Stone Soup--Sermon 6/27/10

I can remember what it was like to find a new minister in the pulpit of the church in which I grew up. I was in high school. I can remember being a little ambivalent, but mostly I remember feeling expectant and hopeful. I saw the possibility of new things happening. I looked forward to learning from someone who had a slightly different slant on things, a slightly different way of relating to others. And I had expectations, like many others, who sat in the pews near me in that UCC sanctuary that morning. Hopes, which may, admittedly have been a little, teeny-tiny bit high. Hopes like these: this new minister was going to correct all the deficiencies of not just his previous predecessor but all pastors of the church before him, and he was going to meet all the needs that had gone unmet in previous pastorates, and he was going to continue and sustain each successful program with maximum efficiency. He was going to preach better, baptize sweeter, visit more often, and be 99.44% purer.

He was going to be, as the times demanded, a scholar, a monk, an activist, a mystic, a socialite, a janitor, a parent, a prophet, and a teacher all rolled into one. And while this new pastor wasn’t expected to walk on water, it would be nice if he could at least crawl.

But as a young woman I had other feelings as well about this new minister. For I was a little weary: you see, I don’t like drastic change, and I wondered if he would change things too much for my comfort. I had my own concept of my church and I speculated about whether his style would agree with mine. I had a certain authentic relationship with the previous minister, and wasn’t sure whether the new person could care for me in the same way. And so for those reasons and more, that first Sunday he preached was filled with anticipation and expectation and I remember wanting to learn more about my new pastor and his family. I assume you are not unlike me and so please indulge me this morning as I share with you some of what I may need were I seated in the congregation.

As for our family, it is composed, depending on how you count, of between five and seven people.
My husband’s name is Robert Pettit. He is the one who balances his occasionally frantic wife. He is a professor of sociology at Manchester College and delights in reading in his cherry-wood library, and accumulating a growing collection of movies which we never have enough time to watch. He is the quieter one of this partnership and the apple of my eye.

Robert has two daughter from his previous marriage and they live with us half the week.

Tess will be a senior at Homestead High School this year. Her life is a whirlwind of activity spinning rapidly and perpetually between school, her homes, and Fort Wayne Ballet, where she dances in the performing level company. College brochures continue to flood into our house as Tess begins the college search for colleges and while she hasn’t narrowed her search yet to her final four, she has gently broken the news to her beloved parents that it probably won’t be in Indiana.

Brynn will be a freshman at Homestead next year, although she would be quick to correct the lack of gender inclusivity in the word, “freshman.” She also balances the careful juggling of schoolwork and ballet rehearsals and classes. She is also passionate about one other aspect of life, the canine variety in the form of our miniature dachshund, Maisie.

Grayson is the baby of the family. You may have already been greeted by him, as he isn’t a retiring wallflower by nature and has lately taken to introducing himself as “Grayson James Pettit” to everyone he encounters, including clerks at Target and unsuspecting shoppers at Kroger. He will begin nursery school here at The Children’s School in the fall and keeps himself occupied with cars, books, and watching old Pluto cartoons with his Daddy. It will not be hard to befriend him, but if you sense that he is at all reluctant, he is easily persuaded with a few M&M’s, particularly if they are red.

Grayson’s mommy’s name is Christen, and she prefers to be called that. Some of you know me already as Pastor Christen, or Reverend Miller, and I answer to those names as well, but if you are comfortable with it, I should like to be known simply as Christen.

I am, by now having been parent, chaplain and wife, skilled at the art of multi-tasking (which is a little disheartening given the studies of late which show that multi-taskers are not as productive as we thought). I seem to have a healthy mixture of my mother’s pacifist Swedish propensity to want to make peace with others, and my father’s working class Miller stubbornness. I will report that I can enjoy a quiet afternoon in my chair with a book or needlepoint and a cup of tea at arm’s reach, but Robert may disagree and would probably report that I seem to have difficulty resting or relaxing and an known to tackle cleaning or home improvement projects with wild abandon on a whim when faced with a free Saturday afternoon. You may find me a little shy, like our son Grayson, with the exception that I usually do not cling to Robert’s leg and hide—generally.

I think that you will find that I try to listen more than to talk, and that I tend to jump into things with both feet. I am theologically liberal, sermonically short-winded, and organizationally a bit compulsive. Functionally I try to order my days so I find as much joy as I can as the days slip by, for having worked in Hospice care for the past five years, I am aware of how fast those days can go. But, I have enough of the Protestant work ethic alive in me that I sleep better at night knowing I’ve accomplished my tasks and as a chronic insomniac lie awake at night and fret if I haven’t.

Now, for the other two members of our family that I mentioned, lest they be forgotten and I hear about it when we get home: We have the aforementioned miniature dachshund, Maisie, who specializes in soiling rugs and then melting you with her big brown puppy dog eyes so as to be quickly forgiven. And I am the mistress of a rather rotund tomcat, Moses, who sleeps for well over 22 hours a day and spends the other two demanding to be on my lap.

That, in a nutshell is our family. We look forward to getting to know you, and for you to know us. To that end, I have two hints. The first, it would help if for several weeks you would offer us your name when you speak, since we have a lot of new names to learn all at once. And second, I would be happy to get to know you over a cup of coffee, or during an afternoon tea, a meal, or even a bedtime snack. Just ask me, if I haven’t asked you first.

And having gotten that out of the way, let’s turn to the heart of the matter, this morning’s text and the heart of our worship.

I have long been intrigued by Matthew’s encounter of the loaves and fishes. It is a simple story. One we have taught our children for years. There were crowds gathered on a hillside, about five thousand people. They had followed Jesus throughout the day and the hour was getting late. The disciples worried about the hungry crowd, and Jesus as a nurturing leader calls on his disciples to solve this problem. But as we already know, there were only two fish and five loaves of bread. Hardly a feast. And so, Jesus invites the crowd to sit, gathered what little there is to eat, blesses the food and before we know it twelve bushel baskets were needed for the leftovers and five thousand people left with hungry bellies fed.

