be and be not afraid.

Transitions are frightening places. After spending nearly two years journeying in ministry with one group of people, I had come to know them. Known their needs, their passions, their idiosyncrasies. Known how they connected with one another and with God. Saying goodbye to that community is harder than I can put into words, and moving on from a familiar place, with people I know and love is a painful process. I would be lying if I said, that I am not afraid.

But as I step toward the unfamiliar, even as I grieve what I am leaving behind, I am filled with hope. As I take this leap during the Easter season, I cannot help thinking of resurrection, of the new life that bursts out of grief and death. Through the clouds of my fear, I can see the flourishing possibilities of new opportunities. The miracle of getting to know, love and journey with new people.

Tracy Chapman sings, "Be and be not afraid to reach for heaven." These hope filled words, remind me to step out without fear, and to trust that the reaching will bring us closer to the beauty of God.

hope in the face of death.

Both Kyle and I were on facebook last night after the news of Osama bin Laden's death was announced. We were both fascinated by the variety of responses. And this is not just the case with our circles of friends, but across the country-- as you can see from reading the variety of celeb reactions to the news here.

I have to say for the most part, I was really deeply touched by the way most people I know paused and thoughtfully reflected about what it means to celebrate the death of a fellow human being, even if that person is a dangerous criminal. As my seminary Professor Rev. Dr. Jay Johnson put it, there is an important "distinction between not being sorry someone is dead and celebrating that someone is dead." With the relief that there is one less terrorist leader in the world, should also come the realization that many many human lives have been lost, and the death of one more may not mean the end to violence, but may suggest that we are only perpetuating a cycle of death.

I've seen many reflections on what a Christian response to this death might be, including a silent candle-lit vigil for all the lives who have been lost, and many beautifully written prayers for peace. I've read many voices raising up the importance of responses of love and peace, even in the face of death and violence. I've read reminders that the Bible calls people of Christian faith to love enemies, and never rejoice over a fallen enemy. Many others have reminded me that we are called to be people of mercy and restorative, reconciling justice, rather than people of hatred, retaliation, or vengeance. Many others have recalled the words of great leaders like Ghandi and Martin Luther King Jr. calling nations toward love and peace.

Another friend of mine who does not consider themselves to be religious, posted this wonderful article from the Huffington post. There the writer points out, "We will only have peace when we stop the cycle of jubilation over acts of violence." Which, I think is one of the most wise things I've read in the past 24 hours.

”I will mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that" is actually the quote I have seen re-posted more than any other by friends and acquaintances. That fact gives me hope for the future of our country. The thoughtful theological reflections and prayers that reveal insight into a Kingdom of God where death should never win, also gives me hope for the Christian church. And that so many people from so many different perspectives are taking pause to reflect, rather than celebrating death (even the death of a terrible man), gives me hope for the world.

Perhaps, love wins after all.

day 34 - threaded.

In a few weeks, I will be finishing my time at the church that has been my ministry setting for nearly two years. As I approach this ending, and look with anticipation and excitement toward a new beginning, I feel so deeply touched by the relationships I have been blessed with. The young people at Trinity Lutheran Church are some of the most amazing people I have ever met. I have been so lucky to laugh with them, learn and serve beside them, worship with them, listen to their stories, and just be a witness to the amazing presence of God in each of them.

Over the last few years, and most especially the last few weeks, I have been able to share some incredible experiences. What I've been noticing lately, is how it has so little to do with the program. I mean, it is important to put time in care into planning worship and other experiences so that they have meaning. Planning is a central part to any healthy ministry. But the real beauty is in the unplanned moments. Staying up late laughing and talking about nothing and everything with Jr. High girls in a cabin. Eating pizza at Cal's campus or exploring bookstores with the High Schoolers. Those moments over coffee where we somehow move from talking about our favorite movie, to a funny story, to the deepest parts of ourselves and our faith.

In ministry, I learn more and more that my deepest regrets are not the times that didn't go according to plan, but the times I planned too much-- especially at the beginning of my ministry. Like so many ministers, I felt so much pressure to find the right program... I wish I hadn't so often forgotten that packing in games and programs and discussion topics and worrying if they would be well received, achieves little compared to just being with people. Listening to them, laughing with them, learning from them. In the end, ministry is the relationships we built, not the program we planned. I seem to be learning over and over that E. M. Forster's simple words, "Only connect," is the deepest truth of all.

So, for two years we have journeyed together, and now our lives are threaded together. I will feel a connection with each of them even when we don't see each other, and even if we someday lose touch. Now we are a part of one another, and because of that connection I feel more whole, and more connected with God... as if by being in relationship and community we are embodying something of Divinity here and now. We are a living, breathing Kingdom of God.

"We cannot live for ourselves alone. Our lives are connected by a thousand invisible threads..."

- Hermon Melville

day 33 - poems in the sky.

Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky,

We fell them down and turn them into paper,

That we may record our emptiness.

~Kahlil Gibran

day 31 - go and tell.

This Sunday I started working with my High School youth group to plan our annual Youth Led Easter Sunrise Service. As we read the Easter story, the theme that came alive for us was "Come and See, Go and Tell." We talked about how the encounter with the resurrected Christ, changes you in a way that allows you to be transformed and share that encounter with others through the way you live. The resurrection isn't merely a personal, spiritual hope, but a life-altering world changing one. It doesn't just change your heart, it changes everything, including the way you live. You are now a part of the resurrection story, and as you go, your life keeps telling the story.

