He is risen.
He is risen, indeed.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Saturday, April 4, 2015
It’s Foolishness
by: Bob Henderson
I Cor. 1:18-25
A number of years ago I ventured out to see the play Shadowlands by William Nicholson. It’s about C.S. Lewis’ relationship with Joy Davidson, one of his avid followers. They became friends, as up to that point Lewis was a life-long confirmed bachelor. He married Davidson in order to satisfy immigration regulations, as a favor, although they remained merely friends. Then Joy Davidson became ill and that’s when Lewis realized he was in love. So he married her a second time, this time in the hospital. They had a short time together and then her cancer returned and she died.
In the play he asks: “If God loves us, why does He allow us to suffer so much? ...What possible point can there be to such tragedy? Isn’t God supposed to be good?”
A clergy friend tries to comfort Lewis. “We have to have faith that God knows.” Lewis responds, “God knows. Yes, God knows. I don’t doubt that. But does God care? Did God care about Joy?”
It’s the ultimate human question. Does God care about us and our loved ones? Is God invested in what happens to us as we journey through this world or are we ultimately on our own? This question is particularly poignant in light of suffering. It seems like you can’t think about suffering without thinking about God, and God’s relationship to suffering. Does God cause it, allow it, use it, or endure it like we do? Does God care? Does God exist?
And it is precisely at this point—this poignantly human plea to be known, cared for, to be shown some mercy and kindness -- that the Gospel of Jesus Christ makes a provocative assertion—about God and about us. “We proclaim Christ crucified,” Paul put it.
In his letter to the church in Corinth, Paul almost playfully describes it as foolishness, unapologetic about the crucified Christ’s contrast to the many sophist alternatives of his day. The Greek culture in which Paul and the early Christian church lived had no objection to the notion of monotheism. Plato taught that goodness was one—that there was one absolute good, one god. The Greeks rather liked the idea. Their philosophers reasoned that if god was one, god must be perfect. God must need nothing. God must want nothing. It’s very logical. There is even a word for it in Greek—apatheia—from which we get the word apathy. It means the absolute, metaphysical perfection of God.
But Paul said, “We preach Christ crucified,” utter foolishness to Greek thinkers who want a god of perfection, a god who transcends human life, its messiness, its pain and suffering, and also its passion and ecstasy.
“For the message about the cross is foolishness . . . a stumbling block. . . .but God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.” Christian faith is about a God who is not perfect in the Greek philosophic sense of the word, but a God who has wants and desires, a God who laughs and weeps, who rejoices and grieves, a God capable of anger and remorse and profound love, a God who, because of love, suffers.
So when we talk about suffering and God, we begin with this God, a God who experiences suffering for the sake of love; a God who is vulnerable; a God, who in every way, became one of us; a God who did not count equality with God as something to be used to his own advantage but taking on human form suffered and loved like every other human.
Christian faith makes the radical proposal that the goal of life is not to protect ourselves from suffering, but to make ourselves vulnerable, to expose ourselves to suffering for the sake of love. The goal is not, that is to say, to save our lives, but to find some way to give them away. The claim is that the cross is more than a symbol of tragedy but, because it is God’s own son on the cross, it is supremely, mysteriously, but profoundly a symbol of love.
Foolishness—God’s love—wiser than human wisdom—weakness stronger than human strength.
A number of years ago I ventured out to see the play Shadowlands by William Nicholson. It’s about C.S. Lewis’ relationship with Joy Davidson, one of his avid followers. They became friends, as up to that point Lewis was a life-long confirmed bachelor. He married Davidson in order to satisfy immigration regulations, as a favor, although they remained merely friends. Then Joy Davidson became ill and that’s when Lewis realized he was in love. So he married her a second time, this time in the hospital. They had a short time together and then her cancer returned and she died.
In the play he asks: “If God loves us, why does He allow us to suffer so much? ...What possible point can there be to such tragedy? Isn’t God supposed to be good?”
A clergy friend tries to comfort Lewis. “We have to have faith that God knows.” Lewis responds, “God knows. Yes, God knows. I don’t doubt that. But does God care? Did God care about Joy?”
It’s the ultimate human question. Does God care about us and our loved ones? Is God invested in what happens to us as we journey through this world or are we ultimately on our own? This question is particularly poignant in light of suffering. It seems like you can’t think about suffering without thinking about God, and God’s relationship to suffering. Does God cause it, allow it, use it, or endure it like we do? Does God care? Does God exist?
And it is precisely at this point—this poignantly human plea to be known, cared for, to be shown some mercy and kindness -- that the Gospel of Jesus Christ makes a provocative assertion—about God and about us. “We proclaim Christ crucified,” Paul put it.
In his letter to the church in Corinth, Paul almost playfully describes it as foolishness, unapologetic about the crucified Christ’s contrast to the many sophist alternatives of his day. The Greek culture in which Paul and the early Christian church lived had no objection to the notion of monotheism. Plato taught that goodness was one—that there was one absolute good, one god. The Greeks rather liked the idea. Their philosophers reasoned that if god was one, god must be perfect. God must need nothing. God must want nothing. It’s very logical. There is even a word for it in Greek—apatheia—from which we get the word apathy. It means the absolute, metaphysical perfection of God.
But Paul said, “We preach Christ crucified,” utter foolishness to Greek thinkers who want a god of perfection, a god who transcends human life, its messiness, its pain and suffering, and also its passion and ecstasy.
“For the message about the cross is foolishness . . . a stumbling block. . . .but God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.” Christian faith is about a God who is not perfect in the Greek philosophic sense of the word, but a God who has wants and desires, a God who laughs and weeps, who rejoices and grieves, a God capable of anger and remorse and profound love, a God who, because of love, suffers.
So when we talk about suffering and God, we begin with this God, a God who experiences suffering for the sake of love; a God who is vulnerable; a God, who in every way, became one of us; a God who did not count equality with God as something to be used to his own advantage but taking on human form suffered and loved like every other human.
Christian faith makes the radical proposal that the goal of life is not to protect ourselves from suffering, but to make ourselves vulnerable, to expose ourselves to suffering for the sake of love. The goal is not, that is to say, to save our lives, but to find some way to give them away. The claim is that the cross is more than a symbol of tragedy but, because it is God’s own son on the cross, it is supremely, mysteriously, but profoundly a symbol of love.
Foolishness—God’s love—wiser than human wisdom—weakness stronger than human strength.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Life Goes On
by: Julia TenBroeck
“For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Jesus our Lord.”- Romans 8: 38-39
I was at the kitchen sink the day before Easter last year, wondering if we should have followed through with plans to go to the mountains, when the phone rang with a strange number. It was a friend of one of my best friends, Susan. “Is this Julia? Susan’s husband took his life this morning. She found him a few hours ago. Are you in the mountains? Susan said she thought you were out of town, but I thought we should call anyway.” No, we didn’t end up going to the mountains. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.
Oh that day. We all hung on and cried into the bleakness of those hours that would not end. We tried to answer the why question and couldn’t. I knew God was with us, abiding with us in the darkness. I almost didn’t want Him to be. I didn’t want to be reminded of our vulnerability - of mortality. If this could happen to a friend, what could happen to me? I pray for a shield around those I love, and doubt God when bad things happen - A very simplistic faith that my mind struggles to elevate. Yet in the end, it’s never my mind that brings me back to God.
Some of us like to move through difficult periods as quickly as possible. Move towards the light, always. We forget that if we are only searching for the light, we are unlikely to sense God in the darkness. And if we don’t want to sense Him in the darkness… He is there anyway. David wrote "…Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there…If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light will become night around me,” even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is light to you.” -Psalm 139: 7-8, 11-12
I had to rest through my fears, knowing God was with me even if I wanted to shut Him out - Trusting that He would still be there when I was ready. Interestingly, many hymns are written as us singing to God. But there is one in which God sings to us. How Firm a Foundation, written by Robert Keen. …The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, I will not, I cannot desert to His foes. That soul though all hell should endeavor to shake, I’ll never, no never, no never forsake! We hold God’s spirit inside us as a promise that there is more than what we hear, smell, see. The substance of God never changes. The form through which we experience Him does change, along with our circumstances. We might experience Him breathing us through a bottomless grief. We might experience Him in the faces of family and friends at a table of celebration. But we have His promise that He is with us. His love is unchanging, despite the limitations of our human perceptions.
I think of last Easter through the words of John Donne, a 17th century poet. Death be Not Proud. Isn’t that it? Watching Susan approach her days with hope and resolve showed me that life goes on. What a beautiful cliché. We go along with it too, and some days our fears can regress and we can face the sun. Life goes on - God’s great gift to us.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Memory
by: Jessica Patchett
The older I get (and, I know, I’m not very old), the more I value memory. I can remember a time when things were different than they are now. I can remember people who aren’t around anymore. I’ve visited countries that have preserved the relics of people and times that no one has seen for millennia.
On a recent trip, a guide introduced me to an elderly farmer and fisherman, whom, my guide said, was famous among his neighbors. They could remember when he and his father had engineered a way to catch, clean, and preserve enormous sharks during a famine that had threatened to starve them all.
This fisherman had inherited a large family farm and a shoreline that welcomed the miraculously measured tides of the ocean. In the shadow of a steep, green mountain, the farmer’s home was a treasure. But, the elderly man said that the most valuable thing he inherited was not the lush farmland or ocean-front property, but the little chapel that sat in a lonely field, where sheep safely grazed. When his father gave him full ownership of the farm, he also gave him full responsibility for ensuring that the land where the chapel sat continued to serve as sacred ground as long as he was alive and into the next generation.
The farmer said that the little white chapel was an active church – a parish of four, he said – me, my wife, my son, and my dog. A few times a year, a priest visits. On occasion, the farmer allows tourists to return to the chapel and be married there. Many visit and are amazed by what they find inside, and I am no exception, but that’s another story for another time. The foundation and some things in the chapel are relics of the 1600’s. The farmer claims there has been a Christian church on that site for more like 1000 years, when the people of Iceland were first exposed to the Christian faith and told the stories of Jesus.
Inside the chapel, the farmer stood in front of the communion table and interpreted what he saw in the painting that hung above it. I couldn’t understand the words he was saying, but his actions told a story I knew well.
He took bread and broke it. He took a pitcher and poured glasses. He motioned to the people around him, ‘Eat. Drink. All of you’. They ate and drank. And then, their eyes were opened and they recognized him.
Then, the farmer said, in English, ‘The gospel of Jesus’. And I said, ‘Amen. Thank you for continuing to tell the story ’. The farmer replied (and I listened, with my guide translating), ‘The story is what makes this place sacred. It is why people come here and say, ‘God’s presence is in this place’. It is why they remember this place and want to return’.
Through centuries, in seasons of struggle and hope, people have remembered and retold this story and their eyes have been open to God’s very presence among them. May it be so for us as well.
The older I get (and, I know, I’m not very old), the more I value memory. I can remember a time when things were different than they are now. I can remember people who aren’t around anymore. I’ve visited countries that have preserved the relics of people and times that no one has seen for millennia.
On a recent trip, a guide introduced me to an elderly farmer and fisherman, whom, my guide said, was famous among his neighbors. They could remember when he and his father had engineered a way to catch, clean, and preserve enormous sharks during a famine that had threatened to starve them all.
This fisherman had inherited a large family farm and a shoreline that welcomed the miraculously measured tides of the ocean. In the shadow of a steep, green mountain, the farmer’s home was a treasure. But, the elderly man said that the most valuable thing he inherited was not the lush farmland or ocean-front property, but the little chapel that sat in a lonely field, where sheep safely grazed. When his father gave him full ownership of the farm, he also gave him full responsibility for ensuring that the land where the chapel sat continued to serve as sacred ground as long as he was alive and into the next generation.
The farmer said that the little white chapel was an active church – a parish of four, he said – me, my wife, my son, and my dog. A few times a year, a priest visits. On occasion, the farmer allows tourists to return to the chapel and be married there. Many visit and are amazed by what they find inside, and I am no exception, but that’s another story for another time. The foundation and some things in the chapel are relics of the 1600’s. The farmer claims there has been a Christian church on that site for more like 1000 years, when the people of Iceland were first exposed to the Christian faith and told the stories of Jesus.
Inside the chapel, the farmer stood in front of the communion table and interpreted what he saw in the painting that hung above it. I couldn’t understand the words he was saying, but his actions told a story I knew well.
He took bread and broke it. He took a pitcher and poured glasses. He motioned to the people around him, ‘Eat. Drink. All of you’. They ate and drank. And then, their eyes were opened and they recognized him.
Then, the farmer said, in English, ‘The gospel of Jesus’. And I said, ‘Amen. Thank you for continuing to tell the story ’. The farmer replied (and I listened, with my guide translating), ‘The story is what makes this place sacred. It is why people come here and say, ‘God’s presence is in this place’. It is why they remember this place and want to return’.
Through centuries, in seasons of struggle and hope, people have remembered and retold this story and their eyes have been open to God’s very presence among them. May it be so for us as well.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Beholden to Her
by: Maddie Segal, Volunteer Coordinator at Friendship Trays
I was asked by Jessica to describe a most spiritual experience for me at a meeting of "none's." This was my story:
On the way to pick up my husband’s dry cleaning one day, I took a back road through a neighborhood. On this street I saw a dog eating what looks to be someones McDonald’s wrapper, in the middle of the road. I got out of my car, in order to shoo the dog out of the road so she wouldn't get hit. It was at this time that I could see up close that this poor girl was in horrible condition. Her nipples hung low from years of being someone’s breeding dog. Her skin had mange so bad there were huge sores covering her skinny/malnourished body; the only part on her that still had hair was her face and her upper shoulders where she couldn't scratch herself. She wore a dirty collar with what looked like a broken chain on it. She cowered low and just laid in the road when I approached. There was no way I was going to try to find her owner to return her, because I considered the amount of neglect this dog was shown to be outright abuse. I called Animal Control and the Humane Society. They were both closed to the public so I brought her home till I could figure out what to do with her.
My neighbor is a vet so I had him come over to take a look at her. He scanned her and walked her a little, listened to her heart and felt her stomach and chest area. He informed me that she had huge tumors in her nipples which were 90% sure to be cancerous considering the rest of her condition, she had the worst mange and flea problem he had ever seen, and she had end-stage heart-worms, which means she would die in weeks from something similar to congestive heart failure (you could hear her wheeze after taking only a few steps). He also showed me her teeth and revealed the fact that they had been worn almost down to the gum. He then told me, “there are only two reasons a dog would have teeth like this. Reason one, trying to chew off of the chain that she probably had been chained to for her entire life. And two from, eating rocks out of starvation.” He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m sorry. This dog is going to die very soon. Her best fate at this point would be getting put to sleep in a cozy room with nice people patting her.”