But, as we pull apart the tendrils of this carefully woven story there are a few things to note. Nowhere in scripture is this referred to as a miracle story. Neither Matthew or the disciples claim that Jesus performed a miracle here. In fact, no where does it say that the food miraculously multiplied. Instead, Matthew’s account reads like a news report. This is who was there. This is what was done. The account simply reads: when all was over, plenty was left. End of story.

Perhaps there is another explanation to this story which Matthew tells. And perhaps that explanation lies in the fact that Jesus was a tremendous community organizer (a term, I am aware that has been bandied about in the past several years). Perhaps this story illustrates instead the power of a community that believes in what it can do as a gathered people following the ways of a God of love. Jesus led the people by taking what was available and sharing it. I can imagine other people contributing crusts and particles of bread and salted fish from the folds of their garments and from their satchels when Jesus asked, so that food was available for whoever needed it. My heart quickens at this possibility, because it is more than just a pronouncement and an act by a single man, even if it be Jesus, but instead the act of a community who believed in the mission the man was calling forth. I like this story because they people acted too—while Jesus started it, the people stretched it. While Jesus dreamed it, the people made it possible.

Which brings up that Stone Soup story I shared with the children during our time together earlier in the service, that story that I promised we’d get back to later. Perhaps that lonely beggar was instead a visionary intent on building community. Perhaps that stone was the symbol of hope that the community needed to believe in its mission again. And perhaps this is what God calls us to do as we lead, in whatever capacity, as we pick up the mantle of leadership and engage others in the work of mission.

I would be less than honest if I did not confess to you that at times in the middle of the night, as I lie there and hold my own soup stone that I worry about the future, and wonder if I can meet your needs, and be the pastor that both this congregation and God call me to be. But there is so much which beckons me to be with you, and so much that we have to offer one another. I come here with my eyes wide open and I want to share with you what I see.

I see a group of people who have every potential of growth, not just numerical growth, but spiritual growth. I see a people who are welcoming, and grace-filled, and excited about where God is calling them. I see a people who very much want to find their niche in this community, and are eager to find that sweet spot. And I see a people who have been wounded, and have healed, a people who have bound together and learned how to hold one another up. And so in my ministry here at Peace, I bring you my own smooth, fire-burned and scorched soup stone. I humbly offer you just the merest hint of what can be created. But I believe that the soup we cook will need to be seasoned together. And although it is possible that one might believe that a pastor’s stone is what provides the savor, it is actually a recipe created by each member of the community who bring the variety of ingredients and together mix up a sustaining feast, just as that meal on that hillside in the middle east so many years ago was the offering of many.

I am anxious to see what our soup will taste like as it simmers through the years. And I have ever hope that the God who blessed the loaves and fishes will delight in blessing our feast as well.

Pentacostalicious (Sermon from May 23, 2010)

Breathing, Babbling and Building Together

It was the Jewish Festival of Weeks, the time of the feast of the harvest. It was celebrated on the fiftieth day after Passover, seven weeks after the highest holiday in the Jewish year. It was, a holiday of sorts. There was no work on this day, none of the daily routines. Instead, observant Jews made their way to the temple to sacrifice animals, and to bring their newly harvested grain, an offering of the first fruits back to God.

But in this festive atmosphere, in the bustling streets of Jerusalem there were in addition to the regular crowd, a motley assortment of characters gathered quietly hidden away in one place. Scripture tells us that there gathered together were the original eleven disciples, an additional specially selected add-on to replace Judas, Jesus’s mother and brothers and several women. All followers of the Jesus who had been crucified just seven weeks before. Devout and observant Jews all. Orthodox Jews gathered to celebrate a sacred festival.

The followers of Jesus, this rag-tag assemblage who had devoted themselves to their teacher were not yet the history-makers we know them to be now. Imagine them. Certainly they must have been grieving, it had been a mere fifty days give or take since the one they knew as Messiah had been killed. Undoubtedly there were questions about who would harness the reins of this ministry, and whether there even was a ministry to be continued. They may have wondered if this Jesus that they had followed and learned from, and worshipped was the promised one they had waited for, or if the visions they had had of him after his death were real. There must have been questions, even among the faithful as they wondered what was next.

These early disciples were not who history has told us of, for at this point in time they seem to have lacked a vision, there was no single mindedness of purpose to guide them. Their grief was raw, their future dim, and what lay ahead may even have been dangerous. And there they were gathered together in Jerusalem with what they did have, their memories, their hopes, their as yet unfulfilled promises and the company of one another.

The book of Acts is “Part Two” of Luke’s writings, “Luke Remixed,” if you will, the “Luke New and Improved Directors Cut, now with Never Before Seen Footage.” But, while Luke’s first book is filled with answers about who about the details and drama of Jesus, Luke’s second book, the Acts of the Apostles focuses not on the how. For the storyline in Acts is the unfolding story of the church and how it came to be. It is less a story about any one person, and more a story of how passion would reclaim the ministry of Jesus for a new generation.

You have heard this morning’s scripture. And you know the tale. In our Christian liturgical tradition we retell it every year. We put the red altar cloth and vestments on for their once a year debut. We celebrate the birth of the church. We sing of the Spirit. And sometimes we even forget what we are celebrating, which is unrestrained passion. Passion which could not be contained or bound in tidy packages.

Act’s version of Pentecost is filled with special effects and dramatic events. It is the Avatar of its age, (without the blue tint). Just imagine what it might be like if James Cameron were to direct it. There are tongues of fire dancing over heads. There is gusty wind. There is deafening noise. There is unbridled chaos. And into this cacophony and disarray there suddenly weaved a new energy, a new life which neither the disciples, or Luke, or we the twenty-first century audience had met up until this point. On that loud and windy day in Jerusalem the Holy Spirit made its formal debut.

