

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Of time and rivers flowing
The seasons make a song
And we who live beside her
Still try to sing along
Of rivers, fish, and men
And the season still a-coming
When she’ll run clear again.

So many homeless sailors,
So many winds that blow
I asked the half blind scholars
Which way the currents flow
So cast your nets below
And the gods of moving waters
Will tell us all they know.

The circles of the planets
The circles of the moon
The circles of the atoms
All play a marching tune
And we who would join in
Can stand aside no longer
Now let us all begin.
                Pete Seeger

How is it we are given this gift of life?

Having returned from vacation a scant 24 hours ago, I officiated this morning at the funeral of a woman who blessed.  She blessed through laughter and quick humor.  She blessed through a willingness to “join in” as Seeger sings in the lyrics above.

She lived a singular life; unrepeatable and precious.

And so it is for each who join in.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds.  My prayers for my loves and the real clamor of my longings sound relentlessly in my soul.

Sometimes the “I want” is a gong noisy and clanging and that gong has the power to create such cacophony within that the still small assurances of the Holy are near overwhelmed.

And then I remember.

Mine is to cast my nets below; deep into the moving waters of grace that will tell me all I need to know.

Still.  Small.  Powerful.  Deep.

Let us all begin.

 

 

love

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love

On Valentines Day I gathered with thousands of others to name conviction that love is sacred gift.

We rallied at the State Capitol to show support for equal access to rights and inclusion for all families in Minnesota. After working across our state to defeat an anti-marriage amendment that sought to barricade rights for same-gender loving couples, we are a people.

We are a people who are gay and straight and Christian and Jewish and all gradations of rainbow goodness created by our God.

We are a people united in hope.

What we proclaimed at the rally was a fervent belief that in Minnesota, a state long graced by values grounded in respect for all, it is time to allow same-gendered couples to be legally married.

We value children and families. We know how vital it is that children are raised in stable and loving homes. We want all families to know the power of communal support.

We believe in the power of love.

I was proud to be one of the 130 clergy present. I was proud to have church members present. I was moved by the ways that the struggle for justice has created a people who will not be stilled.

And, when this state deconstructs barricades to full inclusion in community, I will be so very proud to be a Minnesotan.

It will be so.

The time is come.

dust

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It is so elemental:

A thumb-full of ash traced on forehead.  Eyes that meet as words are spoken about inevitable death.  The deep knowing and willingness to name the beauty and vulnerability of living and the sometimes elusiveness of surety.  The breath of the Holy inspiring being.

We gather each Ash Wednesday and share such intimacy.

And we are changed.

 

space

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I’m learning this new life; a life without Zoe.

The smallest things lurch my heart.

When arising, we had a ritual of greeting.  We’d have a conversation about whether the night on the couch was to her liking (I know, dogs on furniture are anathema to some but she was old and creaky and I could deny her nothing in the comfort department).  She would gaze into my eyes as I appreciated the silk of her ears.  Her fine dog smell graced me before I moved to the second grace smell of morning:  coffee!

Scraps of food in this house are no more cause for canine celebration.  We throw them away without being able to hail the dog with great good news of treats.

There is no click of nails on the floor or jingle of collar or nudge of nose when a petting is due.

There is no welcome when we come home and no barking salvo when anyone nears the fiercely and loudly protected domain of her house.

The space left behind is immense.

I’m left pondering the mystery of dog companionship.  For fourteen years she raised children, comforted the lonely and found her pleasures in bread and fishing.  She asked for little.  In return for food and loving she gave and gave and gave.

I’m missing that giving.  I breathe my thanks for her being.  I apprehend the vast space she has left behind.

I’m humbled by the power of grief and gratitude, both.

 

 

steadfast

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Today we celebrated the life of a woman who lived 101 years.

Gathered for worship were her children and grandchildren and friends and folk who knew themselves to have spent time and life with a graceful powerhouse.