I asked my neighbor if I could take her to his office and pay him to do the humane thing and put her down. He said that would be illegal, as she is not my dog. He is only legally allowed to tell me to send her to Animal Control in the morning, but for the time being do NOT allow her near my other dogs for fear that she may have something they can catch.
So I did the only thing I could do. I bathed her. It was one of the most spiritual feelings I have ever felt. The look on her face as I put her in warm water with a mild soap and carefully ridded the fleas from her body was one of pure gratefulness. My dogs hate the bath, but this dog, you could tell, was enjoying EVERY second. She closed her eyes and pointed her head up to the ceiling. You could tell that she had never been touched like this by a human before.
After her bath I took her down to our basement and gave her warm bedding, fresh water, and food. “Only little bits of food at the time,” said the vet, “because you feed your dogs good food. It is too rich for her. She hasn't eaten probably in days. She will vomit.” He was right. She threw up each time she ate. But I kept giving her little bits and cleaning it up. It was a joy to watch her eat. And the bedding. My gosh. She kept laying in it then getting up and looking at me, as if to say, “for me? for real? a bed?”
I couldn't leave her down in the dark basement alone and she kept scratching. So I went and got some ointment for sores and went and sat in the bed with her. She curled up and put her head in my lap while I rubbed the cream all over her. At that moment I began to cry, knowing that tomorrow I was taking this girl to Animal Control, and ultimately to her death. But I felt such a strong spiritual connection to this little creature, all while she was drinking in every second of love that I could give her. It was gratitude on a level that I have never seen before. But I am the one who is beholden to her, for giving me those beautiful hours.
She is dead now. Animal control put her down immediately after the 3 day obligatory waiting period (time for owners to claim lost pets). Their diagnosis was the same as my vet’s. Weeks to live, then a painful death. I didn’t do much for that animal, but I did all I could do. I suffered with her, but not in the same way as her. I wish I could have taken on more of her suffering. I really do.
On the way to pick up my husband’s dry cleaning one day, I took a back road through a neighborhood. On this street I saw a dog eating what looks to be someones McDonald’s wrapper, in the middle of the road. I got out of my car, in order to shoo the dog out of the road so she wouldn't get hit. It was at this time that I could see up close that this poor girl was in horrible condition. Her nipples hung low from years of being someone’s breeding dog. Her skin had mange so bad there were huge sores covering her skinny/malnourished body; the only part on her that still had hair was her face and her upper shoulders where she couldn't scratch herself. She wore a dirty collar with what looked like a broken chain on it. She cowered low and just laid in the road when I approached. There was no way I was going to try to find her owner to return her, because I considered the amount of neglect this dog was shown to be outright abuse. I called Animal Control and the Humane Society. They were both closed to the public so I brought her home till I could figure out what to do with her.
My neighbor is a vet so I had him come over to take a look at her. He scanned her and walked her a little, listened to her heart and felt her stomach and chest area. He informed me that she had huge tumors in her nipples which were 90% sure to be cancerous considering the rest of her condition, she had the worst mange and flea problem he had ever seen, and she had end-stage heart-worms, which means she would die in weeks from something similar to congestive heart failure (you could hear her wheeze after taking only a few steps). He also showed me her teeth and revealed the fact that they had been worn almost down to the gum. He then told me, “there are only two reasons a dog would have teeth like this. Reason one, trying to chew off of the chain that she probably had been chained to for her entire life. And two from, eating rocks out of starvation.” He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m sorry. This dog is going to die very soon. Her best fate at this point would be getting put to sleep in a cozy room with nice people patting her.”
I asked my neighbor if I could take her to his office and pay him to do the humane thing and put her down. He said that would be illegal, as she is not my dog. He is only legally allowed to tell me to send her to Animal Control in the morning, but for the time being do NOT allow her near my other dogs for fear that she may have something they can catch.
So I did the only thing I could do. I bathed her. It was one of the most spiritual feelings I have ever felt. The look on her face as I put her in warm water with a mild soap and carefully ridded the fleas from her body was one of pure gratefulness. My dogs hate the bath, but this dog, you could tell, was enjoying EVERY second. She closed her eyes and pointed her head up to the ceiling. You could tell that she had never been touched like this by a human before.
After her bath I took her down to our basement and gave her warm bedding, fresh water, and food. “Only little bits of food at the time,” said the vet, “because you feed your dogs good food. It is too rich for her. She hasn't eaten probably in days. She will vomit.” He was right. She threw up each time she ate. But I kept giving her little bits and cleaning it up. It was a joy to watch her eat. And the bedding. My gosh. She kept laying in it then getting up and looking at me, as if to say, “for me? for real? a bed?”
I couldn't leave her down in the dark basement alone and she kept scratching. So I went and got some ointment for sores and went and sat in the bed with her. She curled up and put her head in my lap while I rubbed the cream all over her. At that moment I began to cry, knowing that tomorrow I was taking this girl to Animal Control, and ultimately to her death. But I felt such a strong spiritual connection to this little creature, all while she was drinking in every second of love that I could give her. It was gratitude on a level that I have never seen before. But I am the one who is beholden to her, for giving me those beautiful hours.
She is dead now. Animal control put her down immediately after the 3 day obligatory waiting period (time for owners to claim lost pets). Their diagnosis was the same as my vet’s. Weeks to live, then a painful death. I didn’t do much for that animal, but I did all I could do. I suffered with her, but not in the same way as her. I wish I could have taken on more of her suffering. I really do.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Searching for Peace
by: A Covenant Member
As we are in the season of Lent, I contemplate on the possibility of world peace. I wonder how I would feel if this could become a reality. It didn’t take me long to realize that there are too many factors to comprehend, (including a variety of cultures, languages, religions, and economies in the world), that prevent or prohibit the possibility of world peace. Wouldn’t it be great if world peace were a possibility? We wouldn’t have to be concerned about terrorists or wars, as we do today. If world peace were a possibility, would we then have a perfect society or would we get bored with world peace? This problem is best left for the United Nations, whose purpose includes “building lasting peace in war-torn societies, conflict prevention, and laying the foundations for sustainable peace and development (United Nations Global Issues).”
We may not have the answers necessary for world peace, but we can begin by searching for inner peace; then, peace in our communities, and peace in our nation. Wikipedia defines peace as tranquility, calm, quiet, order, and freedom from fear and violence. Inner peace is defined as a state of being mentally and spiritually at peace, with enough knowledge and understanding to keep oneself strong in the face of discord or stress. Mahatma Gandhi once said “Nobody can hurt me without my permission.”
From “HuffPost Healthy Living,” (February 20, 2015), Laurie Seymour made the following suggestions for gaining inner peace: allow time for uninterrupted silence (dedicate some time with yourself each day); notice what tone you use with others when speaking; notice how your body feels in different situations throughout the day; if your day does not seem effortless, determine what was in the way; pay attention to random thoughts (Ask questions about what you notice); and finally, “Use writing as a way of dialoging with your inner self . Ask questions, write down the answers and read them aloud. Do the answers feel true? If not, begin again. Relaxation is the key.”
From the article, “Find Inner Peace in 10 Ways,” the following suggestions were made:
Peace in our communities There are several suggestions or recommendations for generating peace in our communities. They include engaging in productive conversations with others, in order to build understanding and connections between people with diverse perspectives. I recall an article I read in which someone named Morgan stated that “Only when humans learn to live in harmony with their environment and each other that the principles of nonviolence can be activated in a very real way. In such an environment, killing becomes unthinkable,
Peace in our country From YouTube, listen to Frank Stallone’s rendition of “Peace in our Life.” It includes these words: “The strength of our nation belongs to us all.” The key factors for creating peace on the national level, as identified by Pillars of Peace (Understanding the Key Attitudes and Institutions That Underpin Peaceful Societies) are: A well functioning government, sound business environment, equitable distribution of resources, acceptance of the rights of others, good relations with neighbors, free flow of information, high levels of human capital, and low levels of corruption.
One popular biblical scripture on peace include the following: John 14:27-“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” In contrast, Craig Patterson expresses his feelings about peace this way: “co-existence or no existence.” Another point of view by Maikul Aurelius is this: “People are never content with peace. They demand more and more until there is no more; then, they fight over something else.”
Chris Maser summarizes peace best for me by stating: “Peace is an inner state that can be reflected outwardly. As communities become more peaceful, cities and states become more peaceful. As cities and states become more peaceful, nations become more peaceful. It all begins with our search for inner peace, one person at a time. It is wise, therefore, to be mindful that the kind of world our children inherit will depend on the thoughts we entertain and the actions we commit, both secretly and publicly, in the process of living our everyday lives.”
As we are in the season of Lent, I contemplate on the possibility of world peace. I wonder how I would feel if this could become a reality. It didn’t take me long to realize that there are too many factors to comprehend, (including a variety of cultures, languages, religions, and economies in the world), that prevent or prohibit the possibility of world peace. Wouldn’t it be great if world peace were a possibility? We wouldn’t have to be concerned about terrorists or wars, as we do today. If world peace were a possibility, would we then have a perfect society or would we get bored with world peace? This problem is best left for the United Nations, whose purpose includes “building lasting peace in war-torn societies, conflict prevention, and laying the foundations for sustainable peace and development (United Nations Global Issues).”
We may not have the answers necessary for world peace, but we can begin by searching for inner peace; then, peace in our communities, and peace in our nation. Wikipedia defines peace as tranquility, calm, quiet, order, and freedom from fear and violence. Inner peace is defined as a state of being mentally and spiritually at peace, with enough knowledge and understanding to keep oneself strong in the face of discord or stress. Mahatma Gandhi once said “Nobody can hurt me without my permission.”
From “HuffPost Healthy Living,” (February 20, 2015), Laurie Seymour made the following suggestions for gaining inner peace: allow time for uninterrupted silence (dedicate some time with yourself each day); notice what tone you use with others when speaking; notice how your body feels in different situations throughout the day; if your day does not seem effortless, determine what was in the way; pay attention to random thoughts (Ask questions about what you notice); and finally, “Use writing as a way of dialoging with your inner self . Ask questions, write down the answers and read them aloud. Do the answers feel true? If not, begin again. Relaxation is the key.”
From the article, “Find Inner Peace in 10 Ways,” the following suggestions were made:
- Accept what is - There is only so much we can affect. Start accepting what you cannot change;
- Meditate - It can help you find peace;
- Spend time in Nature - Just enjoy the sights, the sounds and the peace;
- Learn the power of a smile - Peace finds itself more easily when you smile;
- Think outwardly - Look beyond your own problems;
- Care about others - There is peace and wisdom in thinking and caring about other people;
- Never lose hope - With hope, you always have a path towards peace;
- Embrace your beliefs - Be within your faith 100%, and peace will find its way into your heart;
- Keep learning - Accept that life is one big journey of never-ending learning, and you will find yourself closer to experiencing true peace within yourself.; and
- Live in the present moment - Stop thinking about the past and any potential future. Another way we can begin to search for inner peace is by listening to uplifting stories. These types of stories inspire positive action, and reminds us that we are not struggling alone.
Peace in our communities There are several suggestions or recommendations for generating peace in our communities. They include engaging in productive conversations with others, in order to build understanding and connections between people with diverse perspectives. I recall an article I read in which someone named Morgan stated that “Only when humans learn to live in harmony with their environment and each other that the principles of nonviolence can be activated in a very real way. In such an environment, killing becomes unthinkable,
Peace in our country From YouTube, listen to Frank Stallone’s rendition of “Peace in our Life.” It includes these words: “The strength of our nation belongs to us all.” The key factors for creating peace on the national level, as identified by Pillars of Peace (Understanding the Key Attitudes and Institutions That Underpin Peaceful Societies) are: A well functioning government, sound business environment, equitable distribution of resources, acceptance of the rights of others, good relations with neighbors, free flow of information, high levels of human capital, and low levels of corruption.
One popular biblical scripture on peace include the following: John 14:27-“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” In contrast, Craig Patterson expresses his feelings about peace this way: “co-existence or no existence.” Another point of view by Maikul Aurelius is this: “People are never content with peace. They demand more and more until there is no more; then, they fight over something else.”
Chris Maser summarizes peace best for me by stating: “Peace is an inner state that can be reflected outwardly. As communities become more peaceful, cities and states become more peaceful. As cities and states become more peaceful, nations become more peaceful. It all begins with our search for inner peace, one person at a time. It is wise, therefore, to be mindful that the kind of world our children inherit will depend on the thoughts we entertain and the actions we commit, both secretly and publicly, in the process of living our everyday lives.”
Monday, March 30, 2015
Dad, We Made It Didn’t We?
by: Robert B. Taylor, Jr. (Father of Covenant member Joe Taylor)
My wife Becky and I learned Bobby was gay when he was a freshman in college. It was a devastating time for us. Like all parents, we wanted the best for our children. The world I knew was not going to be easy for my son. Bobby knew this, too, but that fact could not alter his sexuality. He did not have a decision to make about being gay. I prayed daily for God to change Bobby, to “cure” him of his homosexuality.
There is no question in my mind or his mother’s, that Bobby was gay from birth, though we did not discuss it. I don’t know why we didn’t. Discussing prayers with our partners is healthy for our faith. It provides a sounding board to help understand prayers that don’t seem to be answered rather than run the risk of seemingly unanswered prayers compromising our faith. Ironically, faith doesn’t seem to be “most important” when life is moving smoothly, however it is the difference in how we move through the difficult times and how we appreciate the high times. Faith gives a dimension to our lives that simply can’t be achieved without it.
Bobby left home after college to live in New York where he felt he would find acceptance. Over time, God helped me to realize it was I, not Bobby, who needed to change. Bobby had much to feel good about. My ignorance prevented me from providing him with the emotional support he needed, I was too focused on his homosexuality. I am thankful Bobby never gave up on me and that God allowed me to understand my prejudice and not be blinded by it.
Bobby tested positive for the HIV virus in 1988. At the time, testing positive for HIV was mostly a death sentence. My prayers changed overnight. I still asked God to “cure” Bobby, but my perspective and focus now were on Bobby’s health, not his homosexuality. This allowed me to see the rest of my son’s life more fully.
He was a Deacon in at his Presbyterian Church. Through his Church he helped start the Manhattan Center for Living, a program that tended to the non-medical needs of those suffering life-threatening illnesses. Along with others, he founded Miracle House, a residential facility providing affordable housing for families visiting their ill loved ones in New York City. I could see that Bobby was enjoying his work and life. He was a contributing person of value to those around him.
In early 1996 Bobby developed an associated cancer in his lungs and began chemotherapy, which eventually took a toll on his already compromised immune system. His health declined and I prayed with even more determination though I still had not put Bobby fully in God’s hands.