Luke describes this Spirit in the Greek as pneuma . Literally, the elemental life force, the breath of the spirit. But we have come to know this Spirit in even deeper ways in the church throughout our history. We know it as the third person of the trinity, sometimes personified as the feminine aspect of the Godhead. The Holy Spirit who fills with inspiration and grips with enthusiasm. The one who weaves its way into the lives of the weary and restores hope. The one who breathes new life and fire into the heart. The one who engages and dances and mediates. The Holy Spirit who ignites a movement and passions a revolution. The Holy Spirit who acts as advocate and comforter. And with each inhalation and exhalation this pneuma promises that the Jesus movement will not be forgotten, and that the church will be born. The truth of the message of Jesus will not be relegated to the first century Middle East. A life-changing transformation will happen. And like that, poof, it was.

But having said all of this, I must confess something. Just between you and me, I wonder if at times we have gotten so carried away with the image of the Holy Spirit as fire and wind, as noise and energy that we lose sight of the subtle ways in which it snakes its way into our hearts, the small fires of hope it kindles, the breath gentle and soft as a baby’s sigh. The tiny epiphanies are also ways, I believe that the Holy Spirit gradually ushers its way into our lives and these too can mark us indelibly.

The Catholic sister, Joyce Rupp, in her book, May I Have This Dance reminds us, “My Pentecosts are rarely large, powerful gales; rather, they are usually little gusts that change my life a little at a time. Like the rushing wind of Pentecost, however, they have been unpredictable and unexpected.” And I think she is right. Pentecost may be less about the obvious and more about the subtle, those little unexpected gales that can change our lives in an instant if we are attentive to them. I don’t believe that each of us need to have tongues of fire blazing over our heads, or ecstatic noise coming out our mouths for true Pentecost to happen in our lives. Sometimes it is as simple as saying “yes,” or as common as saying, “I believe.” Quiet daily Pentecost can happen when we live yielded to the Spirit who blows us where it will, and looks around with eyes wide open on the way.

And so what does it mean for us to truly be a Pentecost people in the twenty-first century? What does it mean for us to celebrate the Pentecost spirit both in our own life journeys and as a body of faith here at Peace United Church of Christ? What does it mean for us to allow the Spirit to move in our midst in both the quiet and the bombastic? In both the nuanced brush-stroke and the bold outline? In both the obvious and the subtle?

We often talk about things which are as “natural as breathing.” We take for granted the easy respirations, the inhalations and exhalations which keep our bodies operating. We take them for granted, that is, until we have struggled to breathe.

Several years ago I had minor surgery, perfectly routine which should have been an outpatient procedure, but as I was recovering from the anesthesia, I began to become very anxious because I felt I could not catch my breath. I cried out in my post-anesthesia stupor in the recovery room that I couldn’t breathe as my chest rose and fell in what felt like hummingbird respirations. A kind nurse rushed to my side, reassured me that what I was feeling was normal, that I was merely hyperventilating and I could indeed breathe just fine, but more important than her words were what she did after speaking them. She knelt next to my gurney so that we were at eye-level and said firmly but gently, “Watch me and do exactly what I do,” and then she took exaggerated Lamaze style breaths, all the while holding my gaze as I struggled to follow her breathing pattern, to match the rise and fall of her chest with my own. Within minutes I felt myself calm, but I know now that my peace had less to do with what she did, and more to do with how she did it. With grace, and with a healing which seemed to be rife with the holy she led me back to safe ground.

Perhaps to be Pentecost people we must start by breathing deeply. We can breathe in the healing, soothing gentleness of God and as we inhale that peace we can begin to center ourselves. And after finding that peace, we can exhale a quiet and deliberate desire to pass that Christ-filled joy onto others. Just as the word, “conspire” means “to breathe together,” as believers in the passion of Pentecost, we can lead a holy conspiracy, breathing in the Spirit’s movements to bring about radical healing, and gentle justice, together.

Perhaps the second step of this Pentecost revolution can be found in another way then, through the babbling. Luke recounts for us that part of the excitement of that Pentecost two thousand some odd years ago was that the disciples spoke different languages but could all be heard. They babbled aloud, with different dialects and with different words and yet they were all understood. Perhaps this is a lesson for us in how we find the Holy Spirit. Through speaking our story in truth, through teasing out a common language, a familiar narrative we can begin to recognize the similiarities of our lives and our hopes. And we can find the ways that we are not that different from our brothers and sisters, and can see that our friends and enemies are more like us that we knew. For I believe the babbling, the truth-speaking, and authentic open listening lends itself to the Spirit’s transformation. And is part of the Pentecost story.

And finally, after all this breathing and babbling, we can begin to build. As people of Peace United Church of Christ, as people of the wider Christian community, we can build on the truth of the Spirit’s ways and proclaim Pentecost anew.

This week as I was preparing for this sermon I happened upon some of the writings of the Benedictine writer Joan Chittister. This mystic writer talks about what it means for us to build on the momentum of Pentecost. She writes: “It is this point in the liturgical year when the curtain between here and there, time and eternity, for the most minute fraction of time splits open, and we begin to see not only what we are but what we can be.” I love this image of liminality, for the moment of Pentecost changed everything in the life of the church. What began that day as a handful became 120, and before the day was over had grown to more than 3,000. Disciples who had not believed themselves capable of sharing the message of the risen Christ discovered within themselves abilities and gifts they’d never known. They built the church. A church that survived nearly two thousand years after they walked this earth.

And now the future of the church lies at our feet, and asks for our response in this century, in this age. And my sense is that we as the larger Christian church are in our own liminal time, standing in that thin space where we can see what we hope to be. And I believe it is time that we proclaim ourselves as Pentecost people.

