The Hardest Thing

            I saw an ad recently about a new reality television show featuring bad moms.  Besides my ongoing bemusement as to why we need yet one more vapid, insipid and just plain stupid reality show, I also question why we’ve now turned to bad mothering as a source of entertainment.  I tried to forget about this show as soon as I saw the ad, but a quote from one of the moms stuck with me.  She said, “The hardest thing about being a mom is keeping another human being alive.” 

            Damn straight, sister.

            I suspect that this mom’s sentiments are based on a different reality than mine, but her words lived with me this past Monday.  The night before, a tornado struck the northern part of Shawnee, Oklahoma, our home.  Early Sunday evening, as the skies turned threatening, I did what most other people were doing.  I watched the local weather to keep track of the storm that was coming so I could make sure we stayed safe.  I also have a weather channel app on my IPad and my IPhone, again so we can remain safe.  My first instinct when a storm is approaching is to stay put.  We were all home.  We don’t have a storm cellar or a basement where we live, but I figured we would go into our bathroom and wait in the tub if we had to.  As we were doing just that, I got a text from a friend asking me where we were taking shelter.  When I told her the bathtub, she suggested we go to a tornado shelter in town.  We ran for the car and started to make our way to the one where she and her family were staying. 

            The skies were getting darker.  The winds were getting fiercer, and I realized about half a minute into the drive to that particular shelter that we were heading right toward the storm.  When I saw that a fire station was serving as a shelter, I pulled the most audacious U-turn of my driving career, parked the car and we ran.  The hardest part about being a mom is keeping another human being alive. 

            While I stayed relatively calm and cool during our time in the shelter, once it was all over and we could go home, I sat in the car and shook.  I’d gotten really lucky.  I’d kept my kids, these human beings, alive, but what if ? 

            Then Monday came.  As we were still processing what had happened in Shawnee and the damage sustained and souls lost north and west of the main part of town, the skies darkened again.  Once more I turned on local television and saw, live, the EF5 tornado that developed and laid waste to Moore, a bustling town just south of Oklahoma City and west of Shawnee. 

            As the storm dissipated, the first pictures of the devastation in Moore were horrifying.  They didn’t get better.  At Plaza Towers Elementary School, the school where seven children died, reporters on the ground told of frantic, hysterical parents being held back from the rubble so the first responders could do their work.  All any of us who were watching could do was pray and cry and pray some more.  I understood that the hardest job of a mom or a dad or anyone who loves another human being isn’t just keeping that human being alive, it’s realizing that no matter what we do to protect the ones we love sometimes there are forces beyond our control.  Sometimes we can’t keep the ones we love the most safe, well, and too often tragically, alive.  But what parent standing outside of that demolished school wouldn’t have willingly traded places with their child? 

            I think that’s the great beauty and the great cost of love.  When we love someone, we’d rather have something happen to us than to them.  It doesn’t matter the configuration of love – parent for a child, child for a parent, spouse for spouse, teacher for student, neighbor for neighbor – when you love someone, you’d willingly take their place.  The hardest thing about loving is that sometimes you can’t. 

            To the people in our community and in our state who have lost so much in these terrible storms, we can't take your place in your suffering.  But we can walk right beside you.  We can and will love you.  We will do everything in our power to meet your need and your heartache with love, in words and in deeds.

Our Pentecost

Acts 2:1-21

May 19, 2013

            Come Holy Spirit, come!  Welcome to my favorite Sunday of the year. Christmas and Easter are great, but Pentecost is the Sunday I prefer.  Certainly there's work involved in getting ready for it.  But that work doesn't carry the same pressure for me that Christmas and Easter do.  It also doesn't require the kind of preparation at home that the other big holidays do.  I don't have to decorate the house for Pentecost or buy Pentecost gifts, dye Pentecost eggs or make Pentecost baskets.  I get to wear red on Pentecost, which is great because it's one of my favorite colors.  This day is known as the birthday of the church, so after worship we get to have cake and cake is good.  On this day we sing some of my favorite hymns about the Spirit and someday I'm going to find a way to recreate a tradition of the church in the Middle Ages.  Churches were often designed with "Spirit holes" in their roofs.  On Pentecost young boys were sent up to the roof and at specific times during the service they would send down rose petals to represent the tongues of flame and then they would release doves to swoop and soar about the sanctuary.  Perhaps the problems with our roof are really just Spirit holes trying to create themselves for our edification?  Perhaps not.