I think that the encounter with the resurrected Christ at the tomb changes us so radically because it reveals that destruction and death do not win. It gives us hope that we do not have to live under the law of death, freeing us to go the way of love. Fr. Steve Hassett shared this thought from Ghandi with me, and I think it summarizes the principle of Easter better than I ever could:

"I have found that life persists in the midst of destruction and therefore there must be a higher law than that of destruction. Only under that law would a well-ordered society be intelligible and life worth living. And if that is the law of life, we have to work it out in daily life. Whenever you are confronted with an opponent, conquer him with love. In this crude manner I have worked it out in my life. That does not mean that all my difficulties are solved. Only I have found that this law of love has answered as the law of destruction has never done."

Life persists. Love wins. This is the message we go with. This is the message we tell with our lives.

day 29 - the starry dynamo.

I just finished watching the film Howl. I loved it... mostly because I love hearing poetry read. The whole film isn't really a narrative, or a biography, as much as it is just a visual poem. The most poignant parts for me were not the trial it depicts or the interviews, but the moments where Ginsberg (James Franco) reads portions of the poem. The poem comes alive, and you are able to hear the rhythm and music of it. Parts of the poem are also illustrated by animation based on the illuminated poems Ginsberg published with artist Eric Drooker. The images and sounds evoke feelings and meanings beyond the words themselves. Spoken word is a powerful, powerful thing. The music of language seems to get somehow beyond the words themselves, digging beyond the surface of what is defined.

I hadn't read Howl in a long time, so in some ways it was like experiencing it for the first time. The musical chaos of Ginsberg's howling verse seemed to have power I didn't remember. He wrote, "angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night." And as I heard those words, I felt their yearning for that heavenly connection, I saw the blank eternal workings of night. I saw the wild beauty of the desperation with words like: "battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light." The words batter the listener with their sad, pounding song.

The film just reminded me of why I love poetry so much. How is can evoke desperation, passion, loss, drug-haze, hope, and anguish and all that is beyond words as well. You can listen to Howl in all it's homo-erotic, chaotic, drug-induced, obscene, passionate, creative, desperate glory below or read it here.

day 28 - like incense before you.

Growing up in the Methodist tradition, then attending a Pentecostal youth group in high school, I did not have much exposure to sung liturgy. I attended Catholic Mass occasionally when family friends were visiting, but I preferred the more relate-able contemporary worship. Then in college attending mass, hearing the words of the Eucharist sung in Catholic Mass suddenly communion was full of a deeper power and mystery. As the priest sung, "Let us proclaim the mystery of faith," I felt a beauty beyond language--as he sang those notes, I felt the mystery of which he sung.

As an adult working in Anglican, Lutheran and Episcopal congregations I have had many encounters with sung liturgy, even having the opportunity to lead it-- some of these experiences were deep and meaningful, and others fell flat. But I believe there is power in this ancient worship. That singing the same words again and again, and creating new liturgies that are put to melodies, creates a different experience than words that are only written or spoken.

One of my calls in ministry, I think, is to find ways of infusing worship, both contemporary and traditional forms, with presence and meaning. I believe that when we gather for worship as the body of Christ, we are really meant to embody Christ. We are called to be authentically Christ's presence-- mysterious, incarnational, miraculous. Part of this means that our worship should not be boring, but overflowing with passion, love, and life. Too often Christian leaders make the mistake of assuming that contemporary=relevant and traditional=boring. But presence infused worship can take many forms, and I think one of the most beautiful is sung liturgy. I am excited for all that I am learning about this tradition, and anxious to see how I can infuse elements of this tradition into Methodist worship.

As part of our Lenten journey, each Wednesday night at Trinity we gather for a short worship service of evening prayer from published by Holden Village. Over the past several weeks, I've been learning this liturgy in preparation for the worship I led last week. What I love about sung liturgy is the way the melody becomes embedded within you. While I'm doing the daily tasks of writing e-mails, doing dishes, reading, or grocery shopping, suddenly I find myself humming the melody, or silently thinking those words. This silent song becomes a prayer that shrouds my whole day, helping me to have a sense that all I do is prayer, that each moment is a part of the great song of God.

One of the melodies that I have been walking in the past few days is "Let my prayer rise up like incense before you." I love this line from the psalms, and how sensory it becomes when we lift those notes and they seem to rise and rise like incense. Images like this inspire me to infuse more imagery, poetry, songs, art and energy into worship. I dream of creating worship that allows people to feel themselves being lifted into the presence of the Holy in a mystical way.

day 27 - validation.

Tonight, I had a wonderful date night with my sweet husband. We ate dinner and and watched a movie.... and we parked in a garage where we got a little ticket that we had to get validated

and that made me think of this great video that makes me smile every time. I hope it makes you smile too. Happy Friday!

day 26 - infinite yes.

Some days, I am overwhelmed at the beauty of my life, and nothing can express the exuberant praise I feel more fully than the words of e.e. cummings:

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

e.e.cummings

day 25 - eternally restless.