For when we see ourselves in the face of those in need and know that we are called by Christ to serve them, we are being a Pentecost people. When we refuse to allow the scriptures to be used as tools of oppression or exclusion, we are being a Pentecost people. When we feel the call to welcome the stranger and forgive the enemy, we are being a Pentecost people. When we choose the path of love in spite of the potential to have it hurt us, rather than closing our hearts in fear of abandonment, we are being a Pentecost people. When we trust that the call of God will not take us into places where the grace of God will not go, we are being a Pentecost people. And when we abandon ourselves to the whim of the Holy Spirit who blows where it will, and leads us into new life, we are being a Pentecost people.

The birth of the church is still in its infancy for history is long, and God still speaks to us today and invites us to breathe in new life, and babble new words, and build the new community.

May it be so for us today.

Amen.

.

Sunday's Top Ten

Top Ten Things Learned This Weekend at Peace U.C.C.

10. There is nothing that tires a three-year-old out more than two solid days of attention from grown-ups. There was Miss Renee who supplied him with a steady supply of M&M's (she even learned he liked the red ones and carefully weeded out the other obnoxious colors!), there was Mrs. Pool who let him play in the nursery school room and showed him the tent where he could hide from unsuspecting friends, and there was the kindly gentleman whose name I have not yet memorized who held him up (in a three-piece suit) more than five times (that I saw) to take a drink from the "very cold" water fountain. Grayson has no idea what kind of blessed future we stumbled into as this congregation clearly basks in loving their children.

9. There is nothing quite as affirming as walking into a church after a vote and receiving a standing ovation. I wish everyone on this planet could have that kind of adoration and grace offered them (and I hope I can live into their expectations).

8. Church potlucks and open houses are still the best food in town (and I am a picky eater, so this is high praise). I specifically recommend for any future church function the tortilla dip and the spinach bars. Superb!

7. A church that takes seven months from the time of your first interview until you are called to the pastorate is worth every single day you waited and every single night of lost sleep. Process is incredibly important.

6. Having incredible interim pastorates in place before coming on board is a gift. And the fact that they offer to provide you spiritual support and counsel is an added blessing.

5. When Peace United Church of Christ called me to minister today it was because I stood on the shoulders of those who have called me to ministry. This morning I am especially grateful for those who named my call before I could put into words For Louie and Phil Rieman who said, "Christen, if you perceive a need, it is a call" and then believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself. For Deanna Brown and Susan Boyer who called me into Deanna's office one morning after a Manchester College chapel and offered a blessing of me. For my sweet sisterhood, who hold my stories, and my truths in their hands.

4. That any man (specifically Thom Moore) who comes to call you back into the sanctuary after you have been sequestered in a private room during church vote in the sanctuary with a pinwheel in his breast pocket and a sparkle in his eye is offering good news.

3. That there are miles to go in our partnership together as we serve God, follow Christ and work together to bring about the community of God.

2. That having a secretary with a beautiful lilting English accent may be a colossal waste of time for her, as I may simply keep babbling to her all day so she'll answer me with that beautiful voice (although I have a hunch we'll be chatting together about many more things than just the color of the paint they've offered to paint our offices!).

1. That I am blessed. Beyond words. Beyond description. Beyond expectation. And God is good.

Gathering of Sisters

There is something about commitment. The feel of the ring on your finger, the heaviness and responsibility it represents. The vows that are taken. The promises that are made. The realization that for better, or for worse, there are words we have spoken which will take a lifetime to live into.

I have seven sisters. There are eight of us in this world. The number eight representing infinity. Circling endlessly. World without end. A sacred sisterhood.

We struggle with names. Are we the "homegirls?" Are we "Infinity Eight?" Are we "The Women?" We've grappled to define our connection. We have made lists of the possibilities (we always make lists, for we are very organized. And very compulsive). We are not named, officially, but we are present and attentive to one another. The sisterhood does not disappoint.

We have been together since the summer of 1994 when we joined an informal spirituality and study group to talk about issues of identity, faith, feminism. And then a few more joined us along the way. This year we celebrated our 16th anniversary.

Once a year we sneak away. Alone and together. We've traveled from far-flung locales...at times from the Netherlands, or Alaska. From California or Virginia. From Colorado and Maryland. Some of us stayed close to home and drive our trusty economy-sized cars from the tri-state areas of Michigan or Ohio or Indiana.

We have fought and we have mended. We have labored and we have rested. Collectively we've survived two divorces, cancer, the deaths of three parents, four miscarriages, and countless small and sundry losses. And we've celebrated six weddings, and five births, and the blessings of inheriting three step-daughters. We've named our fears, claimed our weaknesses, and exalted in our daily (and often minute) triumphs.

In 2002, in the wake of my divisive divorce which rocked the foundations of the group to it's core, we sat, the eight of us, for almost three days in ongoing conversation as we redefined who we were, and asked whether we could indeed grow together. The first night, I lay in the upstairs room of a quaint camel-back home in Louisville and wept as I wondered if we would weather this storm. Another sister found me and cradled me in her arms. We lay like spoons as I sobbed and shared my fears that we would all scatter to the wind. And that sweet sister assured me, "We will survive this for we are strong. And this sisterhood will remain intact."

And she was right. For the next day, we blessed the rings which we slid on our fingers to commit ourselves to one another. Rings which most of us wear every day, as true and as valid as our wedding bands.

Last night we placed those rings again in a chipped blue willow china bowl and by the light of eight candles we blessed them and recommitted ourselves to our sisterhood again.

And I remain stunned. And surrendered. For this gift of strength and resiliency is one of the purest forms of grace I have ever known. And I often wonder what I did to be worthy to wear this ring.

As Marvin K. Mooney would say...

Truth be told, as a kiddo I was never a big fan of Dr. Seuss. I preferred reality to fantasy. I liked my characters three dimensional and my situations true to life. I didn't believe in Sam and wondered why in the hell he'd ever want green eggs. I mean, surely, the Surgeon General would never approve of them.

As a parent, though, I appreciate Dr. Seuss because he provides some monotony to the night-time readings. Fox on Socks was revolutionary to me. Tongue-twisters at nigh? What a challenge (I mean, really, I've already worked an 8+ hour day)! And Go, Dog, Go? A dog-party? Really? Dude, sign me up. I love me some chewy toys and big tree-house parties. Dr. Seuss became a whole new language that I, type-A personality that I can occasionally be, wanted to conquer!