            I really do love Pentecost.   On the surface it just seems like a joyful, fun day in the life of the church.  It's a birthday party for the church in disguise, and who doesn't love a birthday party?  But there's a problem with my thinking.  Where did I get the idea that the coming of the Holy Spirit was fun? 

            Every Sunday that I preach and lead worship, I pray in one way or another for the empowering of the Holy Spirit.  I pray come Holy Spirit, come.  I pray that it moves within us and through us and that it quicken our hearts to love God and tell the story of God's good news.  If the old saying admonishes us to be careful what we wish for, then maybe we should also be careful what we pray for. 

            The Spirit does all of those things.  It emboldens.  It enlivens and empowers and quickens the hearts and minds of those gifted with its power to do whatever it is that God is beckoning them to do.  Think about what happens with the disciples in our story from Acts.  It is Pentecost, fifty days after our Easter and for devout Jews, the Feast of Booths.  They are in a room, sitting, praying, waiting.  Jesus promised them the Holy Spirit, so they wait and pray for it.  But what will happen when the Holy Spirit actually arrives?  They get their answer. 

            Suddenly the house is filled with the rush of a violent wind.  Divided tongues of flame descended, and a tongue rested on each of them.  With that they began to speak languages they'd never spoken before.  Jerusalem was a city of diversity with Jews from many lands living together.  Suddenly they could understand the words these Galileans were speaking in their own languages.  Many were awestruck at this strange and unexpected event.  But others were cynical and suspicious.  They sneered at the disciples and accused them of being drunk. 

            But the suspicions of others were no match for apostles emboldened by the Holy Spirit.  Where before they were timid, afraid and uncertain of their abilities, now they were able to speak, preach, teach and witness to what they knew to be true -- Jesus Christ, their rabbi, their beloved friend was and is the Son of God. 

            Come Holy Spirit, come. 

            It's exciting when the Spirit comes.  It's noisy.  It's chaotic.  It's unsettling.  For the disciples to move from waiting and praying to being caught up in the Spirit's power must have been unsettling.  From that point on, they were no longer waiting, they were on the move.  As William Willimon wrote the first gift of the Spirit was proclamation.  They were gifted with speech.  In the words of the spiritual, that gift “guided their feet.”  They were on the move.  Preaching, teaching, sharing their witness to the good news, telling people this new thing that God is doing.  It must have been exciting.  It must have been unsettling.  It took the disciples to places and people they never expected.  It called them to trust, to act with courage in ways they couldn't have imagined before the coming of the Spirit.  But the Spirit shook off their doubts and strengthened their courage.  Through the coming of the Spirit the Word was proclaimed to the world.  We all stand on the shoulders of these early believers.  It was their witness that opened the door for centuries of believers yet to come.  Come, powerful, exciting Holy Spirit, come.

            So that's Pentecost.  The day when the Holy Spirit came and gifted those first disciples with speech and power and the world was changed, amen. 

Except the story doesn't end there.  Pentecost isn't over.  If we think of Pentecost in terms of one day when the Holy Spirit swooped in and changed everything, and this is our annual remembrance and celebration of it, then I'm wrong, it is over.  But if Pentecost is the name we give to the coming of the Holy Spirit, then it is far from finished.

            All we have to do is search through Acts to see that it is true.  There is more than one Pentecost in Acts.  They may not have occurred as this one did, but they are no less unsettling and exciting.  Saul's conversion on the road to Damascus and the story around it is a Pentecost story.  Not only is it a Pentecost for Saul who became Paul, it is for all the other players in the story.  Those who had to care for him, guide him, this man who persecuted them.  This man whom they knew had spent a great deal of time and effort up until that moment on the Damascus road wanting them dead.  His conversion was Pentecost.  Come Holy Spirit, come.

            Phillip encountering the Ethiopian eunuch is a story of Pentecost.  The Spirit placed Phillip there to meet this man, interpret for him, baptize him, and just as suddenly Phillip is whisked away again.  Come Holy Spirit, come. 

            These are just a few examples of Pentecost.  Consider the history of the church.  The Reformation, that was a Pentecost.  The first and second Great Awakenings, those were Pentecosts.  What about the Civil Rights Movement?  That was a movement of faith by people of faith.  Pentecost. 

            Think about our own lives.  When has Pentecost occurred?  When has the Spirit descended on us, moving us, emboldening us to do or proclaim what we didn't think we could? I suspect that it wouldn't take much reflection to look back over the course of our own lives and see the moments of Pentecost in them. 