In John O'Donohue's book Beauty: The Invisible Embrace, he describes the ocean in a way I have felt, but never been able to pin down into words. He writes, "Words like 'ocean' and 'sea' are too small for such wild divinity. The ocean is beyond language. Her flow is a beautiful dance. She is eternally restless and delights our eyes with the structured rhythm of waves... With sublime elegance, the ocean approaches and embraces the landscape and each wave has a unique grace... Water stirs something very deep and ancient in the human heart. Our eyes and hearts follow its rhythm as if the flow of water were the mirror where time becomes obliquely visible. The image of water can hold such longing."

I have felt that longing and stirring. The sense of awe, beauty and something else unnameable as I watch the constant dance of waves rolling toward shore. Just looking at the ocean is for me a form of prayer. I especially love O'Donohue describing the sea as "wild divinity" and "eternally restless." This wild restlessness resonates deep in me. So often in the Christian traditions, we imagine God as a place of stillness and light and clouds. But the mysterious movement, depth and dazzling darkness of the ocean speaks intimately of the Divine. I look at that fathomless deep, and I think that God must be something like those stirring waters, and I want nothing more than to be drenched.

day 24 - grimy grace.

Tomorrow night I have the opportunity to help lead our Lenten evening worship. As part of that contemplative worship, I'll be helping to lead the sung liturgy and shape a small reflection time based on last Sunday's gospel lesson. I'm so excited because the lesson for this week is about mud, something I've been thinking a lot about. I love the paradoxical way that Jesus works, using dirt and spit to make someone clean, turning our ideas about what makes a person good or whole or clean upside down.

For me, this healing story has helped me to ask how I am seeing people -- am I seeing with the vision of muddy grace that loves people just as they are, and transforms them with radical acceptance? Or am I blind with my own judgement and expectations? Am I joyfully reaching out with my own muddy hands, or am I so busy trying to keep my own life clean that I don't even notice the people around me?

Jan Richardson from Painted Prayer Book offers up this wise and beautiful poetic reflection:

Lest we think
the blessing
is not
in the dirt.

Lest we think
the blessing
is not
in the earth
beneath our feet.

Lest we think
the blessing
is not
in the dust

like the dust
that God scooped up
at the beginning
and formed
with God’s
two hands
and breathed into
with God’s own
breath.

Lest we think
the blessing
is not
in the spit.

Lest we think
the blessing
is not
in the mud.

Lest we think
the blessing
is not
in the mire,
the grime,
the muck.

Lest we think
that God
cannot reach
deep into the things
of earth,
cannot bring forth
the blessing
that shimmers
within the sludge,
cannot anoint us
with a tender
and grimy grace.

Lest we think
that God
will not use the ground
to create us
once again,
to cleanse us
of our unseeing,
to open our eyes upon
this ordinary
and stunning world.

day 23 - when the chatter stops.

Frederick Franck once wrote, "You can look at thinks while talking or with a radio going full blast, but you can see only when the chatter stops." Don't get me wrong, I love words and music. But there is something about finding quiet that nurtures my soul. When I allow myself a few minutes in the morning to just sit, not looking at my computer, or talking, or watching tv, or checking my phone, but really just hearing the quiet-- it is so still, so unusual, that it is an almost a shocking experience.

My life is full of noise, but lent is a time when I intentionally seek out times and places where the chatter stops. The last few days, I've gotten back into the habit of writing morning pages (a practice borrowed from Julia Cameron that you can read about here). Before I begin writing I just take a few minutes to breathe and to notice. I watch the morning light stream into the window, feel the warmth of my mug of tea in my hands, curl my toes under a blanket against the chill of the early morning air. Then I just write. No chatter, just me and my pen and notebook, and the soft sounds of the world waking up.

It is a practice I love, but that I too often let go of for the sake of a few extra minutes in bed before rushing off to class or work. But when I take the time, in truth I feel so much more rested than if I hit the snooze button an extra time. When the chatter stops, we not only see the world and ourselves in new ways, I think we also find God. It is as if God is in that air, that light, speaking in these deep but quiet ways, and when the chatter stops, I finally hear him breathing.

day 22 - injustice.

I recently read this horrifying story about a 14 year old girl in Bangledesh who was violently raped. After her rape she was beaten as punishment for her "adultery." The violence of her rape and beating was so severe that her fragile body was bleeding internally. That bleeding led to her death. As I read it, I felt such rage and heart break that it is difficult to even put into words.

For the most part, this Lenten blog has been made up of my reflections on where I find beauty and where I see God in my daily living. But today, I am haunted by the story of this young girl. I cannot get her picture out of my head. It seems like a further injustice to write small words about art or nature or poetry, when her life was ended so tragically and abruptly. In the end, there was no grace or beauty offered to her.

I share her story because it is one that needs to be told. If part of the Lenten journey is to be called back toward the way of Jesus, then this is also the time to notice how broken our world still is. A time to ask ourselves if we are reaching out with the hands of Christ. A harsh desert journey, when we must open our eyes and look at a tragedy like this one, and ask ourselves the hard questions: how we will work as people of faith to keep this from happening again and again to defenseless people all over the world? How will we stand with those who have no one to shield or shelter them? How we will say over and over that we will not tolerate abuse and injustice? How will we work to heal the broken and protect the defenseless?