So, okay...I've got no segue-way that is decent and honorable in writing tradition to the next paragraph. I'm sorry, Dr. Klingler (beloved English professor).

Maybe the segue-way, unnatural as it is, is this. Marvin K. Mooney, brainchild of Dr. Seuss, he who was commanded by the unnamed "other" to "please go now," seems to be urging me to a new world. Call it the Marvin K. Mooney of the Holy Spirit. A world of sermons, and church-growth, and pastoral care. A world of stay-up-past-midnight-on-Saturday-night exegeting a passage in the Old Testament and a world of making sure the church is locked after the late stewardship meeting. And my heart lurches and flutters and says, "Oh yes, yes. It's time..."

And I'm not sure I ever thought I'd say that again.

I have been selected as the candidate of a sweet little church in southwest Fort Wayne of which I feel infinitely undeserving. I find myself pulling old files labeled "Pentecost" and "Advent" and "Liturgical Resources" and "Evangelism" out of boxes covered in dust and stored for years in our garage that I, for almost a decade, assumed would find their way to the trash heap.

The congregation will listen to a trial sermon and vote the third week in May. And, in the meantime, I'll hold my breath and pray that the power that commanded Marvin is the Holy Spirit that leads me.

While there are parts of me that ache as I think of leaving Hospice work. While I think of my colleagues in the "trenches" and want to stay near them. I also know that five years is significant. And that I have served my time on the front lines of dying. And I need to rest and refill myself by seeking new life in the parish again.

The time has come, the time is now....

Christen Pettit Miller, will you please go now!

Crafting

"Give us the inner listening/that is a way in itself/and the oldest thirst there is."
--Rumi

I confess. I had forgotten the process.

The reading of the word. The living into the story. The embracing of the essence. The grasping for the truth.

The process of the journey of birthing a sermon.

It has only been three years since I preached on a weekly basis at a sweet little interim pastorate in Huntington, only six months or so since I stood in a pulpit last as I provided some pulpit supply for the U.C.C., but already I had forgotten the rituals, the routines of sermon crafting.

It is windy this afternoon, appropriate for a sermon about Jesus in the midst of a storm. Grayson is out with his grandparents. Robert drinks tea quietly at the kitchen table. Apart from the Bach motets playing softly, it is quiet here.

How had I forgotten how delightful it is to be pulled into scripture? To fall into uncovering exegetical mysteries I had never known? To pause, sip my tea and watch out the window as questions swirl around in my head?

For the past week each three-mile run I take is without my customary I-pod. As my feet pound rhythmically I contemplate the text. I allow it to live in me, to consume me. I come home and need to stop thinking, so that my subconscious mind, the voice of the Spirit can draw forth new truths. Last Wednesday I lay awake at 3:20 in the morning, light of the full moon shining in the room and puzzled questions of theodicy again.

How had I forgotten that preaching feels so much like coming home? How had I forgotten the sudden epiphany that comes when a thought clicks? When a metaphor names what I know? When the ineffable can be phrased?

My soul is slowly reawakening to that inner listening. And I am not as thirsty as I once was.

Lessons in Fear

True confession: Grocery shopping with Grayson has never been my favorite activity.

As Grayson enters toddlerhood, I find myself more and more impatient at Kroger. He refuses to be contained in a shopping cart. He simply must pull every single package of tortillas off the shelf in his own effort at comparison shopping. He begs for strawberries (when they're out of season and sprouting strange molds) with eyes which could only be compared to a SPCA commercial and it seems as if Sarah McLachlan is actually yodeling her strange "la-la-lalalala" as I look at him. He insists on pushing the cart (and veers dangerously close to the octogenarian who is politely minding her own business as she vacillates between chamomile and cinnamon spice tea).

This evening, as I stocked up on canned green beans, bottles of apple juice, a box of diapers and, truth be told, a bottle or two of chardonay, Grayson found a frequent fascination. The automatic doors.

I purposely chose the check-out counter closest to the automatic doors, as I am not stupid. And, I know that my son is a sucker for the marvel of the doors "which go open and close now, Mom." I figure, if I can occupy my son with the simple pleasures, the simple joys of the door opening and closing, then I can have two blessed minutes of check-out bliss.

Now, I am a diligent parent. I watch my boy closely. I don't let him just randomly open and close the door willy-nilly (although, really...could that hurt so much if he loved to do it?). No, instead, I insist that he stands aside and merely watches the people come in and out, in and out, in and out...while Mommy scans her Kroger card.

Most people understand. They smile politely at my very-well-behaved-boy who just likes to stand, sociologist that he is, and observe others.

However, most people are not the check-out lady in aisle 11.

Apparently, the store was not busy tonight. And as young Harry Potter look-alike boy scanned my purchases, and Grayson stood politely watching people go in and out the automatic doors, Ms. Aisle 11 made her move. Having heard me call Grayson earlier she said, "Grayson? Is his name Grayson?" I smiled politely and nodded as I watched my yogurt being drug across the scanning machine. She approached Gray and in a benign and grandmotherly fashion handed him a "I've been Krogering!" sticker. And then I heard Harry Potter cashier mutter under his breath, "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I hate it when she does this. She does this all the time...."

Puzzled, I looked quizzically at my cashier who motioned with a nod and turn of the head to Ms. Aisle 11 who stood with a tiny Grayson staring obediently into her eyes.

"Oh, Grayson..."she drawled, syrupy sweet, "Here's a nice sticker for you. But you see, if some strange man ever came up and offered you a sticker and you went with him it would be VERY BAD and you could be HURT and you need to STAY NEAR YOUR MOMMY or BAD THINGS COULD HAPPEN."

Before I knew it, Grayson had scuttled back to me, before I could even get the credit card slip signed. I paused and stared at the child who had attached himself leech-like to my thigh.