            And here we are today.  Praying for the Spirit to come as we do every Sunday.  It seems that we've been sitting and waiting and praying for a long time now.  We want our Pentecost to happen, we want the Spirit to come.   But if the stories of scripture teach us anything, they teach us that when the Spirit does come, nothing is the same.  People are changed.  Ideas are changed.  The world is changed.  The Spirit disturbs and disrupts and calls us to do what we think we can't.  But we do it anyway. 

Remember, the first gift of the Spirit was speech.  It was proclamation.  The disciples had a story to tell.  The people were hungry for that story, so the Spirit made it possible for them to hear it.

            We have a story to tell.  We have good news to proclaim.  There are people all around us who are hungry for that story.  They need to hear it as much as they need air to breathe.  And we need to tell it.  We have good news to proclaim.  So as we wait and pray, let us pray on this day of Pentecost that our Pentecost will be upon us.  Let us pray that we will be empowered and emboldened and disturbed by the coming of the Spirit.  Let us pray for that wild, unsettling, exciting Spirit to soon be in our midst.  Let us pray for our Pentecost to arrive.  We have a story to tell.  Our feet are itching to move.  Come Holy Spirit, come.  Let all God's children say, "Amen."

Along the Path

Grace

pool newly made from

morning rain, murky brown, burnt

umber, it halts my onward march

I stop to consider my way round

brush and bush lay right

hectic stream lays left

both lead somewhere

playing for time to make my choice

I crouch before it

wondering if I dipped

fingers into its stillness

would I be rebaptized

into ancient creation

layer upon layer of life

brewing, bubbling 

in this sudden fen

God's breath still moves

across the waters

pulling from chaos

this sacred pause

Presbyterian CREDO, May 2013

             

Peace and Presence

John 14:23-29

May 5, 2013

             I am not nor have I ever been quick at saying goodbyes.  Whether it’s big, dramatic goodbyes before a move or just leaving a dinner party, I don’t just say “goodbye” and walk out the door.  It’s a process.  I’ve been witnessing this process since I was a kid, starting with my parents.  I think my dad would prefer to say a quick goodbye and leave.  Why draw it out?  But my mom doesn’t like to just rush off abruptly.  That would be rude.  So whenever we were out somewhere my dad would begin the process by announcing that they have a long drive or work the next morning or they have to get kids to bed, etc.  That was the signal my mom needed to begin the goodbye conversation.  That means wrapping up whatever was being talked about, then thanking whoever they’ve been with for the lovely time, then some more conversation.  Then the gathering of whatever came with them, coats, purses, a dish if food was brought.  Finally, everything is gathered together, all the necessary people are collected, then hugs, more thank you’s and voila!  Everyone is out the door, in the car and heading home.  Getting out the door and heading home could have taken a few minutes or an hour.  But it’s a process. 

            I’m not mocking my parents.  This is my process as well.  If I’ve been having fun, enjoying myself, it takes me a while to say goodbye.  Even if I’m on a deadline, I can push it right up to the last second, saying thank you, making last minute chitchat, etc.

            I learned that goodbyes really got tricky when I had children.  When we would visit with other friends who had kids, leaving got harder.  Not because we necessarily wanted to prolong the goodbye but because rounding up children was a challenge.  I’ll never forget how hard I laughed when I first heard the phrase, “trying to get your kids out the door is like herding cats.”  It’s true!  If I had one child ready to go, the other one would have wandered off.  It was a process.

            Saying goodbye is a process.  It’s a process after a pleasant meal with friends.  It’s a process when you know you’re leaving for a much longer time, maybe even for good.

            Jesus is in the process of saying goodbye in our passage from John.  These verses in chapter 14 are part of a much larger section known as the Farewell Discourses.  That title alone should indicate what Jesus is trying to do.  He’s saying farewell.  But he’s not just making a hasty goodbye to the disciples and hitting the road for the Ascension.  He’s discoursing.  He’s talking to them, reminding them of what he’s taught them, assuring them that what he has promised will be.  The promises he has made to them are true.  God is faithful. 

            In our particular verses, Jesus reminds them that those who love him keep his commandments.  They don’t just hear what he said.  They do what he said.  That’s how they show their love for Jesus, by doing what he commanded.  That sounds great in theory.  But what was the most important commandment Jesus gave them?  Love.  Love one another.  Love others.  And how do you love?  You wash feet.  You love by serving.  And when you serve you show your love.

