My energy has been low, and, frankly, kind of sad and heavy these last few weeks. Yesterday was Good Friday, and I wasn’t looking forward to a day of church services focused on the agony of Jesus’ death. But instead, I found fresh air. At … Continue reading A breath of fresh air
Four walls and a cross, a font and a table might be important, but they aren’t much if we aren’t bringing God’s good news to where people are, to where it is desperately needed. And I think especially right now, we need to remember the many ways Jesus went to the people. He went to the people who were suffering. People who were sick in need of healing. People who were outcast, who were untouchable. He provided food for the hungry. Good news for the poor. Setting the oppressed free. If we are to take seriously what it means to be Christian, to follow Christ, we need to take these words very seriously.
Mary, the mother of Jesus, is hands-down one of the most fascinating people in all history. Praised and doubted, her integrity questioned not only in her own life time (Matthew 1:19) but also in ours, Christmas is the time of year when the Church ponders her the most. However, in a special pre-Christmas post, Sarah Degner Riveros shares with […]
via Mary, Do You Know La Malinche? – Sarah Degner Riveros — We Talk. We Listen.
I do “nice” really well.
I have friends who are pretty sure there’s not a mean bone in my body.
And once I dated a woman who told me she just wanted to see me finally get angry. I’m pretty sure she could tell that I bottle up my anger. But then, when I did finally dare show my anger, just a little, we ended up breaking up just days later.
So much for positive reinforcement.
I’m a hospital chaplain. I can witness anger and grief and despair and rage, and generally stay pretty calm and grounded. But I don’t have a clue what to do with my own anger … often I can’t even quite identify it, and usually it comes out in tears.
Sometimes it also comes out in cursing. Usually to myself, and to God.
And for the last couple days I’ve been thinking a lot about anger and language and expression, and how I manage the tension between not wanting to offend, wanting to keep spaces of discourse open so that as many voices can hear and be heard as possible, and yet also recognizing that sometimes the offensive language IS the language to express deep frustration, anger, despair, grief.
Far too often those of us who prefer to stay comfortable have shut down the voices of those who have needed to speak a very real, very important message of grief, injustice, righteous anger. And when I shut down that anger, it’s a way of distancing my self and “othering” someone else, keeping myself apart — insulated — from their pain and anger in a way that also can dishonor their pain.
The Lutheran Church tends to do a pretty spectacular job of this kind of nice that avoids all conflict. Even my (Catholic) hospital system has a culture of “Providence nice.” Jesus, however, didn’t operate that way.
As I write this, the second day of the season of Advent is coming to a close. This is my favorite season of the church year, the four weeks preceding Christmas, a time of preparation, of waiting, of sitting in the darkness watching for signs of hope. This is a season of trying to comprehend the insanity of God loving the world so much as to show up in our midst as a fragile infant, born to a poor, young, unmarried mom, and leaping into all the messiness and brokenness of people and politics and relationships.
This Advent, I’m following a devotion series on the theme #FuckThisShit.
You’ll find Day 2, by Alisha Gordon, here.
Rev. Tuhina Rasche, one of the pastors who conceptualized this series of devotions, says this:
There is a deep need to express one’s self on a visceral level. After a tremendous experience such as the death of a loved one, an act of betrayal, an experience of righteous anger, or a sense that something is not right with the world, there are many people who yearn for a way to communicate something they feel deep within their souls. Communicating such a deep emotion cannot be accompanied by flowery and polite language; if anything, the language that accompanies such emotions communicates a rawness and a sense of being both literally and figuratively torn open. There is a desire for God to rend the heavens, to have things torn open to enter into the world. Like the heavens being torn open in Mark’s Gospel at Jesus’ baptism. Or like Christ’s flesh being torn at the crucifixion… and bearing those scars in the resurrection, giving validity to our hopes, yearnings, and anguish.
We are not using #FuckThisShit to be edgy or radical. We are not using this to be “cool.” We are using these words because they are troubling. They are unsettling. They are being used to move us from places of complacency. If anything, we are using these words to reflect the brokenness of the humanity in which we live. We are using these words to reflect a deep sense of heartbreak and yearning to be in restored relationship with one another, and to be in restored relationship with God. We are using these words to call out for Christ to come again …
To be very clear, this choice of language is not a response to the inconsequential — a scratched car, not getting concert tickets, finding sausage on your vegetarian pizza. It is a response to waking up again this morning to news of an active shooter on the Ohio State campus. To the long litany of names of African American men and women who have been killed in what should be routine traffic stops. To the reality that we have a president-elect who has said vile, offensive things to and about women, Muslims, immigrants … and if I were a Muslim immigrant woman (and I work with many of them), whether I would actually say it or not, I would want to say #FuckThisShit.