"I'm really sorry, Ma'am." Harry Potter boy repeated. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you," I said. "She means well," I repeated under my breath.

Seeing Grayson return obediently to me she smiled, happy to have scared the living hell out of a toddler. "Grayson," she said with a conspiratorial grin," You listened so well that I want to give you another sticker..." Grayson took it hesitantly, and I forced a kind look.

And then we got outside and Grayson said forcefully, "Mommy...I want NO stickers. Let's give stickers back now. No more."

Usually opposed to litter bugs, I made no mention of the fact that his tiny hand let go of his previously prized possessions and I allowed both stickers to fly away in the winter wind.

The fear of strangers was taught to Grayson today. But not as his teacher may have imagined. And I pause and wonder how to protect a child from fear-mongers, especially those who have the best of intentions.

Kosmas

The phone would ring. Randomly. Evenings, weekends, but always after noon. He would never call before noon, unless it was an emergency. Calling before noon was presumptious, implied too much familiarity perhaps. The greeting was always the same, after the first hello there was that pause on the receiving end and then the heavy, syrupy thick Greek accent. "Hello. This is Kosmas, your neighbor across the street." And Robert and I would laugh about it later saying, "Oh, yes, THAT Kosmas, as opposed to the many other Kosmases who call us day in and day out..."

Robert answered the phone to hear that same greeting for nineteen years, as long as he's lived in this house. Helen and Kosmas, our Greek-neighbors-across-the-street (say it quickly and with a lilt), moved here long before we did. They are establishment here. They know the territory.

Our families have shared the proverbial cups of sugar for nearly two decades.

Helen brought us baklava on our wedding day, calling it our "Happy, Happy!" We bought them espresso cups in Disney World. Kosmas and Helen presented us with the first fruits of their tomatoes each season. We bought Helen aqua net at Kroger when they could no longer drive. Helen and Kosmas blessed each of our children by sprinkling them with flour so that they might "live to have white hair." We called the EMS for Helen the night Kosmas had a stroke. We watch one another's houses. We collect one another's mail when the others aren't home. We turn the light on and guard the spare key.

The calls from Kosmas diminished in this past year. His dementia had decreased to the point that he was often bed-bound, bed-bound in dress pants and a wool cardigan sweater, but bed-bound nonetheless. Instead Helen would call, and in her faltering English she would explain what they needed--help with medications, help with an international call, help getting the carpet cleaned. She would apologize with each call, instead of being reminded of who they were, our neighbors-across-the-street, she knew that we knew. We had surpassed the narrow role of "neighbor" and had become "just-like-my-granddaughter-and-grandson."

On December 18 Kosmas entered the Hospice program and he and Helen moved into our inpatient facility and quickly endeared themselves to the staff. Hospice Home became their own little Greek village, and we were blessed.

This morning as I watched Helen draped over the body of her dead husband, sobbing and kissing his lips, his eyelids and reminding him of her love I felt as if I were intruding on the most intimate of acts. As I listened to their son, Alex, whisper softly in Greek words that were so tender and soft, I was reminded again of the sanctity and holiness of relationship. I stood, witness to the suffering, as chaplain, as neighbor, and as friend.

And then Alex turned to me, gracious and gentle Alex, who said, "Christen, in our culture, in the Eastern Orthodox tradition a family member stays with the family until the funeral director comes." I nodded, content with whatever would make them the most comfortable. "But," Alex said, "I'm going to take my mother home now. Will you stay, as family, until the funeral director arrives? Because you are our family."

I hadn't cried before.

I did then.

As Helen and Alex left the room Helen turned and said, "Make sure you tell the funeral man that Kosmas was loved."

I did. And he was.

Rest in peace, Kosmas, our Greek neighbor-across-the-street.

Full Court Press

Tell the truth, friends.

Who sent the mass summons out that I might receive FOUR messages from friends in the past week that they miss the contemplative chaplain's musings? Who masterminded the plot? Who decided to try to lure me out of my safe cave of writer's block by leaving a trail of baked doritos and dangling a bottle of chardonay?

However it occurred, whether through community organizing or the random hand of God using Her messengers to send a pointed sign, it's allowed me to emerge from the cocoon of parental ennui enough to pen a few sentences.

So, thank you, thank you. It feels good to be missed.

In the time that it took to write this entry, however, I frustratingly must note that I have been interrupted no fewer than eight times from a wee chocolate-faced interloper who pleads, "Mommy, mommy, mommy (long whiney noise) I just need my Caillou [his favorite PBS show...which was already on]." And then, "Mommy, mommy, mommy, (uses toddler headbutt for emphatic punctuation squarely into parent's solar plexus) I just need some apple juice." And not long after, "Mommy, mommy, mommy (throws self on floor for maximum dramatic effort) Where is my Mo-Mo [the cat]?"

Bloggage will come. You have been fairly warned. But it will have to come after the offspring's bedtime. Toddlers simply don't understand the creative muse.

All That Remains

On Friday Grayson and I took a trek with my mother to Highland, Indiana. The home of our kin. The home of the Swedes and English who migrated to America so many years before and found hope in the steel mills of East Chicago. The home of Jim and Ila (my maternal grandparents) who found a home on 38th street where Grandpa worked as a milkman. Grandma shared the neighborhood with, at different times but often overlapping, four of her sisters.

Mi madre and I have cousins in Highland now. And so we spent our three-and-a-half hours in the car on U.S. 30. When Grayson asked whether we were going to Texas again, which is "far, far away" we reminded him that it was a long car-ride, we knew, but not too long. We tried to teach him how to say "Pat" (the cousin we were visiting), we listened to a LOT of Mitch Miller singing "Dinah Won't You Blow" (Grayson's favorite song), we told him stories of his great-grandparents, we made many pitstops at fast-food restaurants for potty-breaks (and saw a pseudo-nun, but that's another story for those who like their humor crass).