Eventually, I knew I had to give my son’s health fully over to God, and mean it. It was a rather simple prayer, “God, take care of Bobby and let him feel your presence and your love”, but oh how hard it was to say. I knew God had the power to make him well, how tempting it was to make that my prayer. All my instincts told me to fight God for my son’s life. Yet somehow I knew I had to leave that to God; so I did, and I asked God to help my family deal with whatever we faced. I don’t think I could have done this without my deep love for my son and my faith in God’s love. If God loved Bobby, and I knew that He did, then I didn’t have to worry about him or his health.
Our family spent most of our time with him as he continued to be in and out of the hospital. Eventually, together with his doctor, he decided to discontinue medication. Bobby’s doctor promised not to let him suffer. He did this though, in a way that attempted to take this out of God’s hands. God stepped in! From that point on, this was very much God’s show! We would see and feel God’s arms around all of us in the days ahead.
Bobby spent another four weeks in the hospital before flying home to North Carolina in August, 1996. He was alert and interested in all around him. He interacted with friends and associates and we shared more memories that I will treasure forever. Even in his illness he had a presence about him in the way he talked to people and thanked them. He made them feel special and let them know he appreciated them. It was very sincere. I had never taken note of this in my son before and it made me proud. This could not have happened if God had not intervened in my son’s care.
A former minister of ours wrote us after Bobby’s death and said “God understands.” Bobby was gay, but being gay was not what Bobby was about. He was about enjoying the life God gave him, seeking God’s will for him, and trying to use the opportunities that he saw to make a difference where he could, really no different than what we all would like to be about. God’s answer to my prayer was clear. “This is my child and I love him. I want you to see him as I do, and I will give you time to do so as I prepare him to come live with me.” That was a meaningful time for our entire family. A gift from God that gave us a more full understanding and underlined the memories of the life of a precious son and brother.
The night before he died, Bobby, out of the blue, said, “Dad, we made it didn’t we?” “Yes, we did,” I replied. “I loved you enough to hang in there with you.” Then he said something that took me completely by surprise. Here I was taking the credit for “hanging in there.” Bobby held up a finger, looked me in the eye, and said, “And I loved you enough not to run.”
What a gift he had given me, what a gift God had given us.
GOD’S GREATEST GIFT IS THE GIFT OF LOVE!
My wife Becky and I learned Bobby was gay when he was a freshman in college. It was a devastating time for us. Like all parents, we wanted the best for our children. The world I knew was not going to be easy for my son. Bobby knew this, too, but that fact could not alter his sexuality. He did not have a decision to make about being gay. I prayed daily for God to change Bobby, to “cure” him of his homosexuality.
There is no question in my mind or his mother’s, that Bobby was gay from birth, though we did not discuss it. I don’t know why we didn’t. Discussing prayers with our partners is healthy for our faith. It provides a sounding board to help understand prayers that don’t seem to be answered rather than run the risk of seemingly unanswered prayers compromising our faith. Ironically, faith doesn’t seem to be “most important” when life is moving smoothly, however it is the difference in how we move through the difficult times and how we appreciate the high times. Faith gives a dimension to our lives that simply can’t be achieved without it.
Bobby left home after college to live in New York where he felt he would find acceptance. Over time, God helped me to realize it was I, not Bobby, who needed to change. Bobby had much to feel good about. My ignorance prevented me from providing him with the emotional support he needed, I was too focused on his homosexuality. I am thankful Bobby never gave up on me and that God allowed me to understand my prejudice and not be blinded by it.
Bobby tested positive for the HIV virus in 1988. At the time, testing positive for HIV was mostly a death sentence. My prayers changed overnight. I still asked God to “cure” Bobby, but my perspective and focus now were on Bobby’s health, not his homosexuality. This allowed me to see the rest of my son’s life more fully.
He was a Deacon in at his Presbyterian Church. Through his Church he helped start the Manhattan Center for Living, a program that tended to the non-medical needs of those suffering life-threatening illnesses. Along with others, he founded Miracle House, a residential facility providing affordable housing for families visiting their ill loved ones in New York City. I could see that Bobby was enjoying his work and life. He was a contributing person of value to those around him.
In early 1996 Bobby developed an associated cancer in his lungs and began chemotherapy, which eventually took a toll on his already compromised immune system. His health declined and I prayed with even more determination though I still had not put Bobby fully in God’s hands.
Eventually, I knew I had to give my son’s health fully over to God, and mean it. It was a rather simple prayer, “God, take care of Bobby and let him feel your presence and your love”, but oh how hard it was to say. I knew God had the power to make him well, how tempting it was to make that my prayer. All my instincts told me to fight God for my son’s life. Yet somehow I knew I had to leave that to God; so I did, and I asked God to help my family deal with whatever we faced. I don’t think I could have done this without my deep love for my son and my faith in God’s love. If God loved Bobby, and I knew that He did, then I didn’t have to worry about him or his health.
Our family spent most of our time with him as he continued to be in and out of the hospital. Eventually, together with his doctor, he decided to discontinue medication. Bobby’s doctor promised not to let him suffer. He did this though, in a way that attempted to take this out of God’s hands. God stepped in! From that point on, this was very much God’s show! We would see and feel God’s arms around all of us in the days ahead.
Bobby spent another four weeks in the hospital before flying home to North Carolina in August, 1996. He was alert and interested in all around him. He interacted with friends and associates and we shared more memories that I will treasure forever. Even in his illness he had a presence about him in the way he talked to people and thanked them. He made them feel special and let them know he appreciated them. It was very sincere. I had never taken note of this in my son before and it made me proud. This could not have happened if God had not intervened in my son’s care.
A former minister of ours wrote us after Bobby’s death and said “God understands.” Bobby was gay, but being gay was not what Bobby was about. He was about enjoying the life God gave him, seeking God’s will for him, and trying to use the opportunities that he saw to make a difference where he could, really no different than what we all would like to be about. God’s answer to my prayer was clear. “This is my child and I love him. I want you to see him as I do, and I will give you time to do so as I prepare him to come live with me.” That was a meaningful time for our entire family. A gift from God that gave us a more full understanding and underlined the memories of the life of a precious son and brother.
The night before he died, Bobby, out of the blue, said, “Dad, we made it didn’t we?” “Yes, we did,” I replied. “I loved you enough to hang in there with you.” Then he said something that took me completely by surprise. Here I was taking the credit for “hanging in there.” Bobby held up a finger, looked me in the eye, and said, “And I loved you enough not to run.”
What a gift he had given me, what a gift God had given us.
GOD’S GREATEST GIFT IS THE GIFT OF LOVE!
Sunday, March 29, 2015
For Suffering
by: John O’Donohue in To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings, 2008
May you be blessed in the holy names of those
Who, without you knowing it,
Help to carry and lighten your path.
May you know serenity
When you are called
To enter the house of suffering.
May a window of light always surprise you.
May you be granted to wisdom
To avoid false resistance;
When suffering knocks on the door of your life;
May you glimpse its eventual gifts.
May you be able to receive the fruits of suffering.
May memory bless and protect you
With the hard-earned light of past travail;
To remind you that you have survived before
And though the darkness now is deep,
You will soon see approaching light.
May the grace of time heal your wounds.
May you know that though the storm might rage,
Not a hair on your head will be harmed.
Something to Ponder: Who might help you carry the load when it gets too heavy? How might you reach out for this help?
May you be blessed in the holy names of those
Who, without you knowing it,
Help to carry and lighten your path.
May you know serenity
When you are called
To enter the house of suffering.
May a window of light always surprise you.
May you be granted to wisdom
To avoid false resistance;
When suffering knocks on the door of your life;
May you glimpse its eventual gifts.
May you be able to receive the fruits of suffering.
May memory bless and protect you
With the hard-earned light of past travail;
To remind you that you have survived before
And though the darkness now is deep,
You will soon see approaching light.
May the grace of time heal your wounds.
May you know that though the storm might rage,
Not a hair on your head will be harmed.
Something to Ponder: Who might help you carry the load when it gets too heavy? How might you reach out for this help?
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Finding Hope Because of God - The Gift of Christ
by: Martha Matthews
In past year and a half, I have lost the ability to do many things that I took for granted and never in my wildest dreams expected to lose. I can no longer walk, garden, swim, take care of my house and dog, cook and fix food for myself, bathe and dress myself, do the laundry, visit friends’ homes, drive a car, make art, draw, sew, weave, paint, or sleep in my own bed. I have Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, or ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. There is no cure or treatment. I will gradually become paralyzed and lose the ability to speak, swallow and breathe. It has been a time of great struggle on many levels and will continue to be until I die.
But the most amazing thing has happened. God is with me!
Jesus struggled as we all do but more so because he carried the burden of all our sins. He faced His human aspects--temptations, possible failure of his mission, physical frailty --as he faced what God had sent him to do. But he was the Son of God sent in human form with a divine mission. He died on the cross for all our sins so that we may be forgiven and have everlasting life with God.
Every Sunday we ask for forgiveness and every Sunday, without fail, we are assured that we are forgiven. Forgiveness and salvation- this is the Good News that Christ’s life and death on the cross has given to us all. It is the bedrock of our faith. It is an incredibly huge gift given to us by grace alone. Often we fear we are not worthy and turn our backs on this gift but it is there for us with no conditions or strings attached. When I was told I had ALS I fully accepted this gift. I am amazed every day to have God with me, surrounding me, holding me up, helping me cope with the ever increasing bad news of my body’s demise.
Letting go and giving up control is really hard but I have had no choice. Yet God is there for me even in the moments when I emotionally fall apart. He surrounds me with his love and his hands reach out and hold me up.
It totally blows me away!
Often his hands are old friends, new friends and strangers who come to help me. His grace is in the sunshine streaming through my windows, the view of the trees and my untended garden filled with Lenten roses and, when I can get there, sitting in the sanctuary at Covenant surrounded by my church friends. But most of all it is the assurance that death will be a release into his everlasting love and grace, into the arms of God.
I have no fear of death “even as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” Actually I fear more what I must go through in this life than I fear dying. I pray every day that He will remain with me and give me peace and grace as I go on this hard journey.
I have heard the promise and the promise is Easter. It is there for all of us.
But the most amazing thing has happened. God is with me!
Jesus struggled as we all do but more so because he carried the burden of all our sins. He faced His human aspects--temptations, possible failure of his mission, physical frailty --as he faced what God had sent him to do. But he was the Son of God sent in human form with a divine mission. He died on the cross for all our sins so that we may be forgiven and have everlasting life with God.
Every Sunday we ask for forgiveness and every Sunday, without fail, we are assured that we are forgiven. Forgiveness and salvation- this is the Good News that Christ’s life and death on the cross has given to us all. It is the bedrock of our faith. It is an incredibly huge gift given to us by grace alone. Often we fear we are not worthy and turn our backs on this gift but it is there for us with no conditions or strings attached. When I was told I had ALS I fully accepted this gift. I am amazed every day to have God with me, surrounding me, holding me up, helping me cope with the ever increasing bad news of my body’s demise.
Letting go and giving up control is really hard but I have had no choice. Yet God is there for me even in the moments when I emotionally fall apart. He surrounds me with his love and his hands reach out and hold me up.
It totally blows me away!
Often his hands are old friends, new friends and strangers who come to help me. His grace is in the sunshine streaming through my windows, the view of the trees and my untended garden filled with Lenten roses and, when I can get there, sitting in the sanctuary at Covenant surrounded by my church friends. But most of all it is the assurance that death will be a release into his everlasting love and grace, into the arms of God.
I have no fear of death “even as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” Actually I fear more what I must go through in this life than I fear dying. I pray every day that He will remain with me and give me peace and grace as I go on this hard journey.
I have heard the promise and the promise is Easter. It is there for all of us.
Friday, March 27, 2015
Teresa's Song
by: Myra Clark; Executive Director of Center for Community Transitions
“One year to the day before I came here my mother died. I was not allowed to go to her funeral, it was in Virginia. Now my grandfather has also died. Two of the most important people in my life, I couldn’t be with my family when my mother died, I know I can’t be there now too.” Teresa said to me.
What kept Teresa from mourning with her family? What kept her away from being able to process her loss, and have closure at the funeral? These two major losses occurred during Teresa’s incarceration. When she was released in September of last year, she was not able to leave the state. Her mother was buried in Virginia. It took a great deal of resolve on her part not to go, but once she was given permission the first thing she did was to lay flowers on her mother’s grave.
I have heard similar words many times over the 28 years I have worked with the Center for Community Transitions’ Center for Women. I always thought this would be the hardest part of being incarcerated, not being with a loved one when they are terminally ill, being able to grieve for them surrounded by loved ones.
Incarceration is difficult, and one of the hardest things about it is missing those key moments in the life of the families left behind: the graduations, weddings, illnesses and burials that bind families together. It is at times like these that prayer circles form and the women come together to support each other and lift their families in prayer.
Prison and jail are places where people reach out to God, when life seems at its lowest point. Jan Thompson, former director of inmate programs in the Mecklenburg County jail, used to say “people find God in jail; unfortunately they leave him there when they get out.” I know that happens a lot. But I have witnessed many times when that did not happen. Many of the women at the Center where I work have found a faith home and family. The women are permitted to go out with volunteers weekly and 75% of the passes I approve are to attend a house of worship. Once they are released they continue to get their spiritual needs met with the faith family they found while in prison.
Teresa has a strong faith. She loves music and has written over 600 songs. At the last two Spring Fling events for the Center, she and her sister residents performed two of her songs. Her music is uplifting and grounded in her faith and her experiences in life. One of her songs, “I Just Want To Thank You” is one of my favorites about God’s love and Teresa’s love for her grandmother.
Lent is a time of reflection and discernment. What can be done for people who find themselves incarcerated and cut-off from their families? Are they lost and forgotten? Or will we welcome them back to our community as our brothers and sisters in Christ. Jesus said that “…when you visited those in prison, you did it unto me.” And lest we forget, Jesus was a prisoner before he died for our sins, and rose on the third day giving us who believe, life everlasting.
What kept Teresa from mourning with her family? What kept her away from being able to process her loss, and have closure at the funeral? These two major losses occurred during Teresa’s incarceration. When she was released in September of last year, she was not able to leave the state. Her mother was buried in Virginia. It took a great deal of resolve on her part not to go, but once she was given permission the first thing she did was to lay flowers on her mother’s grave.
I have heard similar words many times over the 28 years I have worked with the Center for Community Transitions’ Center for Women. I always thought this would be the hardest part of being incarcerated, not being with a loved one when they are terminally ill, being able to grieve for them surrounded by loved ones.
Incarceration is difficult, and one of the hardest things about it is missing those key moments in the life of the families left behind: the graduations, weddings, illnesses and burials that bind families together. It is at times like these that prayer circles form and the women come together to support each other and lift their families in prayer.