            Again, this sounds great in theory.  But we all know that doing this, loving in this way, is often much harder in reality.  I suspect the disciples knew this too.  And I also suspect that they must have been scared.  Jesus is in the process of telling them goodbye.  He is honest and open about what’s coming.  His physical self will leave them.  He will be crucified then raised from the dead.  Finally, he will ascend to the Father.  The disciples have to understand that he won’t be physically with them.  They also have to understand that this is good.  This is as it should be.  They should want him to go to the Father.  Because when he has gone to the Father, they will receive the Advocate, the Holy Spirit. This is all as it should be. 

            But do the disciples believe that?  Or are they scared?  Their teacher is leaving them.  It’s one thing to follow his commandment to love when he’s with them.  He makes it all seem, if not easy, then at least possible.  But it’s a whole different matter entirely if he’s not with them.  What if they can’t remember everything he’s taught them?  What if they can’t do everything he’s taught them?  What if? 

            I would have been terrified.  It would not surprise me in the least if the disciples were too.  But Jesus promises that even though he won’t be with them physically, the Holy Spirit, the Advocate will.  The Holy Spirit will remind them of everything he’s taught them.  It will remind them of everything he’s said.  With the presence of the Advocate, they will be okay.  We know that not only is the Holy Spirit just a reassuring voice in their ear, reminding the disciples of what Jesus taught them.  It is also a powerful presence that enlivens and emboldens the disciples to do and say what they never thought possible.  They will be more than okay.

            We know that.  Jesus knew that.  But did they know that?  They hadn’t reached the okay point yet.  They were still trying to understand that Jesus was leaving them.  They were going to be on their own, or so they thought, and doing what he taught them without him.  It must have been scary. 

            I don’t think my transition into Kindergarten was quite as elaborate as the one my kids went through.  They had orientation.  They went to the school at appointed times to meet the teacher and find their cubbies and bring in their supplies.  It was quite the big deal.  When Phoebe started Kindergarten, the kindergartners went just on their own for a day so they could get completely acclimated to this new world.  While I think that was important for the children, it was even more important for the parents.  It made me feel better knowing she was being given extra attention and care as she started school full-time. 

            Then first grade happened.  I didn’t expect quite the same process for first grade that the kids got for kindergarten, but I expected something.  So I called the school to find out what I had to do on the first day.  Where was the special first grade drop off place?  What procedures did the first graders undergo to ensure that all would be well on their first day?  I could hear the secretary, who was a very nice lady, trying not to laugh when I asked her these questions.  “No Mrs. Perkins,” she said, “There are no special procedures for first graders.  You just drop her off.”  I was aghast.  She was only six.  She only had one full year of school under her belt.  What if she didn’t know what to do?  What if she got lost in the short distance between the car door and the playground?  But she assured me that Phoebe would remember everything she was taught in Kindergarten and she would be okay.  All I had to do was drop her off.  She would be okay.  I did.  And she was.

            Jesus told the disciples that they would be okay.  They would have the Advocate, the Holy Spirit.  The Holy Spirit would help them, remind them, reassure them, empower them.  Along with the gift of the Spirit, Jesus gave them his peace.  These words from verse 27 are ones we often hear at times of death.  “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.  I do not give to you as the world gives.  Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” 

            “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.”  Receiving the peace of Jesus was more than just a friendly gesture.  It was the giving of his ongoing love and care.  Receiving Jesus’ peace didn’t mean they were magically protected from the harms and hurts of the world.  It didn’t make them immune to danger or trouble or scarcity.  Their physical bodies were no more shielded from wounds than his was.  Receiving Jesus’ peace didn’t promise them safety, but it gave them assurance in their hearts and minds that they would be okay.  Jesus might leave them physically, but he would never be completely absent from them.  He would be in their memories.  He would be in their words.  He would be in their hearts.  His love would become their love.  Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. 

            Whether we can always recognize it or not, the peace that was given to the disciples is ours as well.  The assurance he gave the disciples, he gives to us.  His promises remain sure.  I am with you.  My peace and my presence will help you keep my commandment to love and to serve, to walk in the world’s darkness and share my light, to see the world’s thirst and share my living water.  I am with you.  Even after I say goodbye, I am with you.  You will be okay.  Go out into the world and share this good news.  Love, serve, help others be okay too.  Let all God’s children say, “Amen.”