Self-Incrimination

Sometimes, I have a hard time being in church. I especially have a hard time when I’m feeling pretty good about myself, and the sermon strikes a nerve. It’s worse, when not only the sermon, but the responsive readings pick at the ugly little scabs on my soul.

This past Sunday, I hated being in church.

“Didn’t you preach this past Sunday?”

Yes, I’m afraid I did.  I remember carefully selecting all the elements of worship. Like these words I found for the Invitation to worship:

One: Help us to remember that we cannot receive all that you offer to us if our hearts are filled with thoughts and feelings that are not from you.

Many: So, take away self-righteousness, remove criticism, scrape away every wrong thought, every resentment, and everything that separates us from one another because these things also separate us from you.

They sounded to me like the words people needed to hear at the time. But even as I read them with the congregation, they chafed against my own feelings.

Then, as I listened to the lesson from the Hebrew Scriptures, again, words I chose for worship, I was stung by:

 "Don't seek revenge or carry a grudge against any of your people. “ (Leviticus 19:18)

But, of course, I argued, they aren’t words meant for me. So why did they discomfort me so?

The truth is, sometimes, the one for whom God means the message to target is standing at the front of the church in the pulpit speaking the words. So, as God would have it, I was convinced of the need to transform my own thinking. Would it surprise Jesus, that the one delivering the word was also the intended recipient?

Oh, no, not at all. So, I sit with my discomfort, and I pray that I will take that discomfort and turn it into growing pains.

Wearing It Well

I’m visiting New Orleans this week, and a “can’t miss” treat was going to the Camellia Grill on Carrollton Ave. It’s an old restaurant where everyone sits together at the counter that serpentines across the floor.

The servers all wear white jackets and black bowties, as they have since 1946. They exude southern hospitality, greeting customers with a warm smile, a little conversation (if you’re in the mood), and a drinking straw presented with a certain charming flair.

 

Although I’m not a native of New Orleans, the atmosphere was akin to being welcomed home. What was interesting to me was the next morning we decided to check out another location of the Camellia Grill. It’s newer. The food: the same (excellent). The servers wear the signature white jackets and black bowties. But I noticed that, except for one, the servers seemed to “wear” their uniform differently. They seemed to hang loosely with bowties askew. And while our server was pleasant enough, he seemed to miss the little details. The place just was not as “homey” as the original. 

It was not a difference in the ages of the servers, either. Most were young men, black and white. But the way the men on Carrollton Avenue wore their uniforms expressed a certain care, a graciousness that offered welcome. 

It strikes me that how we carry ourselves, how we wear our faith, has a lot to do with our hospitality to others. When we wear the garments of God’s love, grace and mercy as if they were made for us, we extend that love, grace and mercy to others with authenticity. We may share a belief in the same God with many, but unless we offer God’s love as if it is a part of our being, the world may not see that we are inviting them into relationship with us and with God.

Let’s wear the love of God that all who meet us may feel that they have been welcomed home.

Free Hugs in Sondrio, Italy

Would it surprise Jesus if we gave away hugs so readily? Jesus often used touch to provide healing, offer forgiveness, and demonstrate compassion. In Luke's account of the Prodigal Son, the father does not scold his errant son, does not say: "I told you so." Rather, he runs to him and throws his arms around him.

In this world that has become so faceless, where cyberspace bullying drives young people to turn anger inward on themselves, we would be well-advised to reclaim personal contact. Today, look someone in the eyes, with compassion, and offer them a simple, respectful touch. Hugs are free; their value is priceless.

Good Intentions

                A dear friend and clergy colleague uses the word “intentions” rather than “resolutions”
to name the areas where she wants to better herself at the beginning of the year. Resolution does have a lot of guilt attached to it if we lose our resolve. Intentions are what we hope to do, perhaps will even strive to do. But the word seems to allow us to forgive ourselves when we falter or simply fall flat.

             Just nineteen days into the New Year, and my list of intentions has evaporated into one item: returning to a healthy eating pattern by keeping track of what I eat on the Weight Watchers website. I am doing pretty well, and my occasional overindulgences have not yet led to a complete surrender to old habits.

What has helped the most in keeping up this one “good intention” has been a decision to cut myself some slack. I am, after all, only human, and I will not be perfect.

God understands that we human beings will not be perfect. We will not always treat our neighbor as we would like to be treated. We will not always treat ourselves as God’s beloved children. We will repeat gossip; we will be annoyed with the slow-moving cashier; we will say an unkind word to our significant other or our children; we will not find time to connect with God. We will do all those things, and the God who loves us unconditionally will say: “I forgive you. I love you. You are my beloved and with you I am well pleased.”