Prison and jail are places where people reach out to God, when life seems at its lowest point. Jan Thompson, former director of inmate programs in the Mecklenburg County jail, used to say “people find God in jail; unfortunately they leave him there when they get out.” I know that happens a lot. But I have witnessed many times when that did not happen. Many of the women at the Center where I work have found a faith home and family. The women are permitted to go out with volunteers weekly and 75% of the passes I approve are to attend a house of worship. Once they are released they continue to get their spiritual needs met with the faith family they found while in prison.
Teresa has a strong faith. She loves music and has written over 600 songs. At the last two Spring Fling events for the Center, she and her sister residents performed two of her songs. Her music is uplifting and grounded in her faith and her experiences in life. One of her songs, “I Just Want To Thank You” is one of my favorites about God’s love and Teresa’s love for her grandmother.
Lent is a time of reflection and discernment. What can be done for people who find themselves incarcerated and cut-off from their families? Are they lost and forgotten? Or will we welcome them back to our community as our brothers and sisters in Christ. Jesus said that “…when you visited those in prison, you did it unto me.” And lest we forget, Jesus was a prisoner before he died for our sins, and rose on the third day giving us who believe, life everlasting.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Jesus in our Midst
by: Petra Wahnefried
I remember the first time I saw Jesus – I was seven. You had to be eight to attend overnight camp, but my mom had lied about my age to get me in. As one of two working parents, she had to figure out ways to juggle kids during the summer and bending the truth was part of her plan. As I packed by bag, excited for the week, my mom gave me a tutorial about how to lie about my age. I still laugh about the fact that I lied in order to get into church camp, but isn’t Jesus always showing up at those moments when we are most human?
On the third day of camp we went on “The Great Adventure,” which was a renowned camp activity. In short, the camp van drove our group just over a mile off of camp property and dropped us off with canteens, one compass and the hope that you would get back before dark. It was then our goal to head due north through a dense forest with no trails in order to get back to camp. It was a lesson in orienteering and teamwork.
Each camper took turns in front, holding the compass and forging the way through thorns, tangled vines and twisted trees. We were about halfway back to camp when the Brandon, the camper who was leading the pack, stepped on an underground beehive. A swarm of bees shot out of the ground, angered and ready to kill the perpetrator. We were all terrified, and took off running in all directions hoping to get to safety. But as I ran, I glanced over my shoulder and saw a scene I will never forget.
Sarah, my camp counselor, pushed Brandon quickly off of the nest and instructed him to run. But instead of running herself, she stepped into the place where he had been standing. The bees stung Sarah rather than chasing after Brandon or any one of us. Since the bees found their victim close by, we were given time to escape. Only 2 campers got stung, one time a piece. Sarah stayed there until we had all gotten far enough away, and then stumbled to the nearest clearing. We later found out that she had been stung 38 times.
Falling to the ground, Sarah’s eyes rolled back in her head and we immediately started putting together an emergency plan. Luckily, we found a house nearby that had a phone which we could use. Within an hour, Sarah was in the hospital and our group was back at camp. She would return to our group after a night in the hospital, and we would forever remember her as the person who saved us from bee stings.
I am sure this is still a story that Sarah tells around kitchen tables and at cocktail parties, but I don’t think she knows how important this moment was in my faith. This is when I first saw Jesus present on earth – when selflessness was personified, and sacrifice embodied. When I think of Jesus headed to the cross, I cannot get the image out of my head of my camp counselor who stood on a bee hive just so we could escape. I hope one day that somebody can say a similar thing when they glance over their shoulder and get glimpses of the way I live my life.
On the third day of camp we went on “The Great Adventure,” which was a renowned camp activity. In short, the camp van drove our group just over a mile off of camp property and dropped us off with canteens, one compass and the hope that you would get back before dark. It was then our goal to head due north through a dense forest with no trails in order to get back to camp. It was a lesson in orienteering and teamwork.
Each camper took turns in front, holding the compass and forging the way through thorns, tangled vines and twisted trees. We were about halfway back to camp when the Brandon, the camper who was leading the pack, stepped on an underground beehive. A swarm of bees shot out of the ground, angered and ready to kill the perpetrator. We were all terrified, and took off running in all directions hoping to get to safety. But as I ran, I glanced over my shoulder and saw a scene I will never forget.
Sarah, my camp counselor, pushed Brandon quickly off of the nest and instructed him to run. But instead of running herself, she stepped into the place where he had been standing. The bees stung Sarah rather than chasing after Brandon or any one of us. Since the bees found their victim close by, we were given time to escape. Only 2 campers got stung, one time a piece. Sarah stayed there until we had all gotten far enough away, and then stumbled to the nearest clearing. We later found out that she had been stung 38 times.
Falling to the ground, Sarah’s eyes rolled back in her head and we immediately started putting together an emergency plan. Luckily, we found a house nearby that had a phone which we could use. Within an hour, Sarah was in the hospital and our group was back at camp. She would return to our group after a night in the hospital, and we would forever remember her as the person who saved us from bee stings.
I am sure this is still a story that Sarah tells around kitchen tables and at cocktail parties, but I don’t think she knows how important this moment was in my faith. This is when I first saw Jesus present on earth – when selflessness was personified, and sacrifice embodied. When I think of Jesus headed to the cross, I cannot get the image out of my head of my camp counselor who stood on a bee hive just so we could escape. I hope one day that somebody can say a similar thing when they glance over their shoulder and get glimpses of the way I live my life.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
In Struggle, Hope
by: Earle D Roberts
This struggle went on for four years, and had parallel streams.
In June 1983, the 'northern' and 'southern' Presbyterian Churches voted to reunite and become the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), with celebratory sessions in Atlanta and simultaneous Communion Services across the nation connected by a television network.
Then came the struggle. What about the synods and presbyteries? Those existing were very different in size and boundaries, with a lot of geographical overlap; with great disparity in membership numbers (approx.1 to 16 in NC, one group African-American, the other 99% white). All facets focused attention on North Carolina--how would they become a united Presbyterian Church at the local level? In the mysteries of providence I had leadership roles in both streams of the struggle.
We were neighbors that did not know one another. When we came together in various groupings, we learned our differences--not just in size but in the way we conducted programs and administration. At first, learning about each other was about all that was accomplished, important, but only a beginning. Any discussion of new boundaries and organization was nowhere in sight.
Consultations of synods, of presbyteries, of synods and presbyteries; meetings of planning committees, of steering committees, of existing councils. Every participant coming from a particular constituency with traditions and programs and long-standing relationships, and specific history (sometimes with scars). We did not always hear one another. At times there was some unwillingness to consider any alternative, any difference from the comfortable familiar. There was security in past patterns, and insistence on maintaining that security in any new structure. And there were personalities, and personal preferences strongly held.
Often it was difficult to see progress. Each big meeting would reach some agreement, but mostly concerning the wording of a document. Looking for something more than tidying up what had been, looking for a reaching-forward proposal, hoping for discussion of possibilities--anyone with such thoughts was lonesome and disappointed for months and months. But surely these responsible church leaders recognized the importance of the task they had to pursue; surely the inflexible sides would open up to others and to coming together. It surely would happen.
I was not disturbed by the time it took for progress to be realized. Fortunately my congregation was very patient with the amount of time I had to devote to these activities. It was the slowness of progress in discussions and negotiations toward accomplishing our tasks that was the source of disappointment, but not despair. The scripture that was always in my head and heart was Isaiah 26.3: "Those of steadfast mind you keep in peace--in peace because they trust in you." Trust in the Lord. The promised peace is not 'no cares, no worries'; it is the calm confidence of the steadfast love of God in our lives and in the church of Jesus Christ. Trusting in the Lord to lead the people of faith. And that is hope.
P.S. We eventually came to harmonious agreements, and new synods and presbyteries were approved in June 1987.
This struggle went on for four years, and had parallel streams.
In June 1983, the 'northern' and 'southern' Presbyterian Churches voted to reunite and become the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), with celebratory sessions in Atlanta and simultaneous Communion Services across the nation connected by a television network.
Then came the struggle. What about the synods and presbyteries? Those existing were very different in size and boundaries, with a lot of geographical overlap; with great disparity in membership numbers (approx.1 to 16 in NC, one group African-American, the other 99% white). All facets focused attention on North Carolina--how would they become a united Presbyterian Church at the local level? In the mysteries of providence I had leadership roles in both streams of the struggle.
We were neighbors that did not know one another. When we came together in various groupings, we learned our differences--not just in size but in the way we conducted programs and administration. At first, learning about each other was about all that was accomplished, important, but only a beginning. Any discussion of new boundaries and organization was nowhere in sight.
Consultations of synods, of presbyteries, of synods and presbyteries; meetings of planning committees, of steering committees, of existing councils. Every participant coming from a particular constituency with traditions and programs and long-standing relationships, and specific history (sometimes with scars). We did not always hear one another. At times there was some unwillingness to consider any alternative, any difference from the comfortable familiar. There was security in past patterns, and insistence on maintaining that security in any new structure. And there were personalities, and personal preferences strongly held.
Often it was difficult to see progress. Each big meeting would reach some agreement, but mostly concerning the wording of a document. Looking for something more than tidying up what had been, looking for a reaching-forward proposal, hoping for discussion of possibilities--anyone with such thoughts was lonesome and disappointed for months and months. But surely these responsible church leaders recognized the importance of the task they had to pursue; surely the inflexible sides would open up to others and to coming together. It surely would happen.
I was not disturbed by the time it took for progress to be realized. Fortunately my congregation was very patient with the amount of time I had to devote to these activities. It was the slowness of progress in discussions and negotiations toward accomplishing our tasks that was the source of disappointment, but not despair. The scripture that was always in my head and heart was Isaiah 26.3: "Those of steadfast mind you keep in peace--in peace because they trust in you." Trust in the Lord. The promised peace is not 'no cares, no worries'; it is the calm confidence of the steadfast love of God in our lives and in the church of Jesus Christ. Trusting in the Lord to lead the people of faith. And that is hope.
P.S. We eventually came to harmonious agreements, and new synods and presbyteries were approved in June 1987.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Quiet Chaos
by: Taylor Brookhouse
A Journal Entry from a People in Mission Intern
I’m tired. I’m hungry because it’s been 2 hours since I had breakfast. Man, these kids really need to be quiet. They’re being so disrespectful! These thoughts all run through my head as I work another day as a summer teacher/counselor for underprivileged kids – a job I chose as a People in Mission intern.
“Step back a minute, Taylor,” I remind myself. Look at the complaints, the miniscule things that are preventing you from really seeing these children.
One of my goals or prayers for this summer, at the beginning of this program, was to live in the moment and really allow myself to dig deeper into these kids’ lives to make a difference. And I’m complaining about being hungry.
The day was going along as normal, nothing special, just walking back and forth from the cafeteria to the classroom, doing class activities and calling kids out for talking and being out of their seat.
The afternoon came soon and the kids had some free time, so we put on Space Jam for them to watch and have some time to rest. And it wasn’t until all the kids had fallen asleep in their sleeping bags with their pillows and blankets on the cold, hard floor that all my problems seemed unimportant. All these kids were sleeping so soundly in a room that, to me, felt freezing cold. It smelled like pencil led apple sauce and capri-sun. The movie was loud and there’s no way I would have been able to sleep with all the noise. The light from the partially broken blinds was streaming in from the window and not to mention I was in a strange place. But none of this mattered to these kids. All these kids were fast asleep amongst the noise, the light, the temperature, the small and the unfamiliar surroundings. Maybe the unfamiliar thing was better than what they’re used to. Maybe the familiar smell of urine or the sound of passing cars or parents fighting is the alternative. Within this classroom, all these children are allowed a break from the reality of their situations. They laugh, they learn, and most of all, they sleep.
They sleep in their hour of quiet chaos that constantly surrounds them wherether they go.
I realize now that my time with them here is not to be a teacher. It is not to discipline. It is not to make them stand in a straight line. It is to provide quiet. These kids look to the quiet of my life that they can get a taste of before they get back on the bus to go back to the chaos.
I am the quiet chaos.
I’m tired. I’m hungry because it’s been 2 hours since I had breakfast. Man, these kids really need to be quiet. They’re being so disrespectful! These thoughts all run through my head as I work another day as a summer teacher/counselor for underprivileged kids – a job I chose as a People in Mission intern.
“Step back a minute, Taylor,” I remind myself. Look at the complaints, the miniscule things that are preventing you from really seeing these children.
One of my goals or prayers for this summer, at the beginning of this program, was to live in the moment and really allow myself to dig deeper into these kids’ lives to make a difference. And I’m complaining about being hungry.
The day was going along as normal, nothing special, just walking back and forth from the cafeteria to the classroom, doing class activities and calling kids out for talking and being out of their seat.
The afternoon came soon and the kids had some free time, so we put on Space Jam for them to watch and have some time to rest. And it wasn’t until all the kids had fallen asleep in their sleeping bags with their pillows and blankets on the cold, hard floor that all my problems seemed unimportant. All these kids were sleeping so soundly in a room that, to me, felt freezing cold. It smelled like pencil led apple sauce and capri-sun. The movie was loud and there’s no way I would have been able to sleep with all the noise. The light from the partially broken blinds was streaming in from the window and not to mention I was in a strange place. But none of this mattered to these kids. All these kids were fast asleep amongst the noise, the light, the temperature, the small and the unfamiliar surroundings. Maybe the unfamiliar thing was better than what they’re used to. Maybe the familiar smell of urine or the sound of passing cars or parents fighting is the alternative. Within this classroom, all these children are allowed a break from the reality of their situations. They laugh, they learn, and most of all, they sleep.
They sleep in their hour of quiet chaos that constantly surrounds them wherether they go.
I realize now that my time with them here is not to be a teacher. It is not to discipline. It is not to make them stand in a straight line. It is to provide quiet. These kids look to the quiet of my life that they can get a taste of before they get back on the bus to go back to the chaos.
I am the quiet chaos.
Monday, March 23, 2015
Practicing Resurrection
by: Betsy Lyles
Mark 5:21-43
Resurrection is the word that comes to mind as I read this text. Resurrection also encapsulates the insurmountable distance between struggle and hope. Should we summon Jesus even when a child has already been pronounced dead? Should we expect healing from the mere touch of his robes? What if hope died when the struggle was lost?
So in this season of reflection, and discipline, and practice, as we expect the resurrection it is good to remember that resurrection is more than an Easter expectation. Resurrection is a practice that reminds us that our faith allows struggle and hope to live together. When we expect resurrection even outside of the Easter season, we begin to practice it and remind ourselves that struggle doesn’t exclude hope and that our faith doesn’t promise a tidy resolve or demand that everything work out perfectly the first time. When we expect resurrection we do things so crazy as reaching out for Jesus’s robe in the crowd expecting healing and summoning Jesus to visit the daughter who has already been declared dead. In one of my favorite poems, Wendell Berry offers some resurrection practices. How do you practice resurrection?
Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
Wendell Berry
Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.
Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.
“Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” from The Country of Marriage, copyright © 1973 by Wendell Berry.
Resurrection is the word that comes to mind as I read this text. Resurrection also encapsulates the insurmountable distance between struggle and hope. Should we summon Jesus even when a child has already been pronounced dead? Should we expect healing from the mere touch of his robes? What if hope died when the struggle was lost?
So in this season of reflection, and discipline, and practice, as we expect the resurrection it is good to remember that resurrection is more than an Easter expectation. Resurrection is a practice that reminds us that our faith allows struggle and hope to live together. When we expect resurrection even outside of the Easter season, we begin to practice it and remind ourselves that struggle doesn’t exclude hope and that our faith doesn’t promise a tidy resolve or demand that everything work out perfectly the first time. When we expect resurrection we do things so crazy as reaching out for Jesus’s robe in the crowd expecting healing and summoning Jesus to visit the daughter who has already been declared dead. In one of my favorite poems, Wendell Berry offers some resurrection practices. How do you practice resurrection?
Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
Wendell Berry
Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.
Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.
“Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” from The Country of Marriage, copyright © 1973 by Wendell Berry.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
The Serenity Prayer
by: Reinhold Niebuhr
God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
enjoying one moment at a time;
accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
that I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
forever in the next.
Amen.
Something to Ponder: What can you change? What can you not change? Where might you find peace in each of these situations?
God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
enjoying one moment at a time;
accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
that I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
forever in the next.
Amen.
Something to Ponder: What can you change? What can you not change? Where might you find peace in each of these situations?
Saturday, March 21, 2015
Celebrating Life
by: Sue Dickson
As we enter this Easter season, I’m reminded of the emotions surrounding Jesus’ death and resurrection.
In January, I attended an African American funeral service with 150 joyous friends and relatives of the deceased sister. What a wonderful celebration it was! Songs were sung, testimonies were given, and shouts of encouragement echoed throughout the service to both the family and to those gathered in her honor.
When reading the obituaries, we see the words, “...to celebrate life”. This time it was truly evident.
The message from the pastor became clearer to me as he said, “Folks, you have to realize that her time with us was a short stop here on earth. We were just a part of her long journey.” Maybe we have heard those words before but now I understand it with new meaning.
So many of life’s lessons were brought into focus during that service. Love, compassion, loyalty, friendship, stewardship and all the virtues that are taught to us from an early age. I know that her spirit was with all those gathered together and pleased that she had been an integral part of it all.
Our family, like others, has experienced many of life’s challenges, including loss of loved ones, addiction, and divorce, medical and mental challenges. In the midst of these crises, life seems hopeless, too much to bare.
Reflecting, we have found that others do care, they will step in to give comfort and will show acts of kindness that we never imagined. This, in turn, encourages us to play it forward as we become more aware of those in need.
At the end of the service, the gospel choir linked arms and swayed to the Christian Spiritual, “I’ll Fly Away”
“Some bright morning, when this life is over, I’ll fly away
To a land on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away.
When the shadows of this life have grown, I’ll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls, I’ll fly away.
Oh how glad and happy when we meet, I’ll fly away
No more cold shackles on my feet, I’ll fly away.”
Just a few more weary days and then, I’ll fly away
To a land where joy will never end, I’ll fly away.
Everyone left the church, arm in arm and singing together,…
“I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away
When I die, Hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away.”
I’ve been singing it ever since!
As we enter this Easter season, I’m reminded of the emotions surrounding Jesus’ death and resurrection.
In January, I attended an African American funeral service with 150 joyous friends and relatives of the deceased sister. What a wonderful celebration it was! Songs were sung, testimonies were given, and shouts of encouragement echoed throughout the service to both the family and to those gathered in her honor.
When reading the obituaries, we see the words, “...to celebrate life”. This time it was truly evident.
The message from the pastor became clearer to me as he said, “Folks, you have to realize that her time with us was a short stop here on earth. We were just a part of her long journey.” Maybe we have heard those words before but now I understand it with new meaning.
So many of life’s lessons were brought into focus during that service. Love, compassion, loyalty, friendship, stewardship and all the virtues that are taught to us from an early age. I know that her spirit was with all those gathered together and pleased that she had been an integral part of it all.
Our family, like others, has experienced many of life’s challenges, including loss of loved ones, addiction, and divorce, medical and mental challenges. In the midst of these crises, life seems hopeless, too much to bare.
Reflecting, we have found that others do care, they will step in to give comfort and will show acts of kindness that we never imagined. This, in turn, encourages us to play it forward as we become more aware of those in need.
At the end of the service, the gospel choir linked arms and swayed to the Christian Spiritual, “I’ll Fly Away”
“Some bright morning, when this life is over, I’ll fly away
To a land on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away.
When the shadows of this life have grown, I’ll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls, I’ll fly away.
Oh how glad and happy when we meet, I’ll fly away
No more cold shackles on my feet, I’ll fly away.”
Just a few more weary days and then, I’ll fly away
To a land where joy will never end, I’ll fly away.
Everyone left the church, arm in arm and singing together,…
“I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away
When I die, Hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away.”
I’ve been singing it ever since!
Friday, March 20, 2015
A Lesson from Some Single Moms
by: Darren Ash; Church Member and Former Executive Director at Charlotte Family Housing
One of God’s biggest gifts to me over the past 7 years has been the opportunity to enter into the lives of struggling homeless families through my work at Charlotte Family Housing (CFH). I am especially drawn toward the single moms who comprise almost 95% of the households we serve. These single moms are only able to stay at the shelter for a maximum of 90 days before they hopefully move on to CFH’s housing phase (or alternatively and sadly exit from the program back into homelessness). During this time, the moms work tirelessly to move back into an affordable apartment home by saving up for a security or utility deposit and a small payment toward their bare-bones furniture purchase. Many times, they take on a second job to accomplish their goals during this time period. A typical day for them in the shelter includes getting up by 5:30, breakfast and readying the kids, catching multiple buses starting at 6:30, putting in a full day’s work, catching multiple buses home, cooking dinner, starting homework, performing CFH chores with other moms and falling dead tired to sleep by 10:00…..Repeat again day after long day!!! The look of anxiety and fatigue are written all over their faces as they wait and struggle to save money to move back into a place they can call their own.
Just like these homeless moms, lent is a time of waiting and struggling. We notice our moms often feel like giving up and that the world (or maybe even the CFH team) is working against them. However, even in the midst of such hardships, I have heard them say over and over: “God is good always”; “He will see me through”; “Everything is in His hands”. They survive every day because they know and feel God’s love. I am in total awe of their constant and abiding faith in Christ. Jesus is not just someone they pray to occasionally; He sits next to them, a constant companion, a friend. They are truly dependent on Him. I know now why Christ so favored the poor in all his teachings. I especially think of Luke 6:20-22: Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied; Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. As these moms face the deepest part of their battle, at the pinnacle of their hurt and weakness, they hear Christ shout: You are my beloved child, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.
I am many time jealous of this true friendship between Christ and the poor. They seem to have a spoken and unspoken language all of their own that those of us “rich” folks are unable to understand. Our material gifts prevent us so often from experiencing the Lenten message of waiting and struggling. To paraphrase a devotion given to our Reynosa group by Jessica Patchett: We turn back inward to our privileged, competent and entitled selves to make our own futures. We wait little for that which lies beyond us only to settle with ourselves at the center. But God, in the midst of our privilege, competence and entitlement, says: You are my beloved child, whom I love; with whom I am well pleased. And that is when we find our privilege eroded by God’s purpose, our competence shaken by His purpose, and our entitlement unsettled by His poor children.
Dear God, please give us during this Lenten season the patience to wait and humility to yield our dreamed future to your larger purpose.
Just like these homeless moms, lent is a time of waiting and struggling. We notice our moms often feel like giving up and that the world (or maybe even the CFH team) is working against them. However, even in the midst of such hardships, I have heard them say over and over: “God is good always”; “He will see me through”; “Everything is in His hands”. They survive every day because they know and feel God’s love. I am in total awe of their constant and abiding faith in Christ. Jesus is not just someone they pray to occasionally; He sits next to them, a constant companion, a friend. They are truly dependent on Him. I know now why Christ so favored the poor in all his teachings. I especially think of Luke 6:20-22: Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied; Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. As these moms face the deepest part of their battle, at the pinnacle of their hurt and weakness, they hear Christ shout: You are my beloved child, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.
I am many time jealous of this true friendship between Christ and the poor. They seem to have a spoken and unspoken language all of their own that those of us “rich” folks are unable to understand. Our material gifts prevent us so often from experiencing the Lenten message of waiting and struggling. To paraphrase a devotion given to our Reynosa group by Jessica Patchett: We turn back inward to our privileged, competent and entitled selves to make our own futures. We wait little for that which lies beyond us only to settle with ourselves at the center. But God, in the midst of our privilege, competence and entitlement, says: You are my beloved child, whom I love; with whom I am well pleased. And that is when we find our privilege eroded by God’s purpose, our competence shaken by His purpose, and our entitlement unsettled by His poor children.
Dear God, please give us during this Lenten season the patience to wait and humility to yield our dreamed future to your larger purpose.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Faith in the Wait Zone
by: Angelia J Poole
It was a cold January day in Landover, MD and the tiny ICU room was crowded. My father’s small frame lay in the bed struggling to stay warm under layers of blankets. Many family members were there; we were excited to see one another, yet somber because of the occasion. It was the day we’d scheduled to remove my father from the ventilator. It was the day that we knew he would die.
Accepting death was not the challenge on that day. Cancer had become an ugly word in our family – a vicious enemy that had struck hard and often. Though some were struggling with thoughts of what might have been or what should never have happened, I had a different battle and was consumed with the details of the process. I’d heard that this process could be a long and gruesome one; that it would be painful to watch. My challenge: To have faith while we were waiting for my father’s transition.
The doctor reviewed the process so we’d know what was being done each step of the way. The nurses assured us of their attentiveness to meet any need that might arise as things progressed. The family circled his bed and began to pray. Each one, as they were led, talked with God about their relationship with my father and about my father’s tenuous relationship with God. After the last heartfelt prayer, the silence was weighty - pierced only by the beeps coming from the machines that reported each breath and recorded each heartbeat. We silently witnessed the removal of the breathing tube. We wondered how his body would respond to this brutal withdrawal. The ventilator had been set to breathe 12 breaths for my father every minute. His body was weak, so we knew that without the aid of the machine his breathing would slow to 0, and then he’d be gone. So we waited and we watched.
It was a nurse who suggested that we sing. Amazing Grace was sung in hushed whispers as tears began to flow. One by one, my siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles left the small room, no longer able to bear the heaviness of the moment. They did not leave the ICU hall, but somberly watched through the glass wall. I had no idea how much time had passed when I realized that I was standing in the room alone, holding my father’s hand. But I did not feel that we were alone.
I remembered how much he loved music; his beautiful baritone voice had not been heard in many years. It was this memory that prompted me: I sang, inviting God into the room. I sang knowing that although he could not respond, my father could hear me. And in the music, the Holy Spirit drew near. Disappointments faded; worries disappeared; fears vanished. “Great Is Your Mercy Towards Me”, “Lord, Prepare Me To Be A Sanctuary”, “’Tis So Sweet To Trust In Jesus”, “Day By Day And With Each Passing Moment”, … song after song poured from me as God ministered to me and I ministered to my father. It was the concert I’d never done. The nurse entered the room and her confused look drew my attention to the monitors. I realized that although the monitor had been registering 8 breaths per minute when I began singing, it was now reporting 14 breaths per minute. My father’s breathing was not decreasing, but increasing as I sang! He was fighting hard to stay and hear my concert. He was at peace as he listened to me worship!
I don’t know how long I sang, but I sang until my throat became dry and my voice began to crack. I eventually realized that I would have to stop singing and let him go. The family had discussed this truth and concluded that my brother should suggest that I stop to eat. They were surprised when I agreed because they’d expected me to fight leaving his side. But God had done His will. My father’s final minutes were filled with worship and he was not in pain. I told my father that I’d be back, and I returned to his side when they called us a few minutes later saying the end was near. My father transitioned early that Saturday evening, and the peace of God filled his room. The ‘Wait Zone’ was filled with faith through worship in song. And I learned the power of worship to anchor my faith. Hallelujah!
Accepting death was not the challenge on that day. Cancer had become an ugly word in our family – a vicious enemy that had struck hard and often. Though some were struggling with thoughts of what might have been or what should never have happened, I had a different battle and was consumed with the details of the process. I’d heard that this process could be a long and gruesome one; that it would be painful to watch. My challenge: To have faith while we were waiting for my father’s transition.
The doctor reviewed the process so we’d know what was being done each step of the way. The nurses assured us of their attentiveness to meet any need that might arise as things progressed. The family circled his bed and began to pray. Each one, as they were led, talked with God about their relationship with my father and about my father’s tenuous relationship with God. After the last heartfelt prayer, the silence was weighty - pierced only by the beeps coming from the machines that reported each breath and recorded each heartbeat. We silently witnessed the removal of the breathing tube. We wondered how his body would respond to this brutal withdrawal. The ventilator had been set to breathe 12 breaths for my father every minute. His body was weak, so we knew that without the aid of the machine his breathing would slow to 0, and then he’d be gone. So we waited and we watched.
It was a nurse who suggested that we sing. Amazing Grace was sung in hushed whispers as tears began to flow. One by one, my siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles left the small room, no longer able to bear the heaviness of the moment. They did not leave the ICU hall, but somberly watched through the glass wall. I had no idea how much time had passed when I realized that I was standing in the room alone, holding my father’s hand. But I did not feel that we were alone.
I remembered how much he loved music; his beautiful baritone voice had not been heard in many years. It was this memory that prompted me: I sang, inviting God into the room. I sang knowing that although he could not respond, my father could hear me. And in the music, the Holy Spirit drew near. Disappointments faded; worries disappeared; fears vanished. “Great Is Your Mercy Towards Me”, “Lord, Prepare Me To Be A Sanctuary”, “’Tis So Sweet To Trust In Jesus”, “Day By Day And With Each Passing Moment”, … song after song poured from me as God ministered to me and I ministered to my father. It was the concert I’d never done. The nurse entered the room and her confused look drew my attention to the monitors. I realized that although the monitor had been registering 8 breaths per minute when I began singing, it was now reporting 14 breaths per minute. My father’s breathing was not decreasing, but increasing as I sang! He was fighting hard to stay and hear my concert. He was at peace as he listened to me worship!