I will be forever grateful to feminist Christian ethicist Beverly Wildung Harrison for all I learned from her essay, “The Power of Anger in the Work of Love.” She writes,
“Anger is not the opposite of love. It is better understood as a feeling-signal that all is not well in our relation to other persons or groups or to the world around us. Anger is a mode of connectedness to others and it is always a vivid form of caring.” She goes on to write, “Where anger rises, there the energy to act is present.”
Yes, anger can be destructive and lead to harm. But it also can push us to work for change and justice and a more loving world where all are welcome.
And as I work as a hospital chaplain, and look around at the state of the world, I am increasingly convinced that one of the most important growing edges for us is to increase our ability to tolerate discomfort.
The more comfortable we are, the more we need to get used to discomfort, learn how we respond to it, learn how to stay grounded and loving even when we’re in the midst of chaos, pain, uncertainty.
Not long ago I sat in the family room of our Emergency Department, with a woman who had just learned her husband had died. When she found out I was a chaplain, she immediately said “I don’t want to talk religion.” We didn’t. What she did do, over the following hours, was grieve, curse, and tell stories about a man who “If he loved you, you knew it,” and who used “fuck” as both noun and verb, “as fuck” as his most common adjective, and so on. And that was time was absolutely sacred ground.
There’s no question that this series of Advent devotions won’t be for everyone. That’s fine. But as I watch it spread over Facebook and notice the responses, I’m noticing it reaching a lot of people. Many of whom are not, and will not be the churched.
The woman in the ER wanted nothing to do with religion or church. But I’d also bet she lives with an assumption that “Church” wants nothing to do with her.
And that is where my fears lie for the church … not that we’ll become a place where “fuck” and “shit” have a regular place in our litanies or preaching, but that we’ll (continue to) be a place where those who are hungry for some hope or some love in the midst of violence, poverty, abuse, despair will never feel they can bring their whole selves. A place where those who bring their whole selves, in vulnerability, rawness, brokenness, will be told they need to change to keep us comfortable, rather than be welcomed, and chance that we all may be transformed.
It is my hope that there will be more places where we can be honest about our anger, regardless of the language, and truly be heard. That change may come, along with balm for the wounded places we carry.
I expect to be uncomfortable this Advent season. Hell, I’ve been uncomfortable all year for a variety of reasons. I hope that discomfort will also push my creativity, my prayers, my writing, and whoever it is that God is currently calling forth from me. I’m grateful for this opportunity to engage the discomfort.
Meanwhile, I’m still pondering how I’ll write about and talk about this on Facebook. I’d rather have you read it than turn away because of the language. And, the language matters. For the record, there’s also a profanity-free version of the prompts titled #RendTheHeavens.
“Oh, that the Christmas miracle of God-in-a-manger wouldn’t be
just a one-time magic trick.
Because god we could use a Christmas miracle these days
because by now the ice and the snow and the darkness are
already old friends but we haven’t even
reached the darkest day yet.
And I’m scared. And I am bleeding. And I am tired.
Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down…”
You can read the rest of Micah Martin’s Advent Psalm of Lament (inspiration for the devotion series) here.
Meanwhile, I’ll keep writing. Might tag it #FuckThisShit. Might tag it #RendTheHeavens. Maybe #FTS/#RTH. But however I tag it, may my writing be honest and vulnerable and Spirit-led.
May we be blessed with discomfort in these darkest days, and also be surprised by hope, by connection, by the unexpected.
The path is longer than you think. And when you think you’re nearly to the center, suddenly you find yourself on the outside again.
I’m excited about the future, and feeling inspired.
That’s probably not how most of us tend to feel after two days of meetings. But yesterday was filled with inspiration and hope for the future, listening to students talk about their passion for justice and for meeting their neighbors and making sure people know about a loving God (as opposed to the mean, judgmental God of “No” and “Don’t” that gets all the press).
And it’s not often that I get so caught up in a sermon that I had to take notes, but Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary student Cassandra Chavez inspired me to grab a pen and jot things down. She talked about two types of stories we tell about change — we tell about how good things were back in the old days, and how we wish we could go back there. And we also tell the stories about the legacies we’ve left and the excitement, potential and possibility of what is to come. She was very clear that “narratives of glory” aren’t necessarily wrong, but they’re incomplete. The “good old days” were never good for everybody.