And tomorrow, perhaps, we will write another list of intentions. And God will smile and say: “Well done, good and faithful servant. With you I am well-pleased.”

 

Risky Business

"The Problem We All Live With: A painting of Ruby Bridges" by Norman Rockwell depicts the six-year-old going to school at Walter Frantz Public School in New Orleans in 1960. During her first year at school, Ruby was in a class of one, the first African-American child to attend that school under federal-court-ordered desegregation. She went alone because most white parents kept their children out of school that year.

In my town in North Carolina, I would not go to class with black students until I was in the seventh grade, 1968. A long hard fought battle, and sometimes we think that discrimination and segregation is over.

Would it surprise Jesus to know that in many places in the land of the free, while schools have become desegregated, that many churches in America are still closed to others not like us?

We are struggling to accept others - black, white, Asian, Native American, gay, lesbian, transgendered, bisexual. We even struggle to allow our children to worship with us. We make it difficult for those who were the pillars of our churches worship because we are slow to change our accommodations so that they can come into our sanctuaries and manage to sit for an hour.

All the while we celebrate a Jesus who called to himself children, outcasts, the sick, the different. People who did not share his upbringing, his national heritage, his language. Would it surprise Jesus that we still have trouble recognizing our neighbor?

On Sunday, a young parishioner stood in the pulpit to talk about God's extravagant welcome to all persons, regardless of sexual orientation or gender identity. He is not the brash preacher from outside the community. He has a lot to lose, some may say. Yet he called his family, friends and neighbors to care, and to say out loud all are welcome here.

What may have surprised my friend is that his words did not fall on deaf ears. Rather, a conversation began. One person expressed joy at his words during our time of prayer. The church gathered, following worship, and stayed together to listen, for a moment, to each other's stories.

He took the risk of calling us to care, to love, and we responded, joyfully.

Christmas Sundaes

It’s Christmas morning and my husband and I have just had our Christmas breakfast of ice cream sundaes. That’s right, ice cream sundaes. I don’t know that this would surprise Jesus, though I’m certain it may surprise you as readers.

Years ago, during my first marriage, we had begun a tradition of having a “junk food extravaganza” on Christmas Eve. It has stuck with my daughter and I and has been passed on to my current wonderful husband. He chose to add the sundaes to this year’s festivities.

Of course, while a meal of junk food sounds wonderful, our eyes are almost always bigger than our stomachs. So, we decided to breakfast on sundaes.

Why is it that Christmas is for most of us, pastors included, a day of conspicuous consumption? The Christmas event belies the festival of consumerism we have corrupted it into.

The story begins with scandal. A teenaged girl, betrothed to another man, is pregnant. Her story: she has been overshadowed by the Holy Spirit and conceived a child from God.

Joseph, her betrothed, had every right to present her with a bill of divorce and to have her stoned for adultery. In Matthew’s gospel, Joseph receives a visitation from the angel and is convinced to raise the child as his own.

What is striking to me is God’s choice to enter the world as a child of scandal, a bastard to put it bluntly. Yet it is this very decision that bears witness to the fact that God loves each of us, the very least, the despised, the unloved, the fatherless.

What if we chose today to celebrate the coming of Christ into the world by loving those we have chosen to despise? Wouldn’t that surprise Jesus? Wouldn’t that honor God?

Holy Thursday

On the third Thursday of each month, I go to a small nursing home in the area and celebrate worship with the residents there. It has always been an enlivening experience for me. It is also interesting in that I am a woman ordained in the United Church of Christ, and many of my Thursday "parishioners" are Catholic.

We do not celebrate the Eucharist. That is done for them on Sundays. But I read scripture, offer a brief meditation on the piece, and then we sing.

The joy for me is that the residents seem to look forward to my visit. I usually hang out with them for a bit afterward.

But back to Holy Thursday. As this is a once a month service, I realized I could have brought an Easter message. That would be uplifting and life-affirming. But it seemed to me that we can only come to Easter by first traveling through the Last Supper with his disciples and standing at the foot of the cross.

I read John's account of Jesus's washing the disciples' feet.

And then, I asked permission to wash the hands of the people. Most of the hands were gnarled, and affected by arthritis. But all responded with tenderness to this small thing.

It was a sacred moment. Nearly everyone closed their eyes when I washed their hands in my bowl. And everyone whispered thank you.

One of the women who works there said, "But no one has washed your hands. May I?"

Each of us met Jesus that day. For a brief moment, the Christ in each of us spoke to the heart.

What would surprise Jesus in this? I think for him, there are no surprises. Jesus knew the power of touching. And he calls us to share that with each other.