I hate that as I form and wrestle with these questions, I have no answers that are enough. I have no idea how to protect other girls in Bangladesh who may face the same fate. It makes me feel helpless and small. But I know I need to tell this story. I need to remind myself and others that this is happening, and that we cannot be silent. I know that this girl's life and death is a call to create safe places in our own communities where the vulnerable can find solace, support and shelter. I know I want to be a part of helping young girls not to be prey to sexual, emotional and physical violence. Her story is a reminder that we have failed and that we are not doing enough. I pray that somehow I will be a voice fighting for people like Hena. I hope against hope that I will have the courage to have a faith that doesn't just reflect about how God makes me feel, but a faith that I live -- a faith that actually saves and protects people. A faith that doesn't allow this to keep happening. A faith that doesn't rest until such violence stops. A faith that will not be silenced.

day 21 - no words.

One of my new favorite things is Story People art. I love how playful they are while still being so full of feeling, depth and meaning. The combination of vibrant colors, whimsical figures and simple story is magical.

One of the art pieces says, "I read once that ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand and Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep and there are no words for that."

As someone who loves language and is constantly reading and writing, I am so often trying to pin things down in words, but when I read this it reminded me of how the people and things we love are beyond language. How it is the feel of a person's hand, the way they smell, their patterns of freckles, and all those tiny indescribable things that make them their particular self that we love. I am so thankful for love beyond words.

day 20 - loving that crazy collage.

One of the guys in my youth group (the awesomely creative Ian Erickson) introduced me to this incredible artist, Swoon. Watching this and seeing her passion, inspired me to reconnect with my own creativity. I've been trying to read and write more, and simply to look for beauty and inspiration everywhere. Too often we lose our artist selves to the business of daily tasks and the stress of every day living. I love the way that art always awakens me to life. Swoon reminds me to see the beauty in the living chaos of the city. She talks about loving the crazy collage, and I can't think of a better metaphor for the magical mess that is life.

day 19 - in this light.

The very rainy month of March is coming to an end, and at last the sun has come out. The whole world seems different in the soft sunlight: awakened and bursting with life. It's as if we are all emerging from the cocoons of winter rains, stretching our newly grown wings for the first time. Days like today make it easy to praise: easy to see God in the joyful fresh faces, and the dewy green of the grass. There seems to be light everywhere, as if it has always beens just beneath the surface of things, waiting to break open the dim. Instead of fighting against the harsh edges of things, we are all softened in this daylight, able to see with the eyes of hope and compassion that we should have been gazing with all along. For at least a brief moment in this spring air, we are able to pause the constant battle to change one another, and just see all this battered beauty, and hold it in our loving gaze.

William Meredith's poem seems written for just this sort of day:

Consequences by William Meredith

ii. of love

People love each other and the light

Of love gilds but doesn’t alter,

People don’t change one another, can scarcely

By taking will and thought add a little

Now and then to their own statures

Which, praise them, they do,

So that here we are in all our sizes

Flooded in the impartial daylight sometimes,

Spotted sometimes in a light we make ourselves,

Human, the beams of attention

Of social animals at their work

Which is loving; and sometimes all dark.

The only correction is

By you of you, by me of me.

People are worth looking at in this light

And if you listen what they are saying is,

Love me sun out there whoever you are,

Chasing me from bed in the morning,

Spooking me all day with shadow,

Surprising me whenever you fall;

Make me conspicuous as I go here,

Spotted by however many beams,

Now light, finally dark. I fear

There is meant to be a lot of darkness,

You hear them say, but every last creature

Is the one it meant to be.

day 18 - play in the mud.

With my Jr. High students at confirmation we talked about Miracles this week. As we discussed about Jesus calming the storm, we made connections to God's redemptive and creative work with water elsewhere in the Bible. From God's spirit hovering over the waters in the first act of creation, to the parting of the red sea, to the story of Jonah being swallowed by a fish, to the new testament images of water turned to wine, baptism and walking on water. In each story, the youth talked about the ways God used water to cleanse, to heal, to reveal, to mystify, and to bring about redemption. Jesus' calling the storm to be calm was not a one time miracle; its a part of this much larger narrative of redemption. Of God speaking over and out of the waters of chaos, to bring grace, wholeness and resurrection.

Father Rick Moley makes a similar observation about the mud in the story of Jesus giving sight to the blind man. He writes, "I can't shake the poetic links to God digging in the dust of the ground in Eden, and giving us his breathe that we might live. God lifted us out of the earth in the Beginning, and Jesus is still in the business of lifting us up. And opening our eyes. And bringing us Life.

And, as the Way of Jesus, it is meant to be our way too. There are a lot of broken lives out there that need picked up. Whole countries of lives, in fact. Japan. Libya. Sudan."

God doesn't use extravagant methods. No magic potions or expensive jewels. Just a little dirt and water. Jesus is unafraid of getting his hands dirty. Because that's the way healing happens: not in pristine, sanitized cathedrals, but in the real organic dirt of people's lives. And I think we are called to do some miracles. We are called to follow Jesus and play in the mud.

day 17 - several lives worth living.

I was flipping through radio stations on my ride home from work last night, and I found myself listening to a man's voice on a public radio station. He describes the lives he imagines he could be happy living. He said he imagined himself being a repair man who fixed the parking meters. He described the joy he would feel walking outside on a sunny day, checking the machines and providing a small and simple need. He also said he imagined being a bread delivery man in the city. He imagined loading the freshly baked bread into the truck in the early hours of the morning, smelling that warm toasty fragrance as he drove through the almost empty streets. The he imagined delivering the loaves to restaurants across the city, and chatting with chefs as they began their prep work the day and started to simmer their stews. He imagined sitting in the almost empty kitchen and drinking a cup of coffee as he and the chefs called each other by their first names and made small talk.