As an example, she quoted a Bay Area pastor passionate about the Black Lives Matter movement, who asks about what the “good old days” were like. Those days when prayer took place in schools? Well, he wasn’t permitted in those schools. That story is incomplete.
But we do leave powerful legacies. Important legacies, and that’s something to be proud of. That is something that can shape our values and passions and stories, pointing us to something new, something creative, an as-yet unimagined future.
I loved the “Oscar Romero Prayer,” composed by Bishop Ken Untener of Saginaw that she referred back to:
It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.
The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision…
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise…
We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.
My seminary is undergoing a lot of change. We are now Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary of California Lutheran University, embedded in a university rather than being a freestanding seminary. And the plan is that beginning next fall, the campus will relocate to downtown Berkeley, in a space across from City Hall where everyone will be able to be gathered in one place, and where students, faculty and staff will be immersed in the comings and goings, protests and excitement and struggles of the city.
Grieving what is lost is an important part of moving through change. But let us also not lose sight of the possibilities and potential ahead.
I graduated from PLTS in 2000. I’ve long loved this beautiful campus on a hill. But it always felt far away from the world, often too far, and too set apart. It was fantastic to hear the excitement and enthusiasm from both students and faculty as they prepare and anticipate the potential of this move. As they reflect on what place means and how it shapes us. As they look forward to being better equipped for justice, for learning to connect with the neighbor.
ELCA Lutherans have been known as a Northern European, largely white, highly educated church. And more and more, we don’t match the neighborhoods we inhabit. I’m so excited to see what these new leaders will bring as we strive to make deeper connections and roots in the places we are, connecting to our neighbors, learning and growing and serving. We will look different. I’m pretty sure that’s how God calls us to be.
Theological education will need to look different in the coming years as well, and I’m so proud to be part of a school that takes that very seriously, where faculty are collaborative, where there is a clear commitment to a just world and a future of hope.
We members of the PLTS Advisory Board spent our day listening to the stories of students and staff. We heard about their excitement about the opportunities that come with being in the midst of Berkeley, encountering people in new ways, having a smaller carbon footprint, experiencing diversity more powerfully. Learning to manage change, and to reflect more deeply about the power and connection of place — something my Alaska Native brothers understand much more intuitively and deeply than I have, a topic I yearn to explore more.
And finally, it was great to catch up with some of the incredible PLTS professors, scholars passionate about justice and collaboration. I love that the seminary is exploring ways to better equip students to do ministry with Spanish-speaking peoples.
The future is bright and exciting. As Cassandra Chavez said to us, “We are children of the resurrection, of a future we cannot see yet.” I’m proud to support PLTS. Will you?
It’s not often that I quote the 19th chapter of Leviticus, but here goes: When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. THe alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you … Continue reading Welcoming the Stranger
It’s been a tough weekend. It was an intense week, with erratic, long and late hours at work. I got to do lots of work that I love, and that I believe and hope I do well, work that makes a difference in people’s lives. But it also took a lot out of me, and I’m still not very good at listening to my body telling me to rest.
So Friday night rolled around and found me worn out and lonely and sad. That seems to be the night that I most miss being with someone who loved me, when I’m tired and not having the energy to go out but not wanting to be alone.
While I knew I needed to rest this weekend, I haven’t done a very good job of it. Not that I regret running another 10k, but, um, not resting.
So the tears that have lurked and leaked all weekend haven’t really surprised me.
But I’m grateful that I made it to church this morning. It didn’t “fix” me. But it did remind me that I’m part of a community — a loving, caring, generous, messy community that is glad to have me as part of it. It helped me get perspective on life outside my world. It gave me the opportunity to engage in thoughtful conversation about generosity and scarcity, how we use our resources, money and otherwise, and the ways that can be joyful and terrifying and connect or disconnect us to community. I got to drum. I got a grin out of a small child when I peeked at him during the prayers. I watched Dorene dance when I started drumming, and love that she told me how to say my name in Yupik.
I think about the tricky dance of honoring my sadness and loneliness and weariness, but not letting those places drown me. It feels like walking through a beautiful, misty, mud puddle-filled field. I keep sliding into the puddles. And it isn’t the end of the world. I get kinda muddy and wet and cold. I’d rather NOT be in the puddles. But I’m grateful I have places too to get warm and dry and cleaned up.