Before our lunch with our kin, though, we had an important sojourn to make. We made our way, like pilgrims of ancient Christianity, to the Soderstrom headstone in the Calumet Park Cemetery. We came armed with gardening tools, implements of weed destruction and went to work at clearing away the headstones of my grandparents. Grayson was confused, asking often about whether we were in Texas, and when we were going home. We told him that we were here to remember people we loved. People whose names began with an "S," which we pointed to on the headstone. People who loved him.

And as we donned our gardening gloves, and our trowels, Mom and I kneeled near these headstones of the two we found dearer that most others in this world. As we plunged our trowel and kitchen knife and utility scissors in the weeds around the stones for James L. and Lucille I. Soderstrom, Grayson danced. He danced and pranced and jumped atop their graves. And we told him stories--stories about the way Grandma made cookies and Grandpa wound clocks and how much they would have delighted in him, and how were it not for them he would not exist.

Grayson picked up the reddest leaves of the sunset maple which had shed near their graves. He placed one on each headstone with our prompting, and mom and I hugged one another in the bitter wind, and I remembered how cold it was on those days in both October of 1996 and January 0f 2005 when we left their bodies in the barren ground.

The infamous Church of the Brethren group Kindling, that group of proud Brethren rebels who speak truth and teach me still in their words, and specifically the lyricist Lee Krahenbuhl, speak of the power of legacy. Lee's words say, "All that remains is the love bravely expressed..."

My grandparents expressed their love in countless ways and I am humbled.

I will never stop missing them. I will never stop missing the joy that radiated from them when I awoke in the morning and made my clumsy way down the steps, the steps Grandpa constructed in their home by the railroad tracks. The way they said, "It's Christen! Good Morning! Come have some breakfast!" I wasn't sure I'd ever hear that kind of joy in a voice again, until I heard my son call, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" when he saw my face fresh in the morning through the slats of his crib.

All that remains is the love. And I will express it as well as I am able. For how can there be more in this realm, but to bravely express what has been given, and what we are called to pass on. And if that is all there is, who's to say it isn't enough.

Because Her Therapist Told Her To

She posts.

But, it is awkward as all hell because she's dosed on Prednisone and while she is still sighing sighs too deep for words after learning that her elusive weirdo bizarre physical (hypochondriacal, as some have been known to say) symptoms are completely authentic but also benign and medication related, she is still a little unsure of how to start writing again.

Writing about feeling cosmically alone. And feeling as if death is just too present. And feeling as if life is just too damn short. And wondering if all this living in the midst of death doesn't mean she's becoming ineffective in the ways of life.

I don't doubt God's ways. I'm sure that if She is around she's a pretty smart cookie.

But, I doubt Her being around in general. I wonder, all too often, if this is all there is.

And yet, I see the faraway look in the eyes of patients as they reach their hands out to the loved ones who are calling them. I opened my eyes in awe-struck wonder as the 94-year-old woman last month who I sat next to in her hospital bed as she called pleadingly for her mommy. She grabbed my hand with urgency as she asked, "Don't you see her? She's right there? Shouldn't I go?" How could I say no?

"Yes, Cordelia, she's right there. She's waiting for you," I assured.

Believing. And doubting (was it Morphine?).

So, readers...are there readers here anymore when I've ignored you for so long? What do you believe? Where is God? What is heaven? Are we cosmically alone?

(John, you reading? Or does that break the Hippocratic/Therapeutic oath?)

Accumulated Hurt

Occasionally it occurs to me that my job is a hard one.

Three times this week I've already had people comment on the work of Hospice professionals. "Your staff are all angels." "You have been my rock, how do you do it?" "I couldn't do your job." The man who changed the oil on my car after work last week saw my name badge and said, "Hospice? Yuck. That's a bummer. Better you than me." (True, that. I must concur in his case).

It seems that universally, people see those of us who care for the dying as those who are set apart. And perhaps in some ways, some of us are. Perhaps some of us felt called to work with the dying, felt comfortable with death, felt led to embrace their vocation. But I would venture a guess that while this may have called some of us into the work, those noble aspirations have also left some of us with mind-numbing apathy or burn-out, or with questions about suffering which remain unanswered and unanswerable. I would venture a guess that for many of us death is still a great gaping void which we will face with our own fears. I would venture a guess that sometimes we trust that we are immune to the life-threatening illnesses which plague our patients and that perhaps our work with the dying acts as an all-purpose vaccine or Cootie shot which keeps us away from the grim reaper's evil eye.

I want to tell you a little secret, gather in close, for I may only have the courage to say it once while my guard is down and my protective armor is wearing thin in places. We who work in end of life care think about death too much. We are, probably, no less comfortable with it, no less afraid of our own mortality, no less healthy than the general public. We just know its ways better. We know what chain stoke breathing sounds like. We recognize mottled skin. We know what it means when patients pick at the air with their thin fingers. We know when to whisper, and when to speak loudly. We don't hate death any less. We just know it more intimately. And we have to think about it all the time.

But because we think about death all the time, find it lurking in every corner, see it staring us down at every interval, we also may savor the sweetness of this life more. We might. Some of us.

St. Christopher's Hospice, the first Hospice created in England, had engraved over the doorway "The dying are our teachers." It is a phrase which has shaped me in this ministry, and in my own nearly inaudible call. It isn't Hospice professionals who are heroes, who are the angels, who are the steady rock. It is the dying themselves. The ones who can look death in the face and stare it down and allow themselves to breathe deeply of the strength of the life that is left. The ones who see their loved ones who have already passed, and hear their voices calling them and leave their bodies content that they will be embraced on another plane. The ones who writhe in pain and trust our medical team to dose them with mind-altering drugs. The ones who whisper their most intimate secrets and welcome we Hospice strangers into their lives at the end.

I am still learning from my teachers; and there are days when I don't listen well to their lessons. Which is, I realize, why I stay in this ministry. For I have miles to go.

The Dreamer

I have slept with many people in my life.