These wonderful imaginings brought to my mind the line from a Mary Oliver poem: "I know several lives worth living." I like the idea of being freed to imagine the particular beauties of your unlived lives, from the most glamorous to the most ordinary.

Here are several lives worth living:

A nanny, wiping away tears, playing games, feeding, clothing and loving the most precious little ones.

A dog walker in the city, leading playful furry friends through the chaos of the streets and the freedom of parks.

A folk singer/songwriter, putting all the beauty into words.

A museum security guard, standing almost imperceptibly among such brilliant creativity.

A baker, combining simple ingredients to create mouthfuls of joy.

A worker in an orchard or at a winery, plucking the fruit from its branch at the brief moment of perfect ripeness.

A teacher in Jr High or High School helping students discover their favorite novel or poem for the first time.

day 16 - breaking the stone, sharing the story.

Tomorrow morning I am preaching from the story of the woman at the well (John 4:5-42) , along with the wilderness story of the moveable well in the dessert (Exodus 17-1-7).

I've been wrestling with Jesus' promise that those who drink of the water will never be thirsty again. I know so many people who are so very thirsty -- and whether or not they have faith seems to have little to do with it. Christian people still hurt, still face loneliness, still struggle, longing and needing good health, love, acceptance, and an endless list of wants. We are thirsty people.

And this woman at the well was no different. She was thirsting. A woman who had been through five marriages, gone through more loss than most people experience in a life-time. She had been discarded, considered used up and therefore of no worth -- tossed aside like trash.

But with this man Jesus, she is seen. Really seen. And counted as a person of value. This short conversation changes everything. In reality her circumstances are the same: her past hasn't disappeared. Her reputation still proceeds her. Whatever prejudice, rejection and isolation she faced before the encounter with Jesus, she will still face afterwards.

But still, she goes away changed because he broke open the stone of her life. With his open ears, his knowing gaze, his few words, Jesus held her story. He held the hurt, the pain, the regret, the fear, the hopes. Holding someone's story is a powerful thing, and for her that was all it took. She didn't need for her life to be fixed. She needed to be seen and heard. It was such a powerful experience, that she told as many people as possible; she shared the story, and allowed them to become a part of it.

When we gather for worship we come to a well of rich stories. Like the early Jewish people drank of the Torah when they had no temple, and nothing else, we come to worship and in the Eucharist we drink of the living Word, drinking from the deep well of a God who forgets no one. We eat of the Living Word -- a Word that isn't just the story of Jesus, but a Living Word that holds within it, all our own stories. Just as he broke through the stone of the life of the woman at the well, the moveable well of Christ breaks through our own stony hearts to quench our deepest thirst: to be seen and heard. Through worship, even in this wilderness of lent, the stony earth of our sin and mistakes is for a moment broken open with possibility, as we hear God's story, and each others stories, and know that in this community we are seen and known. In being known, we are transformed, as we see ourselves as part of the story of God.

day 15 - be a child.

I rode a ferris wheel today and smelled cotton candy. I walked a dog through a happy chaos of tourists, street artists and food vendors. I watched the ocean and laughed with friends.

There are moments, when I think I would give up every book, every class, all the knowledge I've acquired in years of higher education, for just a few minutes of the pleasure of salty sea air and child-like joy.

day 11 - sabbath is good.

On Saturday, I enjoyed a sabbath for the first time in more than two weeks. No work, no class, no place I needed to be. I slept in and awoke to a stormy day, and no reason to get out of my sweatpants. I drank a cup of tea, got caught up on school work, read almost an entire book for fun, read poetry, looked at art, started my sermon, blogged, cooked a real dinner with homemade somosas, did laundry and prepared a sunday school lesson. I prayed and I rested, and I felt like I got so much done with time to spare.

Just that space of one open day, made me realize how important taking a sabbath is. Over the last few months both Kyle and I have had our parents in town for weekends... while seeing family is always a blessing, it is rarely a sabbath. You are out and about -- site-seeing, entertaining, walking or in my case learning to ski (a tale of pain, discouragement and ultimate triumph for another time). All of that is fun. But it is not relaxing.

I feel that for the last month, I've been playing catch-up. When I'm at school, I feel there's some work thing I should be doing. When I'm at work, I'm thinking of all the things I've left undone at school and at home.

So, I am overwhelmingly thankful for a sabbath: a day to just stay inside listening to the rain, getting a few things done, but more importantly just enjoying the act of just sitting and being cozy.

After this weekend, I came to Monday ready. Ready for the wildness of Jr. Highers at confirmation, the sermon and paper writing, the planning, the commuting. All of it. Sabbath makes me into a better, kinder, more patient person. I hope that when I am no longer juggling full-time work and full-time school, I will be better at making time for these kind of days. These sabbaths are the days that allow us to be our best selves, that prepare us for the work ahead, that let us celebrate the life we've lived and the life that is coming. To allow yourself to just be is such a rare and significant gift.

day 10 - the shape of absence.

These lines from a poem by Christina Hutchins cause me to feel sad, wistful, free, warm, regretful, at-home and far-off all at once. All from one simple image of a crumpled pair of jeans... I love when I read something that makes me fall in love with poetry all over again.