(Yes. I’m working on my depression metaphors. I like mud puddles way better than where my brain tends to go, toward minefields or falling off cliffs).
How do you find perspective and ways to listen to the cries of your spirit, honoring your difficult places but staying engaged with the world?
Me, I’m gonna keep my boots handy.
P.S. If you, or anyone you know, is in need of support, call the national suicide prevention lifeline at (800) 273-8255 (TALK), or text the word “START” to 741-741. A kind person is waiting on the other end of those lines 24/7.
Two weeks from now, I’ll be in a remote village in the Chicaman region of Guatemala, with a team of Alaskan Providence Health and Services employees, helping build sanitary latrines. And I can’t wait.
This isn’t my first trip to Guatemala. In my final year of college at Pacific Lutheran University, I spent a semester in Cuernevaca, Mexico, with the Women and Development Issues in Latin America Program (through Augsburg College, Center for Global Education). During those incredible, life-changing and heart- and mind-stretching months, we spent two weeks traveling through Guatemala and Nicaragua.
I returned to Guatemala again for a three-week language program in Quetzaltenango (Xela) during seminary and again for about a week for a course on the Prophets, to Lago Atitlan.
I’ve been home sick all weekend, and have spent much of that time rereading I, Rigoberta Menchu, the powerful story of a Guatemalan peasant woman who went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize in 1992. I’ve also been rereading my journal from that semester in Mexico and Central America, and remembering.
Rigoberta Menchu describes the things her parents told her when she turned ten, moving into adulthood in their culture. She writes
“They told me I would have many ambitions but I wouldn’t have the opportunity to realize them. They said my life wouldn’t change. It would go on the same — work, poverty, suffering. At the same time, my parents thanked me for the contribution I’d made through my work, for having earned for all of us … My father said; ‘You have a lot of responsibility; you have many duties to fulfill in our community as an adult. From now on you must contribute to the common good.’ “
And as I traveled with my companions through Mexico and Central America, hearing the stories of refugees, mothers, activists, teachers, I witnessed the truth in Menchu’s words. Within days of the beginning of the semester, before we even crossed the border into Mexico, meeting with people who were part of the sanctuary movement and with representatives from INS and the Border Patrol, I wrote,
“What strikes me a lot, again, is how much U.S. citizens think! Other countries seem to concentrate more on survival, on the basics, and I think it’s another sign of our wealth, the luxury of time.”
I heard stories from women who told of their own experiences or experiences of their family members being kidnapped, tortured, killed. One woman asked us why we were there, what would we do with the information we were receiving. Her question still haunts me — “What will you say to them about us?”
I also wrestled with religion, faith, the Church. I saw the impact of religion at its best and at its worst. I wrote in my journal, after a long meeting of processing and discussion (did I mention nearly the entire group of women in my group were women’s studies majors?),
…And then I wanted to say I’m thinking about the ministry, that it’s where I’m being called, and I can’t even escape it here. And that this is why I have to ultimately become a pastor, because I am a feminist. Because I care about social justice. Because I care about the environment. Because I care about and love people, and I love these women I’m in community with. After hearing these stories I realize how lucky, how blessed I am, what a healthy environment I’ve grown up in, and I see my strength. As a woman, as a person, as a caregiver. And maybe this is why — maybe I’ve been given strength for this purpose.
Rigoberta Menchu said “I’m a catechist who walks upon this earth, not one who thinks only of the kingdom of God.” (p. 79)
She also writes about what she and her community learned studying the Bible together, “That being a Christian means thinking of our brothers around us, and that every one of our Indian race has the right to eat. This reflects what God himself said, that on this earth we have a right to what we need… we realized that it is not God’s will that we should live in suffering, that God did not give us that destiny, but that men on earth have imposed this suffering, poverty, misery and discrimination on us.” (p. 132)
I was able to spend a couple weeks living with a Mexican family, and my family members were also very involved in a similar small group Bible study. I attended some of these gatherings with them, and wrote after one, “When we prayed after the first (Base Christian Community), my (host) father prayed for me, that I would learn here, that I would learn from this community, that I would understand that ‘we are not rich, we are not poor…’ ”
My host father and I would compare Martin Luther and St. Francis of Assisi, and he would talk with me about the importance of community, and raising consciences, the need for unity among Christians, that we must not dehumanize others. I wrote,
I’m learning so much here, and everything speaks to me so strongly — I don’t know how another person would react — I just know it’s good for me to be here.