I don’t know how long I sang, but I sang until my throat became dry and my voice began to crack. I eventually realized that I would have to stop singing and let him go. The family had discussed this truth and concluded that my brother should suggest that I stop to eat. They were surprised when I agreed because they’d expected me to fight leaving his side. But God had done His will. My father’s final minutes were filled with worship and he was not in pain. I told my father that I’d be back, and I returned to his side when they called us a few minutes later saying the end was near. My father transitioned early that Saturday evening, and the peace of God filled his room. The ‘Wait Zone’ was filled with faith through worship in song. And I learned the power of worship to anchor my faith. Hallelujah!
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Life that Holds us in Death
by: Joan Watson
It is hard for me to think of struggle and hope this year without thinking of Steve Hayner, Columbia Seminary’s past President who died just a few weeks ago.
It was around Easter last year when Steve learned that “cancer” was the reason he wasn’t feeling well, cancer that at first looked like it might be manageable, but later turned out to be a battle of life and death. Steve was well into his 60’s, but was youthful and “in good shape,” cheerful and full of hope; all of which made him live well and strangely helped him die well, too.
When it became apparent that Steve was in the last stage of his life, his last hours on earth, the seminary community gathered to pray for his family and for him. Steve knew they were gathered and joined the community he loved so much—joined them by way of text--reassuring them in so many ways that, “all would be well; all manner of things would be well”*...the dying man, a pastor and a friend to those who gathered to mourn him. Steve signed his text as he signed much of what he wrote-- with the single word that said it all: “joyfully.”
In life and in death, we belong to God—scripture says it, our confessions say it and Steve said it with his life; and nothing...not a blessed thing... can change that. If anything is good news—it is that. It is the news of Easter that holds us in every Good Friday; it is the news of life that holds us in death.
*Julian of Norwich
It was around Easter last year when Steve learned that “cancer” was the reason he wasn’t feeling well, cancer that at first looked like it might be manageable, but later turned out to be a battle of life and death. Steve was well into his 60’s, but was youthful and “in good shape,” cheerful and full of hope; all of which made him live well and strangely helped him die well, too.
When it became apparent that Steve was in the last stage of his life, his last hours on earth, the seminary community gathered to pray for his family and for him. Steve knew they were gathered and joined the community he loved so much—joined them by way of text--reassuring them in so many ways that, “all would be well; all manner of things would be well”*...the dying man, a pastor and a friend to those who gathered to mourn him. Steve signed his text as he signed much of what he wrote-- with the single word that said it all: “joyfully.”
In life and in death, we belong to God—scripture says it, our confessions say it and Steve said it with his life; and nothing...not a blessed thing... can change that. If anything is good news—it is that. It is the news of Easter that holds us in every Good Friday; it is the news of life that holds us in death.
*Julian of Norwich
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
What God Sees
by: Mary Kate McAlister
Rewind to Lent of 2013. I told myself I would read through the book of Psalms, just a few a day. Fast forward and here we are, Lent of 2015. I still have 28 Psalms to go.
Feels good to get that off my chest.
That season of Lent was one of great brokenness for me - the brokenness that occurs from trying to bear the weight of another’s burden. A dear friend of mine lost her father to an unexpected stroke. She lost her constant and it left her shattered, weak, questioning, and angry. It was a time of great struggle and a time of great confusion. A time where my only question was, “Where is God? Where, God, where are you?” He wasn’t there. Or at least, I didn’t feel Him there.
The day after the news of the stroke, I sat down at my desk. There was a window to my left and directly in front of me, a picture of my Dad, my very-here Dad, who I could call or text right then and there, just because. I pulled out my Bible to read a few Psalms because Lent had just begun, I found myself on Psalm 6 which reads, “I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping. My eyes waste away because of grief; they grow weak because of all my foes.” Okay, I thought, You’ve heard me. But why are you still just standing there? I am broken. My friend is broken. And You are staying still.
Two days later I sat down in the very same spot, still broken, but still reading and now on Psalm 10. “Why, O Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in time of trouble?” Amen, I thought. “They think in their heart, ‘God has forgotten, he has hidden his face…” Yes, my heart wept, this is where I am and where God is not.
But a few lines later I read, “But you do see! Indeed you note trouble and grief, that you may take it into your hands...O Lord, you will hear the desire of the meek; you will strengthen their heart…” In the margins of my Bible I have written, “But He DOES see.”
God saw me and God saw my friend.
He saw us in our brokenness.
He saw us in our doubt.
He saw us in our anger.
And He sees us now - wherever that may be.
God chose to see us. And God always chooses to see us. It just took us a while to make eye contact.
Feels good to get that off my chest.
That season of Lent was one of great brokenness for me - the brokenness that occurs from trying to bear the weight of another’s burden. A dear friend of mine lost her father to an unexpected stroke. She lost her constant and it left her shattered, weak, questioning, and angry. It was a time of great struggle and a time of great confusion. A time where my only question was, “Where is God? Where, God, where are you?” He wasn’t there. Or at least, I didn’t feel Him there.
The day after the news of the stroke, I sat down at my desk. There was a window to my left and directly in front of me, a picture of my Dad, my very-here Dad, who I could call or text right then and there, just because. I pulled out my Bible to read a few Psalms because Lent had just begun, I found myself on Psalm 6 which reads, “I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping. My eyes waste away because of grief; they grow weak because of all my foes.” Okay, I thought, You’ve heard me. But why are you still just standing there? I am broken. My friend is broken. And You are staying still.
Two days later I sat down in the very same spot, still broken, but still reading and now on Psalm 10. “Why, O Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in time of trouble?” Amen, I thought. “They think in their heart, ‘God has forgotten, he has hidden his face…” Yes, my heart wept, this is where I am and where God is not.
But a few lines later I read, “But you do see! Indeed you note trouble and grief, that you may take it into your hands...O Lord, you will hear the desire of the meek; you will strengthen their heart…” In the margins of my Bible I have written, “But He DOES see.”
God saw me and God saw my friend.
He saw us in our brokenness.
He saw us in our doubt.
He saw us in our anger.
And He sees us now - wherever that may be.
God chose to see us. And God always chooses to see us. It just took us a while to make eye contact.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Easter Morning Joy
by: Casey Cochran Unger
“Journey to the cross.” Each Lenten season is peppered with this phrase. For me, those words have always been amorphous and ambiguous. The tumultuous end to Jesus’ earthly life barely seems to be contained by labeling it as a journey to the cross. And then, each year around this time, we are to endeavor our own journey to the cross, right? I have difficulty with the Lenten season. The ominousness that comes with Maundy Thursday turns into sorrow and grief by Good Friday, and then by sunrise on Easter morning, all is well? It is the very foundation of my faith. But still I struggle to find and grasp that Easter morning joy.
Raised in the Presbyterian Church, I had the basic Bible story understanding most children do of Jesus’ birth, life and death. An unlikely beginning for a king; followed by a life filled with miracles, and then a tragic end that somehow saved us all. I knew Jesus’ death was sad, because, well, death is sad. And scary. But with my teenage years in youth group came more developed emotions and my ability to empathize. However odd it may be, my understanding of Jesus’ final days was made more real by watching Jesus Christ Superstar with my youth group. That’s right - that controversial, arguably blasphemous and inconsistent-with-the-Bible 1970 rock opera shed some light on the terrible and gruesome conditions of Jesus’ death.
When I read the Gospel accounts of the days leading up to Jesus’ death, the crucifixion and the days following, I find myself identifying most with the disciples. In reality, I should probably be identifying with the masses who demanded Jesus’ crucifixion, knowing that I might have very well had the same doubts and reactions. But I put myself in the disciples’ place. They lose their best buddy, their father figure, their teacher. They are told his death is coming, and some even witness it. They mourn. He rises. Some doubt. Some don’t recognize the risen, healed Jesus. But they are expected to understand and to rejoice in this prophecy fulfilled.
I wouldn’t have been able to rejoice. In my very human form, I am selfish and fearful. Imagining myself as a disciple, being without Jesus - even knowing that he had indeed risen - I can’t get past the grief of losing someone so precious. What will life be like without him? How do I go forward? How do I trust in my Lord?
Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the day-to-day sorrow I observe and am sometimes a part of. Almost daily, I see a man in the median on Freedom Drive on the bridge over I-85 with a sign asking for food, money, hope. I pass him on my commute home. My student who comes to school for the fourth day in a row without a bath, wearing clothes two sizes too small and scarfing down her breakfast because she hasn’t eaten since her snack at school the previous afternoon. Harsh words I may exchange with my husband because I’m tired and there’s laundry to do and a cranky toddler and all we both really want is calm, quality time with our little family.
That journey to the cross holds so much sorrow. I’m in search of a thin space on that journey. Somewhere on the route to and beyond the cross, where I find a way to let God help me hold that sorrow. Where I can let God guide me to making dents in that sorrow. Where I can question and doubt and mourn, like the disciples, and then eventually feel and live that Easter morning joy, even if it takes more than three days and Easter has come and gone. I hope and pray that my journey to the cross will be cyclical, and more than just an annual Lenten journey. Because there will always be sorrow that needs to be held and joy that needs to be found.
Sunday, March 15, 2015
A Prayer
by: Thomas Merton from Thoughts in Solitude, 1958.
My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
Something to Ponder: What is a decision you are making where you are seeking God’s guidance? What might being motivated by faithfulness look like in this decision?
My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
Something to Ponder: What is a decision you are making where you are seeking God’s guidance? What might being motivated by faithfulness look like in this decision?
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Reflecting on Pain and Joy
by: Sybil H Campbell
Lent is the season of our lives to reflect on and take stock of all that we have experienced over the years. It is a time of soul-searching, waiting, struggling, and seeking the light of hope in the dark corners of our lives that haunt us. It should also be the time to reflect on the joys that we have been granted; to let the joy grow so that it overshadows and softens the darkness to allow the pain of grief to be absorbed in the warmth of joy and love. It is with those thoughts in mind that I write a brief narrative of faith in my journey through life.
There is a lot of silence in my life. It hasn’t always been that way. I am not sure I could deal with the silence if the beginning of my life had been different. My life and my faith began in the presence of my Baptist minister grandfather who, from the moment of my birth, held me, loved me, and taught me all about living in and loving God’s world and loving ALL of His children. He also taught me about dying and not being fearful of death. I followed my Papa around as close as his shadow. At four years old, I could stand in the pulpit and preach a sermon just like him. At least that’s what I thought.
My Papa died when I was fifteen but his unconditional love for me and our talks about life and God will always be the foundation of my faith. A few months following his death, I met a wonderful friend who years later became my husband and with that union came his unconditional love, support and strength. It is amazing how God fills the painfully-empty spaces in our lives and we hardly notice it happening.
Several years ago I began to struggle with depression at Thanksgiving and it continued through Easter. Over the years I have experienced so many losses during that period of time – a daughter, three grandchildren, a dear sister, my parents, my mother-in-law and most recently my husband. The memories and the empty spaces left by my loved ones consumed me and left me drained of energy. My husband recognized what was happening to me and together we worked to ease my pain. We made changes to our holiday activities by concentrating on the important meaning of Christmas, our family and the things that brought us joy and eliminated the unimportant things. Music, religious and secular, has always been a huge part of my life and it was for us as a couple. The story/history of Christianity is pretty much told in the music of Advent through Pentecost. It is full of excitement, joy, wonder, peace, pain, suffering, grace, giving, forgiveness, love and hope. I consciously listen to and feel the message in each hymn and anthem, especially when I sing in the choir, and my faith grows and the pain softens. Evenings at our home were filled with music, cozy chairs, a glass of wine and conversation, or maybe comfortable silence, in front of a fireplace.
During Lent this year, I am spending a lot of time reflecting on and being very grateful for my life when there were two of us. Nothing will ever fill the space left by my husband but I am trying to focus on the joy of his memory. Making new friends and forging meaningful relationships helps reduce the loneliness created by his death. I am comforted when I remind myself that over the years and during the same period of time, I also experienced some of my greatest gifts – I met my future husband, I became engaged, our children were born as were three of our grandchildren.
I give thanks for some very special people God has put in my life who love and support me even on those days when I am not a very nice person. My Covenant home and all that it stands for is a big deal in my life. Thank you Covenant family, those I know and those whom I have not met, for being there and for everything you do to make this church great and the world a better place.
"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." Romans 15:13
There is a lot of silence in my life. It hasn’t always been that way. I am not sure I could deal with the silence if the beginning of my life had been different. My life and my faith began in the presence of my Baptist minister grandfather who, from the moment of my birth, held me, loved me, and taught me all about living in and loving God’s world and loving ALL of His children. He also taught me about dying and not being fearful of death. I followed my Papa around as close as his shadow. At four years old, I could stand in the pulpit and preach a sermon just like him. At least that’s what I thought.
My Papa died when I was fifteen but his unconditional love for me and our talks about life and God will always be the foundation of my faith. A few months following his death, I met a wonderful friend who years later became my husband and with that union came his unconditional love, support and strength. It is amazing how God fills the painfully-empty spaces in our lives and we hardly notice it happening.
Several years ago I began to struggle with depression at Thanksgiving and it continued through Easter. Over the years I have experienced so many losses during that period of time – a daughter, three grandchildren, a dear sister, my parents, my mother-in-law and most recently my husband. The memories and the empty spaces left by my loved ones consumed me and left me drained of energy. My husband recognized what was happening to me and together we worked to ease my pain. We made changes to our holiday activities by concentrating on the important meaning of Christmas, our family and the things that brought us joy and eliminated the unimportant things. Music, religious and secular, has always been a huge part of my life and it was for us as a couple. The story/history of Christianity is pretty much told in the music of Advent through Pentecost. It is full of excitement, joy, wonder, peace, pain, suffering, grace, giving, forgiveness, love and hope. I consciously listen to and feel the message in each hymn and anthem, especially when I sing in the choir, and my faith grows and the pain softens. Evenings at our home were filled with music, cozy chairs, a glass of wine and conversation, or maybe comfortable silence, in front of a fireplace.
During Lent this year, I am spending a lot of time reflecting on and being very grateful for my life when there were two of us. Nothing will ever fill the space left by my husband but I am trying to focus on the joy of his memory. Making new friends and forging meaningful relationships helps reduce the loneliness created by his death. I am comforted when I remind myself that over the years and during the same period of time, I also experienced some of my greatest gifts – I met my future husband, I became engaged, our children were born as were three of our grandchildren.
I give thanks for some very special people God has put in my life who love and support me even on those days when I am not a very nice person. My Covenant home and all that it stands for is a big deal in my life. Thank you Covenant family, those I know and those whom I have not met, for being there and for everything you do to make this church great and the world a better place.