Here is the warmth of my stride, left in a heap

on a rug beside the bed, blue jeans shed

in the shapes of my legs. I, too, have held

the shape of an absence.

day 9 - the moveable well.

Next Sunday, I will be preaching on two stories of thirst. The first comes from the exodus narrative as told in Exodus and Numbers, when the people wandered through the dessert, and began to complain of thirst. Miraculously, God provides, spilling fresh clear water from a broken rock:

"From the wilderness of Sin the whole congregation of the Israelites journeyed by stages, as the Lord commanded. They camped at Rephidim, but there was no water for the people to drink. The people quarreled with Moses, and said, “Give us water to drink.” Moses said to them, “Why do you quarrel with me? Why do you test the Lord?" But the people thirsted there for water; and the people complained against Moses and said, “Why did you bring us out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and livestock with thirst?” So Moses cried out to the Lord “What shall I do with this people? They are almost ready to stone me.” The Lord said to Moses, “Go on ahead of the people, and take some of the elders of Israel with you; take in your hand the staff with which you struck the Nile, and go.I will be standing there in front of you on the rock at Horeb. Strike the rock, and water will come out of it, so that the people may drink.” Moses did so, in the sight of the elders of Israel. He called the place Massah and Meribah, because the Israelites quarreled and tested the Lord, saying, “Is the Lord among us or not?” -Exodus 7:1-7

In my art class, we've been talking about how this story is represented in Jewish and early Christian art. The story became such a deep part of the culture when people had no Temple to go to, that it was no longer thought of as a one-time miracle event. Instead, it was a living legend known as the "moveable well." People spoke not of just one rock, but a deep well that followed the people all the way from Sinai to the promised land and never ran dry. This legend became particularly important after the temple fell and the dream of the promised land was fading. It seemed a promise that no matter where they traveled, God would feel their thirst and fill them up with what they needed. They imagined that the springing up of the well occurred every time Moses gathered the people for worship and set up the tabernacle.

So, on the walls in Synagogues the movable well is painted, reminding people that although the Temple has fallen and they are displaced, God's presence is welling up in their worship. That as they read scripture and participate in the liturgy, God is still quenching their thirst. Through worship, they are bathing in the deep spring of life that never runs dry.

I love to think of worship as our moveable well. Each time we gather together, lifting our voices in song and prayer, retelling the story of God, and sharing in the mystery of sacrament, we are breaking open the stone of our lives, letting the river of God rush in once again.

day 8 - the sun.

Is thankful for a day of sunshine, laughter with my youth over coffee, voicing doubts, fears and sadness to my always understanding and compassionate husband, dark chocolate, red wine and Mary Oliver. Sunny days always remind me of my blessings - both big and small.


the sun. By Mary Oliver:

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

day 7 - wonder.

Hagia Sophia is a breath taking worship space originally built under the rule of Justinian in 6th century Constantinople. It is magnificent -- in scale, in craftsmanship, in materials. Even looking at photos you can feel a bit of the sense wonder one would feel standing in this expansive space. The marble floors are wavy like a sea, allowing anyone who enters the chance to be a participant in the Biblical narrative. You are with Peter as he takes those shaky steps across the water toward Christ. You are in the midst of those mysterious moments of creation when the spirit hovers over the waters. Looking up, as the massive dome arches toward heaven, you feel closer to the infinite. Nothing in symmetrical, everything in disorienting, drawing the viewer past a world of understanding, into a mystical experience. As we study these pictures in art, I am reminded of the power of beauty to draw us into the heart of God.

day 6 - sound deep.

In my dance meditation class we join in a practice called "sound deep to the witness of God." In this prayer you choose a partner and sit facing each other. Then a scripture is read. One of the partners closes their eyes and reflects prayerfully on the passage, expressing their prayer through slow intentional embodied movements with each outward breath. These movements can be as small as lifting or raising your arms, folding your hands in prayer, or bowing your head. As the person moves, their partner sits across from them and gazes at them, holding them in prayer.

I cannot describe the deep intimacy and gentle mystical power that I feel doing this activity. When I was the partner doing the prayer movement, I felt so embraced and so cared for as I moved in the safety and comfort of my partner's prayerful gaze. And even more powerful for me was being the one who held the other in watchful prayer. It feels so sacred to be allowed to witness the prayer life of another person. Although I was sitting still, it was as if my soul was moving with hers. While her body moved, I was moved internally. I was so blessed as she bowed and as she reached for God, my heart was also bowing and reaching. It was as if we were praying the same prayer although we exchanged no words.

I want to do this activity again and again and to work to create more of these moments of deep connection with one another. Too often we talk in such general terms about God, and never stop and truly sound deep to the witness of God in each other.

day 5 - i am home.

My schedule the last few weeks has been crazy. Almost every day I am at work and school from 9am until 9 at night. In all the busyness of this semester, it sometimes feels impossible to rest in the presence of God. I am wondering how to find and make time for creativity, reflection or prayer, when to be honest, I come home at the end of the day, all I want to do it lay on the couch and watch tv.

I am still growing in this area, struggling to figure out how to make time for what my body and soul really needs.