And so soon I will return to Guatemala. I’m grateful to be going with a well-established program (we’re partnering with Medical Teams International, which has roots in Chicaman. I’m glad we will be doing something useful. If you’d like to be a part of this experience, we’re also raising money toward the work and supplies that we’ll be bringing to these communities.
Thanks to the tremendous generosity of friends and family, I’m looking forward to going past my goal (only $20 to go as I write this!) … know that ALL the funds we raise will go toward these projects — building sanitary latrines, installing stoves in homes to improve air quality and combat the respiratory illnesses that are the number one killer of children in Guatemala).
**Update: Within an hour of posting this blog, we blew past my goal … THANK YOU for your generosity! Thus, I set a new goal … I wonder if we can get to $1500?
But more than that, I’m looking forward to meeting people in Guatemala. Watching for beauty. Hope. Strength. Joy. In them, in me, in us.
This is the sermon I preached with great joy at the ordination of one of my dearest friends, Diana Hultgren, a Unitarian Universalist chaplain, on Sunday, Jan. 25, 2016, in Lexington, Kentucky. May it also touch your heart, as Diana has touched mine.
I’m so grateful to be here in Lexington, (the heck with Storm Jonas!) and to bring greetings from your friends and colleagues in Alaska. Also, thank you for getting me out of experiencing a 7.1 earthquake in Alaska this morning. Happily, by all reports, people seem to have weathered the quake just fine. In particular, I am delighted to bring you greetings from Providence Alaska Medical Center, where we are so grateful to have shared in your formation, your gifts, and particularly your friendship.
Diana, a week ago I asked you about particular themes or readings for your service today – I am a Lutheran preacher, after all, and we preach from texts! You said “Oh, community” and “justice.” You’re right, I probably didn’t need to ask. And everything about this celebration says both those things: community and justice. But, and rightly so, there’s another overriding message – love. And that love, truly is (and must be) the basis both for our community and our justice-seeking.
Martin Luther King Jr reminds us that “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”
I heard this story from Pastor Robyn Hartwig, when she preached at my ordination service in August of 2000. She heard this story from Fr. Dale Fushek, when he coordinated Mother Teresa’s visit to the United States in 1989. She filled a stadium with two days notice. On the first day of her visit, she raised $33,000 for her ministries.
Fr. Dale was looking forward to celebrating mass for Mother Teresa and her traveling companions –together, Mother Teresa was staying with her sisters in a small house. On the day of the service, there were about 24 police officers outside the house, screening and admitting the approved people to the house – those who were traveling with her were allowed in, some special visitors from the diocese. And finally, when about 2 dozen people had gathered, Fr. Dale began the mass. Everyone was seated … except Mother Teresa. When he got to the first reading, he noticed that Mother Teresa was not only standing, but beginning to pace a bit. By the second reading she was pacing back and forth across the room, and he began to wonder if he’d become the priest known for presiding when Mother Teresa finally lost it! Soon she was rearranging people in the room, and finally she went to the doors to the room, threw them open, and waved everyone in. She waved nearly 400 people into that small house. People were leaning in through the windows, crowded in the bathrooms, on each others’ shoulders. But once the people were gathered together, all welcome, Mother Teresa finally sat down.
So long as anybody was excluded, Mother Teresa could not sit down.
So long as anyone did not experience the fullness of God’s love, healing, grace, Mother Teresa would not sit down.
And Diana, this is also true from what I know of you. As long as someone is lacking justice. As long as someone is lonely or in need of compassion or healing, you too will not sit down.
Another story:
Compassion: The Legend of the Lamed-Vov
(by Rachel Naomi Remen, in “My Grandfather’s Blessings, pp 8-9)
Rachel’s grandfather, an Orthodox rabbi and scholar of the Kabbalah, the mystical Jewish teachings of Judaism, once told her a very old story that dates from the time of the prophet Isaiah. In the legend of the Lamed-Vov, God tells us that He will allow the world to continue as long as at any given time there is a minimum of 36 good people in the human race. People who are capable of responding to the suffering that is part of the human condition. These 36 are called the Lamed-Vov. If at any time, there are fewer than 36 such people alive, the world will come to an end.
“Do you know who these people are, Grandpa?” Rachel asked, certain that he would say “Yes.” But he shook his head. “No, Rachel,” he told her. “Only God knows who the Lamed-Vovniks are. Even the Lamed Vovniks themselves do not know for sure the role they have in the continuation of the world, and no one else knows it either. They respond to suffering, not in order to save the world but simply because the suffering of others touches them and matters to them.”