"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." Romans 15:13
Friday, March 13, 2015
Shining a Light on the Homeless
by: Mary Gaertner; Church Member and Manager of Charlotte Mecklenburg Coalition for Housing
Late last summer one of my colleagues came into my office and said, “Hey, you’re our homeless person, do you know anything about the women who is sitting on the bench at the bus stop out back; she’s been there a number of days.” Just to clarify… I’m not homeless, I work on strategic initiatives to prevent and end homelessness in our community. I went out to check on her and clearly she was homeless. All of her possessions were in one suitcase and plastic bags that surrounded her and she had too many layers of clothing on for that very hot day. I sat down next to her and we introduced ourselves. She told me she was going to take the Mega Bus to New York and meet a friend. I asked if her friend had a place for her to stay and she assured me she did. I asked her when she thought she might go. She wasn’t sure. So I said to her it might be better if she went to the women’s shelter. I told her I was worried about her being outside and that I could call someone to come and get her. She made it clear she was not going there. I asked her why she did not want to go to the shelter and she looked right at me at and said “have YOU ever been to the shelter?” That comment really made me pause. She was right. While the shelter is a place we want people to stay so they are not on the street, it is not a place that is right for everyone. There are too many people there. Some nights women and children are sleeping on mats under dining room tables. It’s loud. People with disabilities of all kinds are told to sleep on bunk beds. There is no privacy.
On any given night in our community there are over 2,000 people who are homeless. Approximately 450 people are chronically homeless which means they have been sleeping on the streets for more than a year or have had four or more occurrences of homelessness within three years. Homeless men and women – young and old. Veterans who have protected our freedoms, who have seen atrocities that you and I will never know. Why is there not enough permanent supportive housing for them? How is it that there are some people who will not allow affordable housing in their neighborhoods? As Christians, shouldn’t they be better than that?
There are some who choose to live outside. But what about homeless children who do not have a choice? Imagine seeing a yellow school bus pull up and let children off in front of the shelter. It’s the same yellow bus that drops our children off every day. Our children are going into a home, probably off to extracurricular activities, piano lessons, soccer practice, tutors. We are investing in them – they are our future. Aren’t the children going into the shelter our future too? How can we feel good about living so far beyond our needs when there others who don’t have their basic needs met?
My continued prayers include gratitude for those who provide services and care to the most vulnerable in our community and prayers for the homeless so that they can have a home where they can feel safe and warm.
I have not seen the woman who was sitting on the bench at the bus stop behind my building in several months. I checked on her, and the last time she stayed at a Room in the Inn was January 23rd. We did not find her when we did the homeless registry last week. Maybe she finally did take the Mega Bus to New York. Where ever she is I pray she is under God’s protection.
On any given night in our community there are over 2,000 people who are homeless. Approximately 450 people are chronically homeless which means they have been sleeping on the streets for more than a year or have had four or more occurrences of homelessness within three years. Homeless men and women – young and old. Veterans who have protected our freedoms, who have seen atrocities that you and I will never know. Why is there not enough permanent supportive housing for them? How is it that there are some people who will not allow affordable housing in their neighborhoods? As Christians, shouldn’t they be better than that?
There are some who choose to live outside. But what about homeless children who do not have a choice? Imagine seeing a yellow school bus pull up and let children off in front of the shelter. It’s the same yellow bus that drops our children off every day. Our children are going into a home, probably off to extracurricular activities, piano lessons, soccer practice, tutors. We are investing in them – they are our future. Aren’t the children going into the shelter our future too? How can we feel good about living so far beyond our needs when there others who don’t have their basic needs met?
My continued prayers include gratitude for those who provide services and care to the most vulnerable in our community and prayers for the homeless so that they can have a home where they can feel safe and warm.
I have not seen the woman who was sitting on the bench at the bus stop behind my building in several months. I checked on her, and the last time she stayed at a Room in the Inn was January 23rd. We did not find her when we did the homeless registry last week. Maybe she finally did take the Mega Bus to New York. Where ever she is I pray she is under God’s protection.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Making Mosaics
by: Mary Mattiacci
Though you might not be able to tell from my picture, there was a time in my life when things seemed very dark, and I decided to quit believing in God.
I was worried that I had failed as a mom, I was quite sure I had failed as a wife, my health was in a precarious situation and I was facing some surgery, my job was constantly stressful.
I was watching the Discovery Channel and there were archeologists exploring caves where prehistoric folks had lived. It was a very interesting show about what food they ate and where they had their fires, all the details of day to day life. And then they showed the tiny skeleton of a two year old baby girl with her skull crushed. It hit me really hard and I felt an immense grief for this little person. I had a baby niece at the time and the frailty of human life overwhelmed me.
I decided that the concept of God no longer made sense. No good and compassionate God would let a little baby’s head get crushed. He wouldn’t leave me struggling with all these issues in my life either. The whole thing seemed preposterous. So, I decided to abandon faith. It seemed like a reasonable path.
The next day was Sunday and I looked forward to sleeping in. But I woke up early and paced around the house, restless. I couldn’t figure out what to do. I ended up getting dressed and going for a drive. I ended up at church where I was quite sure I no longer wanted to be. But I snuck up the balcony steps and sat in the back and wept. That was the beginning of a pattern that lasted for weeks. Every Sunday, I would plan to sleep in and skip church and every Sunday I ended up in the back of the balcony crying. And slowly but surely, I started to hear what Bob was saying and it started to open me up to some new possibilities.
I began to realize that these circumstances were largely of my own making. I was able to consider that maybe humans are built in frailty just as beautiful glass is necessarily fragile. But neither the glassblower nor God hopes for the creation to be crushed. Sometimes you just have to take the broken pieces and fit them together into a new mosaic.
It’s all still quite a mystery to me and I still think about that little Neanderthal baby sometimes. But there is something profound and beautiful and worthwhile in being open to faith. It’s an honor to be on the journey with you.
I was worried that I had failed as a mom, I was quite sure I had failed as a wife, my health was in a precarious situation and I was facing some surgery, my job was constantly stressful.
I was watching the Discovery Channel and there were archeologists exploring caves where prehistoric folks had lived. It was a very interesting show about what food they ate and where they had their fires, all the details of day to day life. And then they showed the tiny skeleton of a two year old baby girl with her skull crushed. It hit me really hard and I felt an immense grief for this little person. I had a baby niece at the time and the frailty of human life overwhelmed me.
I decided that the concept of God no longer made sense. No good and compassionate God would let a little baby’s head get crushed. He wouldn’t leave me struggling with all these issues in my life either. The whole thing seemed preposterous. So, I decided to abandon faith. It seemed like a reasonable path.
The next day was Sunday and I looked forward to sleeping in. But I woke up early and paced around the house, restless. I couldn’t figure out what to do. I ended up getting dressed and going for a drive. I ended up at church where I was quite sure I no longer wanted to be. But I snuck up the balcony steps and sat in the back and wept. That was the beginning of a pattern that lasted for weeks. Every Sunday, I would plan to sleep in and skip church and every Sunday I ended up in the back of the balcony crying. And slowly but surely, I started to hear what Bob was saying and it started to open me up to some new possibilities.
I began to realize that these circumstances were largely of my own making. I was able to consider that maybe humans are built in frailty just as beautiful glass is necessarily fragile. But neither the glassblower nor God hopes for the creation to be crushed. Sometimes you just have to take the broken pieces and fit them together into a new mosaic.
It’s all still quite a mystery to me and I still think about that little Neanderthal baby sometimes. But there is something profound and beautiful and worthwhile in being open to faith. It’s an honor to be on the journey with you.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Go There
by: Jessica Patchett
We sat on a bench at the end of his bed and looked out the window. There wasn’t much to see . It was May, but I remember the trees being bare and the sky dim.
He saw more than I did. I could tell by the way he watched the yard. I tried to follow his gaze, but at the end of it, I saw only a couple of old trucks and some empty lawn chairs.
‘I had hoped to get back there,’ he said.
I turned my head back to see him looking at a poster of Yellowstone on the wall.
A few years past, he and his wife had invited me over for dinner, and when it was over, he said, ‘Enough, dear, you’re boring her to death!’, and insisted I get up and follow him. He clicked through a slideshow of photos he had taken on his treks across the national park.
‘It’s where I’ve felt most alive. It’s the greatest sanctuary on earth,’ he said. ‘Go there. I used to take a group of friends on a trip every year. I’ve taken my sons, and one day, I’ll take my grandsons. Don’t miss it. Go there’.
He’d planned a trip for later that summer. But earlier that winter, he was diagnosed with stage four cancer and didn’t live to see the long July days that would have taken him west.
And yet, sitting on that bench in his small, dark room, when he sat very still, he could see the sanctuary where he had met God and come alive, as if for the first time.
I still haven’t been to Yellowstone, but I have a sanctuary like it, as I’m sure many do. And though my trip to Yellowstone isn’t booked yet, I have taken my friend’s advice from time to time, and I’m better off when I remember to take it often. I go there, to the sanctuary where I can meet God and come alive.
So, go there. Go there when you are afraid. Go there when you are anxious. Go there when everything is as it should be. Go there and find peace. Go there and be grateful. Go there and allow God to re-awaken you to the life that is truly life. Go there and take everyone you know, that they too might know the abundant life God offers.
He saw more than I did. I could tell by the way he watched the yard. I tried to follow his gaze, but at the end of it, I saw only a couple of old trucks and some empty lawn chairs.
‘I had hoped to get back there,’ he said.
I turned my head back to see him looking at a poster of Yellowstone on the wall.
A few years past, he and his wife had invited me over for dinner, and when it was over, he said, ‘Enough, dear, you’re boring her to death!’, and insisted I get up and follow him. He clicked through a slideshow of photos he had taken on his treks across the national park.
‘It’s where I’ve felt most alive. It’s the greatest sanctuary on earth,’ he said. ‘Go there. I used to take a group of friends on a trip every year. I’ve taken my sons, and one day, I’ll take my grandsons. Don’t miss it. Go there’.
He’d planned a trip for later that summer. But earlier that winter, he was diagnosed with stage four cancer and didn’t live to see the long July days that would have taken him west.
And yet, sitting on that bench in his small, dark room, when he sat very still, he could see the sanctuary where he had met God and come alive, as if for the first time.
I still haven’t been to Yellowstone, but I have a sanctuary like it, as I’m sure many do. And though my trip to Yellowstone isn’t booked yet, I have taken my friend’s advice from time to time, and I’m better off when I remember to take it often. I go there, to the sanctuary where I can meet God and come alive.
So, go there. Go there when you are afraid. Go there when you are anxious. Go there when everything is as it should be. Go there and find peace. Go there and be grateful. Go there and allow God to re-awaken you to the life that is truly life. Go there and take everyone you know, that they too might know the abundant life God offers.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Wake Up Calls
by: A Covenant Member
In preparing to write this devotional, I was reading the description sent out to everyone who agreed to write one, and trying to reflect on what I could share about my life that appropriately aligns with Lenten themes. Suggestions offered included talking about “the darkness, the reflection, [and] the struggle” that come with Lent, but what really caught my eye was when reflecting on “the lack of resolve” was also proposed. A “lack of resolve”…that’s pretty different than “reflection” and “struggle.” In fact, I think it deals pretty directly with the absence of said endeavors. It’s ironic, yet striking, that all of them can go hand in hand in the journey of faith. But isn’t that just yet another one of the mysterious, compelling, and ever surprising aspects of faith and God?
Anyway, it was absolutely the “lack of resolve” aspect of the description that caught my eye, and consequently it is on this topic that I’ll focus my reflection. My story of struggle has absolutely been ongoing, and not limited to one particular period of my life, but one time that stands out as particularly rife with lack of resolve (more irony!!) was around the turn of the first semester of my freshman year in college.
This is not going to be very surprising to many of you; I had been warned that college was a time in which it was easy to stray from God and the church, it was hard to keep faith in your life, etc., but frankly, I wasn’t too concerned about it. I knew that God was important and that faith would always be an important part of my identity, but I wasn’t really sure how big a part of my identity I wanted it to be, internal or external. So I went to college, made new friends, developed a new life – I didn’t lose myself or my values, but didn’t go to church or really invest in my faith life very much either.
The thing is, the time in life when you’re changing so much in life is the main time in life where you should be concerned with keeping God close, but I really just didn’t. Like I said, I was creating a new life, and I was doing fine. I got good grades, made even better friends, and felt like even though I had my small challenges, life was good. I went to church once, I think.
BUT (did you know?!) usually, when you feel life is under your own control, it does not last for very long. As the semester turned from first to second, I experienced a host of roadblocks. The thing was, they weren’t ever really mine, but rather belonged to my closest friends. Two of my friends were sexually assaulted, one got pregnant, one fell into depression (decided to move across campus and completely disappear), and a few more of my friends were going through a lot of insecurity with sexual identity, which deeply affected our relationships.
For me, it was a clear slap in the face. Or perhaps more appropriately, a slap on the wrist. Something kind of not so direct, but quite close to being direct. Okay, God!!!! Nobody’s life is under his or her own control, at least not all the time. It was this sequence of events that snapped me back into knowing that I need a stronger guide in my life than myself, and even reaching the step to work into the struggle. Naturally, I haven’t been perfectly attentive to investing in God and my faith ever since a lot of my friends experienced life changing struggles. That’s ridiculous, but it was the nudge that I needed to get me out of my freshman wonderland.
I still deal with lack of resolve – I get swept up in the everyday, let other things consume my struggles, and forget to invest in God the way I know I should. But lent as a season is always a reminder that as Christians, we are consciously committed to the reflection and darkness that comes with any journey, and as I (sometimes) remind myself, it is vital to walk the walk. None of us are perfect at it, (especially not me, that’s literally what this story is about), but sometimes God truly has a way of waking you up and reminding you that resolve, in the end, is worth it.
In preparing to write this devotional, I was reading the description sent out to everyone who agreed to write one, and trying to reflect on what I could share about my life that appropriately aligns with Lenten themes. Suggestions offered included talking about “the darkness, the reflection, [and] the struggle” that come with Lent, but what really caught my eye was when reflecting on “the lack of resolve” was also proposed. A “lack of resolve”…that’s pretty different than “reflection” and “struggle.” In fact, I think it deals pretty directly with the absence of said endeavors. It’s ironic, yet striking, that all of them can go hand in hand in the journey of faith. But isn’t that just yet another one of the mysterious, compelling, and ever surprising aspects of faith and God?
Anyway, it was absolutely the “lack of resolve” aspect of the description that caught my eye, and consequently it is on this topic that I’ll focus my reflection. My story of struggle has absolutely been ongoing, and not limited to one particular period of my life, but one time that stands out as particularly rife with lack of resolve (more irony!!) was around the turn of the first semester of my freshman year in college.
This is not going to be very surprising to many of you; I had been warned that college was a time in which it was easy to stray from God and the church, it was hard to keep faith in your life, etc., but frankly, I wasn’t too concerned about it. I knew that God was important and that faith would always be an important part of my identity, but I wasn’t really sure how big a part of my identity I wanted it to be, internal or external. So I went to college, made new friends, developed a new life – I didn’t lose myself or my values, but didn’t go to church or really invest in my faith life very much either.