We do that at church.  We hold the space for celebrations and life markings.  We welcome  people we may never see again and for a time we share voices in song and stories through hearts.

There are times when the beleaguer of “doing church” can make the heart heavy.  The tending of relationships and buildings and protocols and brusings can near obscure the reason for our being.

And then there are services that remind us that community in Christ matters.  It matters deeply.

For 101 years the woman we celebrated today held space in her being for the power of God in her life.  The fruit of her faith was palpable in her people and in the air and prayer we shared.

I’m grateful.  I’m grateful for the steadfast devotion that has prompted people to support a church that has held funerals for nearly 160 years.  I’m grateful for the privilege of weaving worship that names resurrection and wonder.  I’m grateful for the hands that bake bars and pour coffee.

I’m grateful for the reminder that “doing church” matters.  It matters a lot.

Zoe Mackenzie Macaulay Wiggen Olm

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We first met Zoe when she was one of eight puppies living under a trailer outside of Duuth.

We had just gone to look (yeah, right).  We had been without a dog for all of two weeks.  Our house didn’t feel like home without a dog.  So off we went.

How we decided on Zoe is family legend.  Rachel chose her and after trying to mind-meld with the wiggly black puppy with white socks around compatibility, we agreed that she would join our family.

Cute is a small word.  Zoe was that and she was also immensely spirited when it came to shredding furniture and most anything else her imagination decided it wanted to engage.

She almost didn’t last.  There were deals made over and over again until she reached that lovely age of three or so when it seemed she grew a conscience and some sense of self-preservation.

She grew to be a dog steadfast of heart.  Always Zoe greeted us with enthusiasm.  Always she had time to commune with the brokenhearted.  Always she responded to the rustle of bread bags and pizza delivery persons.

She was a devoted fisherwoman.  She spent hours at the cabin walking two feet or so out in the water.  Her tail broadcast her joy and her sure conviction that those fish were hers to manage.

For fourteen years, Zoe has been heart touchstone for our family.

We have watched in the past year as she has struggled with aging.  We knew that she would let us know when it was time to say goodbye.

Yesterday she couldn’t much walk without falling.

It was time.

Today was gentle goodness.  We had the day off so there were many opportunities to snuggle up next to her and smell the good of her.  Her beloved children came home for quiet loving.  She let us lift her and carry her to the car.

At the vet, as preparations were made, she laid in our laps and seemed to be ministering to us through the ways she lived trust and love until she breathed no more.

Oh, to have shared life and heart with the best dog in the world.  The house echoes lament; my heart grieves for the wanting of her.

But the dog who companioned us all through so many shifts and changes and comings and goings is free.

It was time.

 

 

 

 

 

Advent 20

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Bulletins are printed, folded, and stuffed.

Candles are put into holders – new ones this year!!! – and set.

Sugar has taken up a seemingly permanent place on our staff table.

All is in readiness for worship on Sunday and Christmas Eve worship (4:00 PM and 11:00 PM) on Monday.

And now we wait.

For preachers, this is a time of fervent mulching and prayer.  Yes, we pray for the perfect sermon on Christmas Eve, but really, that isn’t the point.

The point for this preacher is that there is an almost physical desire that hope would be named as more important than fear in this world.  My hope is that those who come in out of the cold might find welcome in this house.  My hope is that the power of Christ Jesus might take up the places of empty and despair that sound such clang in the souls of the walking wounded who include our very selves.

Oh, I have such hopes.

And those hopes are perhaps made more strong by the wash of violence and snarl that seem to be dominating our collective consciousness.

We cannot afford to be a people of hate.  We cannot afford to allow it any purchase in our being.  We cannot afford to be cavalier about our faith and our witness because it takes enormous and conscious effort to be a voice crying out in the wilderness of this time:  Prepare the way of our God.  The wounded will be made whole.  All flesh shall see it together.  For the mouth and the heart of our God have spoken it.

We are ready. We are ready we are ready we are ready.

We are ready for peace to speak and soak into the rough places.

We are ready.