One small way that has helped me find stillness in the midst of chaos these last few weeks is the practice of walking mediation. I do this on my to class, or even from the short walk to and from my car. It is a practice in which you count the number of steps you take as you inhale and exhale. As you walk, you become aware of your breathing and of your own presence as your feet find the ground. Then you can begin to pick words to meditate on with each step or breath.

Lately, my meditation is simple. "I have arrived. I am home." So, as I walk, I am aware that I am stepping into just the right moment, the right place on the earth. It brings me a sense of rest, and with each step I feel I am coming into the embrace of the divine.

day 4 - the shelter of each other.

Last night I had the opportunity to go see the Rock and Worship Roadshow at the ARCO arena in Sacramento with my youth. I admit that Christian music can sometimes be cheesy and repetitive, but it can also be so amazingly powerful. Great music speaks to souls in a way that spoken words just can't.

One of my favorite new songs of the night was a song called "Shelter" by Jars of Clay. It's incredibly simple, but I like the idea of having worship songs that express not only our communion with God, but also our communion with one another.

The lyrics go like this:

To all who are looking down
Holding onto hearts still wounded
For those who’ve yet to find it
The places near where love is moving
Cast off the robes you’re wearing
Set aside the names that you’ve been given
May this place of rest
In the fold of your journey
Bind you to hope
You will never walk alone

In the shelter of each other
We will live, we will live
Never walk alone
In the shelter of each other
We will live, we will live
Your arms are all around us

If our hearts are turned to stone
There is hope we know the rocks will cry out
And the tears aren’t ours alone
Let them fall into the hands that hold us
Come away from where you’re hiding
Set aside the lies that you’ve been living
May this place of rest
In the fold of your journey
Bind you to hope
We will never walk alone

In the shelter of each other
We will live, we will live
Never walk alone
In the shelter of each other
We will live, we will live
Your arms are all around us

Here's the video of Jars of Clay talking about it:

day 3 - where is god?

Yesterday, one of my Jr. High youth at our after school coffee house hours said that he thinks that God exists, but also that God more or less gave up on earth and humanity for the time being and left. He explained that he still believes that God watches over us, but that God hasn't really worked miracles or acted on earth in the last few thousand years. This led to a really powerful discussion about how God acts in the world, the truth of the Bible, and what makes something a miracle. While one of my youth felt certain that God doesn't work miracles, I left the conversation feeling certain that God is so deeply present in and around us, and that miracles are happening every day.

Here are a few of the ways that I see the Divine moving:

the willingness of young people to wrestle with deep theological questions.

the passion and creativity of the high school students I work with.

the love of my husband.

the enduring symbol of the mark of ashes.

the laughter and imagination of children.

music that awakens my soul.

the peace that comes from the practice of walking meditation.

my talented, loving, supportive, incredible friends.

the communion we share each Sunday through the eucharist.

the amazing young adults who volunteer their time week after week to help with youth ministry.

the way the light looks alive as it dances on the bay.

the work being done by city of refuge, glide, and other inner city ministries.

the power of a poem to transport and transform its reader.

That's just the short list of infinite ways I see God working. I know that during lent, as I continue to pray with others and share this journey that I will find countless miracles to add to this list.

day 2 - praying for transformation.

Too often, my prayers are selfish. I pray to feel closer to God. I pray for personal transformation. About a month ago, I memorized this well-known prayer of St. Francis. Now, I try to pray it at least once a day. As I pray these well-worn words, whispered by the lips of so many others, I try to think of the real places of hatred, darkness and doubt, and ways that I, today, can be an instrument of God's love, light, and hope. These words call me to be something better than I am. Instead, of a prayer for personal transformation, it is a prayer that prays for the courage to transform the world. Each time I speak or write or think these words, no matter how I've fallen short, I am humbled and inspired.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,

Where there is hatred, let me sow love,

Where there is injury, pardon,

Where there is doubt, faith,

Where there is despair, hope,

Where there is darkness, light,

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

to be consoled, as to console,

to be understood, as to understand,

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and in dying that we are born to eternal life.

day 1 - beginning the journey.

This year for the season of lent my goal is to reflect on my blog, and to pray with at least one person each day. On Wednesday, this first day of Lent, I had the opportunity to pray one-on-one with my Senior Pastor and later in the day I prayed with one of the amazing young adults at my church (Rachel Lambros). Both of these prayer times reminded me of the intimacy and power of sitting with another person and lifting up a few small words to God. For me it is one of the deepest forms of communion.

As I begin Lent, I feel excited for an opportunity to intentionally make space in my life for God to speak and move. I'm hoping that by carving out time and space for prayer and reflection, I will be more aware of the Divine call that is whispering beauty and hope all around us.

A few days ago, one of my professors shared a story about her daughter that I think describes the power and purpose of lent perfectly. My professor comes from a UCC background and didn't raise her daughter in a very liturgically oriented church, so as a young girl of 8 or 9, her daughter didn't have any familiarity with lent. Around that time she visited a different church with a friend where she learned for the first time about Lent. She was enthralled with this new idea. Ash Wednesday that year fell just a few days before the little girl's birthday. Early on that Wednesday morning, she jumped on her parents bed, giggling and shouting, "It's here! It's finally here!" Her mom, with eyes barely open, sleepily said, "No, honey, your birthday is still 2 days away. It's not here yet." But the little girl smiled radiantly, and answered, "No, Mom, not my birthday. Today is Ash Wednesday! Starting today we have 40 days to do good things for God."