(I'm just waiting for jaws to hit the floor on that one, as I'm not a very forthcoming person when it comes to certain intimate details).

But, before I start to get concerned emails, spam about Viagra, or propositions (am I too old to be propositioned?), I should note that I am referring to the act of literally sleeping with others. Whether that be crawling into bed between my parents when I was young and roused out of bed by a storm, or whether it was in sharing a bunkbed in a steamy Indiana night at church camp with fifteen other prepubescent girls. Whether it was sharing a dorm room and loft with my college roommate, or under the stars with my ex-husband after watching a meteor shower.
Whether I slept in the closest of embraces with the men I have loved, or slept curled on my side with an infant cradled near my breast and a cat tucked into the crook of my bended legs. I have shared my bed with many a soul.

But, sleeping with my sweet R. is a whole 'nother country (to coopt the words of his home state). R. sleeps soundly, for the most part, or appears to. Often, he lies serenely with both hands folded across his chest, his graying head resting perfectly centered on the down pillow. When we first began sharing a bed, I worried at times that he had actually stopped breathing, so quiet and serene was his pose (he was in fact teased in college, as he had a reading lamp poised over his bottom bunk and would fall asleep in the aformentioned position looking not unlike a prepared body in a coffin, causing roommates to pause). Having a first husband who was an avowed sleep-talker, sleep-walker, and occasional sleep-preacher, the quiet presence in bed next to me was a bit disconcerting.

But, what R. presents in his peaceful repose (his front-stage, if you Goffmanites prefer), is not congruent with what happens inside his mind. For in his dreaming life, he is an adventurer who hobnobs with the rich and powerful and who travels far and wide.

Consider the encounter we had a few mornings ago as R. walked out of the bathroom, his razor still in hand, to report his visions to his observant wife, still in bed.

R: You know what I dreamed last night?
C: About apologizing to Richard Nixon again for how mean you were in bad-mouthing him?
R: No, not last night.
C: About eating barbeque with Michelle Obama?
R: No, that was a few nights back, she was really nice, by the way.
C: Was it Bono again? Did he remind you, once again, to "Be the beat?"
R: No, that was last summer.
C: I don't know, sweets. What did you dream?
R: Barbara Bush and I were singing, harmonizing actually, in a stairwell. Sort of like the stairwell in the Ad. Building at Manchester. We sang "Climb Every Mountain."
C: Barbara the elder? Or Barbara the younger?
R: Barbara the elder, of course. And it was really beautiful, there were phenomenal accoustics. It was quite inspirational actually.

Reader, what can I do? I have married him.

I've heard stories about porta-potty workers who, after R. complimented them on their clean facilities, gathered around him and sang their theme song in four-part harmony. I've heard stories about the gang members who taught R. their gang signs (gang signs which meant, obviously, "Two biscuits, and three pieces of chicken").

My hermit of a husband, the man who has never been able to afford out of country travel, the man who would prefer to watch rather than to act, this consummate dreamer provides me with constant entertainment. And each day, every single morning I marvel at the interior world he inhabits.

And delight that he sleeps with me.

Conversation with a Two-Year Old

The hypothetical situation involves a parent who comes in from a long day of work where she or he spends long hours holding the hands of dying people (completely hypothetical, of course as the Mommy, oops, I mean parent, may have been dancing on their stripper pole or filling tacos at Taco Bell or auditing IRS returns). The toddler in question, whose name is um, for the story, um...Mayson, yeah, Mayson. Runs to greet his mother in the colonial blue kitchen with the most adorable off-white wainscoting and crown molding, I mean, in the, um, neutral beige generic kitchen of some anonymous home somewhere in the United States.

This is the conversation that ensues.

Mother: Hey, Boy-Boy, how was your day?
Mayson: Hi Mommy. Garage door up, garage door down.
Mother: Did you have a good day today?
Mayson: (Wide eyed, nodding). Big garage door. Go up and down.
Mother: Did the garage door come up when Mommy got home?
Mayson: Yeah, Mom. Garage door. (Nods enthusiastically)
Mother: Did you have a yummy lunch today?
Mayson: Garage door. Garage door down. (Whispers conspiratorially) Garage door down, Mom.
Mother: And did you watch Mickey's Clubhouse today?
Mayson: Garage door go up!
Mother: What about global warming? Did you figure that out? Call Al Gore and discuss the situation?
Mayson: Ummm Hmmm. Garage door up down.
Mother: And Bin Laden? Figure out where he's hiding?
Mayson: Garage door goes up.
Mother: Think Neil Patrick Harris did a nice job with the Tonys last night?
Mayson: Down. Up. Garage door, MMMMM....(making garage door noise)
Mother: Should I continue to color my hair?
Mayson: Garage door. Big garage door go down.
Mother: Paper or plastic?
Mayson: OOooooh, Mom, garage door.
Mother: Wanna call Grandpa?
Mayson: Babaw, garage door too. Garage door go up.
Mother: What about Noni? Wanna call and see what she did today?
Mayson: Noni has big garage door, little garage door.
Mother: Do you know that I love you?
Mayson: Um hmm. I love doo, Mommy.
Mother: Garage door up down, Babe. Right back at ya.

If I were this child's mother, hypothetically of course, I might consider signing him up for some sort of early-intervention OCD program, or looking for the best ivy league garage door repair schools in the country, 'cause he's obviously gifted.

"Well, Dang!" She says with Slack-Jawed Amazement

Where'd that baby go? He was just here a minute ago.

I turned around he became a little boy.

Words Soon...Picture Now

Heart to Heart

Interaction between Grayson and R. tonight.

G: Daddum...Daddum...Daddum...
R: (Laughing aloud [a rarity as R. isn't a big laugher]) Wow, look at you! I didn't know you could pull your pants down!

Apparently Grayson has the Miller sense of humor.

And finds mooning great fun.

Ah, that's my boy. Great-grandpa Herman would be proud.

His Father's Son