It turned out that the Lamed-Vovniks could be tailors or college professors, millionaires or paupers, powerful leaders or powerless victims. These things were not important. What mattered was only their capacity to feel the collective suffering of the human race and to respond to the suffering around them. “And because no one knows who they are, Rachel, anyone you meet might be one of the 36 for whom God preserves the world,” her Grandfather said. “It is important to treat everyone as if this might be so.”
Rachel sat and thought about this story for a long time. She’d heard lots of stories with happily-ever-after endings. But her grandpa’s story made no such promises. God asked something of people in return for the gift of life, and He was asking it still.
Suddenly, Rachel realized that she had no idea what “it” was. If so much depended on it, it must be something very hard, something that required a great sacrifice. What if the Lamed-Vovniks could not do it? What then? “How do the Lamed-Vovniks respond to the suffering, Grandpa?” Rachel asked, suddenly anxious. “What do they have to do?” Rachel’s grandfather smiled at her very tenderly.
“Ah, Rachel,” he told her,” They do not need to do anything. They respond to all suffering with compassion. Without compassion, the world cannot continue. Our compassion blesses and sustains the world.”
Diana, your compassion blesses and sustains the world. Just as your passion for justice and commitment to community bless and sustain the world.
But I hope that you will also hear this from this story: Rachel’s grandfather emphasized that we must treat ALL people as though they might be one of the 36 Lamed-Vovniks. When I think about how I’d want to treat a Lamed-Vovnik, I’d want to make sure that she is welcomed. Encouraged. Nourished. Responding to suffering with compassion may be far more about “being” than it is about “doing,” but after nearly 12 years of chaplaincy, I’m pretty sure there’s still nothing easy about that task.
And you may already know this about Diana, but let me tell you a couple of stories. When she was in Alaska, she would housesit for me when I traveled, taking care of my three kitties, enjoying my house despite all the clutter, and, probably most important, getting to use my car. I’m still not sure where all she went those times I was away, but I’m pretty sure my car saw parts of Alaska that I’ve never been.
And when Diana lived in Colorado, I came to visit her for a week. We started in Denver, drove up through Rocky Mountain National Park, to Steamboat Springs, west to UTAH to Dinosaur National Monument, back down to I-70 past Vail and back to Denver. We had lots of great plans to hike, but mostly we drove. I saw a LOT of Colorado. Diana likes to fit it all in. And rest is not her strength.
And there are SO MANY GOOD THINGS to DO. This might be why Diana and I share a mutual longing for days in a blanket fort. We’ve planned – kitties, snacks, coloring, rest. And, frankly, with what I know about each of us, we could use more blanket fort time.
I have absolute confidence, Diana, that you will never fail in your justice-seeking, your offering compassion and love for the poor and vulnerable. But my hope for you, and what I suspect will be your greatest challenge, is to treat yourself as though you are one of the 36 Lamed-Vovniks. Take the time to welcome yourself home. To be nourished. To be a beloved part of community, with others who share in your burdens and joys. To rest. It is not about the doing, but about the compassionate response to suffering.
Helen Keller reminds us that the world is full of suffering, but it is also full of the overcoming of it.
Today we recognize your God-given gifts and calling, and celebrate your vocation as chaplain to the poor and vulnerable. Your compassion sustains the world. You contribute to the overcoming of suffering. But remember that you are not alone. You too are worthy of compassion, of rest.
The Lutheran in me feels compelled to remind you that the heart of my theology is that it is not, in the end, about what we do, so much as it is about what God does. The God of justice and compassion also calls us to rest, and most of all, calls us to life – abundant life.
Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it. (attributed to the Talmud)
Pastor Brian talked at the beginning of this service about having a foot in both the world as it is and the world as it ought to be, and loving them both.
You may have heard Emma Goldman’s famous quote, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.” But as I did some research this week, I learned that in fact that’s actually a paraphrase. In fact, I think I like the original better. Emma Goldman, apparently was once admonished for dancing at a party in New York, and was told “that it did not behoove an agitator to dance. Certainly not with such reckless abandon, anyway.” She was furious, and said “I did not believe that a Cause which stood for a beautiful ideal, for anarchism, for release and freedom from conventions and prejudice, should demand the denial of life and joy … If it meant that, I did not want it.”
Dance on, my friend. Dance for justice. Dance for community. Dance for love. Dance for compassion. Dance for the Lamed Vovniks. Dance until everyone is included. Dance with reckless abandon. And remember that we are all one body – we all dance together.
With Good Courage 