So, starting today, we have 40 days to do good things for God. What could be more exciting than that?

through your eyes.

"You are here so that God can experience the world through your eyes. See what you see. Feel what you feel. Everyday He can't wait to see what you'll do. What makes you laugh. What moves you. He can't wait. Everyday through you, He falls in love with the world all over again."

-John Hindman

words.

I love this idea from Vintage Indie to cover a file cabinet with the pages of an old dictionary. I'm currently looking around my apartment and wondering what I should cover in words. This could be dangerous.

"It's the words that sing, they soar and descend . . . I bow to them . . . I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down . . . I love words so much . . . The unexpected ones . . . The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop . . . Vowels I love . . . They glitter like colored stones, they leap like silver fish, they are foam, thread, metal, dew . . . I run after certain words . . . They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poem . . . I catch them in midflight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives . . . And I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them, I let them go . . . I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves . . . Everything exists in the word." -Pablo Neruda

the face of God.

I had the opportunity to attend a half-day spiritual retreat this morning led by the amazing Joellynn Monahan. She introduced me to Soul Cards (learn more about Soul Cards and the artist who produces them here). They are small cards with images on them and serve as wonderful tool for spiritual reflection. The process is simple: gaze into an image and take time to notice what is there and how it speaks to you. It was a powerful experience of reflection and connecting with God.

Below is my reflection on the image to the right.

The eyes of this face, look intently out and upwards, though I know not at what. The face is beyond description: without gender or race. It seems to be one with the stony surface. The colors are muddied grays and browns - like clay or rock. But there seems to be color beneath, just barely breaking through the gray. This is no dull stone you know. There is light in the rock, burning through with pure joy. The smile curls into a grin, smiling through the darkened fish. The smile suggests that this face has a secret -- or a multitude of them -- which the face dares you to guess, though will never tell.

The darkened, translucent fish, swims with another. Both of them float in the waveless rock sea together in the same direction. Above them floats another fish, swimming confidently the opposite way, alone. Just above that singular fish break waves of light, which cast a glowing crown upon that knowing face. The light steadily shines, though its source is indiscernible. Does it shine down from some unimaginable heaven above? Or is the mysterious being with the unrelenting gaze radiate the light from within? Or perhaps it is the fish's light -- an outward expression of inner beauty, an outpouring of soul. Around the face is shadow, suggesting depth and darkness. But the eyes gaze on, fearlessly, peering out from the deep.

What this image means, I cannot say for certain. Except to say that I know this face. It is kind and constant, and suggests something of Divinity. I want to stay with it here, floating in the mysterious shadowy waters of rock. I want to be the fish that floats in his light. I want to dance in that glowing crown. I want to fearlessly swim in a new direction. I've been so weary of swimming, so weighted with this heavy clay, I've nearly forgotten that these waters are full of light. It has at moments seemed so dark, so rocky, that I've hardly moved forward at all -- I flail and push and paddle in vain. The waves of granite feel to heavy to bear.

But all the while, the face of God has been with me. Those kind eyes, looking into me and through me, that mouth speaking words of life, into my weary body. "Look up," the divine whispers in silent words, grinning. "Look up and see the light. These waters are not stone. Swim freely here. The dark is mystery, not doom. Just turn around, don't be afraid to swim a different direction. Swim in the light of my freedom, never forgetting, I am as present with you in the darkest deep, as I am in the flecks of golden light."

Your glowing eyes, O God, see me. In them, you behold every fear and doubt. Every stubborn habit, every weary bone. In your gaze, you hold even the moments when I've given up swimming all together, floating limp and broken in the still water. You look and look, as if you cannot get enough of me. That look of love, ever patient, urges me forward. I look up and expect to see wounded disappointment in your eyes, but there is none. You smile with love. Looking fully. This look I know can only mean acceptance. You seem to know something I can't even begin to imagine. Some great possibility and hope that I can only guess at.

Your look seems to say, "I know you. I know what you can do. I know what worlds you will create, share and live in. Swim on, lovely girl. Let go of those stones you think you carry. Swim on, in the freedom of my love."

God's glowing face brings new life to these murky waters. We swim on, and the face of the Divine looks and looks, and never tires of looking us into being.

a new map.

I just wanted to share this amazing poem by Jan Richardson from her blog Painted Prayerbook. For me, reading it was a renewed invitation to experience the mystery and adventure that is the Life of God. It pulled me back into the miracle of the journey of faith that I too often take for granted.

Where the Map Begins

This is not
any map you know.
Forget longitude.
Forget latitude.
Do not think
of distances
or of plotting
the most direct route.
Astrolabe, sextant, compass:
these will not help you here.

This is the map
that begins with a star.
This is the chart
that starts with fire,
with blazing,
with an ancient light
that has outlasted
generations, empires,
cultures, wars.

Look starward once,
then look away.
Close your eyes
and see how the map
begins to blossom
behind your lids,
how it constellates,
its lines stretching out
from where you stand.

You cannot see it all,
cannot divine the way
it will turn and spiral,
cannot perceive how
the road you walk
will lead you finally inside,
through the labyrinth
of your own heart
and belly
and lungs.

But step out,
and you will know
what the wise who traveled
this path before you
knew:
the treasure in this map
is buried not at journey’s end
but at its beginning.