The thing is, the time in life when you’re changing so much in life is the main time in life where you should be concerned with keeping God close, but I really just didn’t. Like I said, I was creating a new life, and I was doing fine. I got good grades, made even better friends, and felt like even though I had my small challenges, life was good. I went to church once, I think.
BUT (did you know?!) usually, when you feel life is under your own control, it does not last for very long. As the semester turned from first to second, I experienced a host of roadblocks. The thing was, they weren’t ever really mine, but rather belonged to my closest friends. Two of my friends were sexually assaulted, one got pregnant, one fell into depression (decided to move across campus and completely disappear), and a few more of my friends were going through a lot of insecurity with sexual identity, which deeply affected our relationships.
For me, it was a clear slap in the face. Or perhaps more appropriately, a slap on the wrist. Something kind of not so direct, but quite close to being direct. Okay, God!!!! Nobody’s life is under his or her own control, at least not all the time. It was this sequence of events that snapped me back into knowing that I need a stronger guide in my life than myself, and even reaching the step to work into the struggle. Naturally, I haven’t been perfectly attentive to investing in God and my faith ever since a lot of my friends experienced life changing struggles. That’s ridiculous, but it was the nudge that I needed to get me out of my freshman wonderland.
I still deal with lack of resolve – I get swept up in the everyday, let other things consume my struggles, and forget to invest in God the way I know I should. But lent as a season is always a reminder that as Christians, we are consciously committed to the reflection and darkness that comes with any journey, and as I (sometimes) remind myself, it is vital to walk the walk. None of us are perfect at it, (especially not me, that’s literally what this story is about), but sometimes God truly has a way of waking you up and reminding you that resolve, in the end, is worth it.
Monday, March 9, 2015
His Love Endures Forever
by: Sarah Henderson
March 9, 2004
“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but this one isn’t going to make it,” the obstetrician said casually as he looked at the black and white image on the screen in the ultrasound room.
“Burst my bubble?” I thought. More like break my heart into a hundred pieces.
This doctor was just the guy on call, not my regular doctor, the doctor with whom I’d walked through autoimmune disease and infertility with. This doctor had no way of knowing that the little bean shaped embryo he so easily dismissed was nothing short of a miracle to me.
I had wound up in the doctor’s office that day due to some irregular pregnancy symptoms. The doctor explained that the baby’s heart rate was too slow, that the growth was insufficient, and that in his medical opinion, it wasn’t a matter of if--just a matter of when--I would lose this baby.
I left crushed in spirit, bruised in heart, bleeding in body.
I look at my girl; she is 10 years old now. I watch as she dances; she seems to float through the air. People tell me she is so joyful, so full of life. Her smile is as bright as her eyes are crystal blue cool. I remember how that doctor’s words hurt me. I remember my weeping prayers that God would heal and spare her. And He did. I give thanks to the Lord, for He is good and His Love endures forever.
July 30, 2010
It was a scheduled check up. We were there for our routine ultrasound, at 18 weeks gestation, the “find out if it is a boy or girl” appointment. This pregnancy, our fourth, had been so normal. No hint of trouble or complication.
The ultrasound began and I saw my baby on the screen, but immediately noticed the absence of the thing I had grown so used to seeing during these exams--a tiny flicker in the chest. Hoping against hope, I said to the technician, “the heart’s not beating.” She was quiet for a moment before she replied. “Sarah, we have a problem with this baby…”
He was born hours later, beautiful but still. In the time between the doctor’s office and my arrival at Carolinas Medical Center, I prayed with all my might. I spoke words of life and healing over this baby. I recalled the stories of resurrection and told the Lord of all the ways I would share the testimony of this child if He would just bring him back to life.
This time, I did not get the outcome I hoped for. Instead I held my son’s lifeless body in my hands and cried out in pain that was unimaginable to me just the day before.
In the four years that have passed, I have learned that my son Matthew’s story is as important to my faith as my daughter Jordan Lily’s. In this life we will experience miracles and joy beyond measure. We will also experience the suffering of a broken world and a longing for all to be made right.
What I have learned is that Jesus is present in both. The miraculous and the heart-wrenching. He is the One who can hold us in all places of mystery, the places we are beyond ourselves. Because He is, we are never alone.
Losing my son has cultivated a deeper sense of compassion and empathy in me. Because I have known great suffering, I am now better equipped to serve others with His love. It’s not a lesson I would have chosen willingly. And yet, I am grateful. God is still good and His Love endures forever.
“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but this one isn’t going to make it,” the obstetrician said casually as he looked at the black and white image on the screen in the ultrasound room.
“Burst my bubble?” I thought. More like break my heart into a hundred pieces.
This doctor was just the guy on call, not my regular doctor, the doctor with whom I’d walked through autoimmune disease and infertility with. This doctor had no way of knowing that the little bean shaped embryo he so easily dismissed was nothing short of a miracle to me.
I had wound up in the doctor’s office that day due to some irregular pregnancy symptoms. The doctor explained that the baby’s heart rate was too slow, that the growth was insufficient, and that in his medical opinion, it wasn’t a matter of if--just a matter of when--I would lose this baby.
I left crushed in spirit, bruised in heart, bleeding in body.
I look at my girl; she is 10 years old now. I watch as she dances; she seems to float through the air. People tell me she is so joyful, so full of life. Her smile is as bright as her eyes are crystal blue cool. I remember how that doctor’s words hurt me. I remember my weeping prayers that God would heal and spare her. And He did. I give thanks to the Lord, for He is good and His Love endures forever.
July 30, 2010
It was a scheduled check up. We were there for our routine ultrasound, at 18 weeks gestation, the “find out if it is a boy or girl” appointment. This pregnancy, our fourth, had been so normal. No hint of trouble or complication.
The ultrasound began and I saw my baby on the screen, but immediately noticed the absence of the thing I had grown so used to seeing during these exams--a tiny flicker in the chest. Hoping against hope, I said to the technician, “the heart’s not beating.” She was quiet for a moment before she replied. “Sarah, we have a problem with this baby…”
He was born hours later, beautiful but still. In the time between the doctor’s office and my arrival at Carolinas Medical Center, I prayed with all my might. I spoke words of life and healing over this baby. I recalled the stories of resurrection and told the Lord of all the ways I would share the testimony of this child if He would just bring him back to life.
This time, I did not get the outcome I hoped for. Instead I held my son’s lifeless body in my hands and cried out in pain that was unimaginable to me just the day before.
In the four years that have passed, I have learned that my son Matthew’s story is as important to my faith as my daughter Jordan Lily’s. In this life we will experience miracles and joy beyond measure. We will also experience the suffering of a broken world and a longing for all to be made right.
What I have learned is that Jesus is present in both. The miraculous and the heart-wrenching. He is the One who can hold us in all places of mystery, the places we are beyond ourselves. Because He is, we are never alone.
Losing my son has cultivated a deeper sense of compassion and empathy in me. Because I have known great suffering, I am now better equipped to serve others with His love. It’s not a lesson I would have chosen willingly. And yet, I am grateful. God is still good and His Love endures forever.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Prayer
by: Joyce Rupp from May I Have this Dance? 1992
We move so far, God, and sometimes we see so little in our daily travels. Slow us down. Create in us a desire to pause. Help us to pursue moments of contemplation. Help us to see in a deeper way, to become more aware of what speaks to us of beauty and truth.
Our inner eyes get misty, clouded over, dulled. We need to see in a new way, to dust off our heart, to perceive what is truly of value and to find the deeper meaning in our lives.
All of our ordinary moments are means of entering into a more significant relationship with you, God. In the midst of those very uncommon happenings, you are ready to speak your word of love to us, if only we will recognize your presence.
Teach us how to enjoy being. Encourage us to be present to the gifts that are ours. May we be more fully aware of what we see, taste, touch, hear and smell. May this awareness of our senses sharpen our perception of our everyday treasures and lead us to greater joy and gratitude.
Grant us the courage to be our true selves. Help us to let go of being overly concerned about what others think of us or of how successful we are. May our inner freedom be strengthened and our delight in life be activated.
Life is meant to be celebrate, enjoyed, delighted in, and embraces in all its mystery. Guide us to our inner child. Draw us to your playground of creation, God of life, so that we will live more fully. Amen.
Something to Ponder: What might you see in a new way today?
We move so far, God, and sometimes we see so little in our daily travels. Slow us down. Create in us a desire to pause. Help us to pursue moments of contemplation. Help us to see in a deeper way, to become more aware of what speaks to us of beauty and truth.
Our inner eyes get misty, clouded over, dulled. We need to see in a new way, to dust off our heart, to perceive what is truly of value and to find the deeper meaning in our lives.
All of our ordinary moments are means of entering into a more significant relationship with you, God. In the midst of those very uncommon happenings, you are ready to speak your word of love to us, if only we will recognize your presence.
Teach us how to enjoy being. Encourage us to be present to the gifts that are ours. May we be more fully aware of what we see, taste, touch, hear and smell. May this awareness of our senses sharpen our perception of our everyday treasures and lead us to greater joy and gratitude.
Grant us the courage to be our true selves. Help us to let go of being overly concerned about what others think of us or of how successful we are. May our inner freedom be strengthened and our delight in life be activated.
Life is meant to be celebrate, enjoyed, delighted in, and embraces in all its mystery. Guide us to our inner child. Draw us to your playground of creation, God of life, so that we will live more fully. Amen.
Something to Ponder: What might you see in a new way today?
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Power
by: Anne Lowrance
An ice storm has the power to cause widespread destruction and darkness. One such storm hit North Carolina the first week of December, 2002. It littered roads with tangles of tree, phone and power lines. Schools were closed and business disrupted for days. Our beautiful, historic church grounds looked like a reprise of Hurricane Hugo or Sleeping Beauty's castle.
Across the street at the manse, candles, flashlights, blankets and sleeping bags were gathered, not only for us, but for Oscar and Patty Dorantes, along with baby Andre, who lived on the Hopewell campus while Oscar attended seminary. Frightened and ill prepared for this kind of weather, they asked to stay with us until power was restored. The Lowrance-Dorantes ice storm camp out is another story!
As pastor, Jeff (my husband) was not only concerned about Sunday services but a very special wedding was to take place that weekend. The groom’s family had immigrated to the US from Vietnam when he was four years old. Hopewell adopted the family and he grew up in a close knit community that included his lovely bride-to-be.
On Friday morning, the prospect of a wedding looked bleak. Not only was the power still off, the front door and walkways to the sanctuary were blocked by a mass of large limbs and branches from ice shattered trees. Before long, however, church members began to arrive hauling chainsaws, axes and a trailer. Neighbors, of all ages, showed up with rakes, wheelbarrows and willing hands to help restore order to the grounds.
That evening, a frosty rehearsal took place in the dark sanctuary, lighted only by a few oil lamps. Pastor, couple and wedding party giggled like children to see, literally, their prayers and vows, as warm breath met frozen air. Afterward, all crowded into a classroom next to the kitchen which was outfitted with a commercial sized gas stove. Everyone feasted on candle-lit BBQ and laughed at our circumstances, made sweeter by a faithful community. The bride and groom were calm and reflective. "As long as we had God, Jeff and our families, I knew we would have a wedding,” reminisced the bride.
There was still no electric power the day of the wedding, which was scheduled for five o’clock. Over in the fellowship hall, the bride's mother wept and prayed as she and others put finishing touches on decorations. That is where Jeff found her when he rushed over at 4:45pm with the news. "Are you okay?", he asked. "Yes", she replied through tears. " I'm just pleading with God to please turn on the power." "Well, that's what I came to tell you. The power came back on in the sanctuary! It probably won't be long before it's on in here too.” Fresh tears and prayers of thanksgiving erupted.
Those in attendance agreed that wedding was the most beautiful ever held at Hopewell Presbyterian Church. Wedding finery was hidden under coats and wool wraps, manicured fingernails unseen beneath warm mittens. Were there flowers? Did the organist ever make it to the church? I can't recall.
What I do remember was the Power that enveloped us. The bride put it beautifully when she said, "we were blessed with the power of prayer, the power of community, the power of our love for one another and the Power of God. We didn't need electricity."
There is no darkness too great for the Power of God to break through.
Across the street at the manse, candles, flashlights, blankets and sleeping bags were gathered, not only for us, but for Oscar and Patty Dorantes, along with baby Andre, who lived on the Hopewell campus while Oscar attended seminary. Frightened and ill prepared for this kind of weather, they asked to stay with us until power was restored. The Lowrance-Dorantes ice storm camp out is another story!
As pastor, Jeff (my husband) was not only concerned about Sunday services but a very special wedding was to take place that weekend. The groom’s family had immigrated to the US from Vietnam when he was four years old. Hopewell adopted the family and he grew up in a close knit community that included his lovely bride-to-be.
On Friday morning, the prospect of a wedding looked bleak. Not only was the power still off, the front door and walkways to the sanctuary were blocked by a mass of large limbs and branches from ice shattered trees. Before long, however, church members began to arrive hauling chainsaws, axes and a trailer. Neighbors, of all ages, showed up with rakes, wheelbarrows and willing hands to help restore order to the grounds.
That evening, a frosty rehearsal took place in the dark sanctuary, lighted only by a few oil lamps. Pastor, couple and wedding party giggled like children to see, literally, their prayers and vows, as warm breath met frozen air. Afterward, all crowded into a classroom next to the kitchen which was outfitted with a commercial sized gas stove. Everyone feasted on candle-lit BBQ and laughed at our circumstances, made sweeter by a faithful community. The bride and groom were calm and reflective. "As long as we had God, Jeff and our families, I knew we would have a wedding,” reminisced the bride.
There was still no electric power the day of the wedding, which was scheduled for five o’clock. Over in the fellowship hall, the bride's mother wept and prayed as she and others put finishing touches on decorations. That is where Jeff found her when he rushed over at 4:45pm with the news. "Are you okay?", he asked. "Yes", she replied through tears. " I'm just pleading with God to please turn on the power." "Well, that's what I came to tell you. The power came back on in the sanctuary! It probably won't be long before it's on in here too.” Fresh tears and prayers of thanksgiving erupted.
Those in attendance agreed that wedding was the most beautiful ever held at Hopewell Presbyterian Church. Wedding finery was hidden under coats and wool wraps, manicured fingernails unseen beneath warm mittens. Were there flowers? Did the organist ever make it to the church? I can't recall.
What I do remember was the Power that enveloped us. The bride put it beautifully when she said, "we were blessed with the power of prayer, the power of community, the power of our love for one another and the Power of God. We didn't need electricity."
There is no darkness too great for the Power of God to break through.
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