Wednesday, November 28, 2018

The Steadfastness and Faithfulness of Joseph

While my husband is at work and the kids are at school, I find some time to pull out the boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations. Preparing the house for the season is a Herculean task, but one I adore and anticipate with joy every year. I love see each room transform as shades of red and green begin to litter the shelves, walls, and counters. I love some decorations simply for their beauty but many I love more for their memories.

I leave a few things for the family to do together. The tree is a two-person job and decorating it becomes a family affair, though, truthfully, my husband and I still end up doing the bulk of it as our children’s attention tends to wax and wane. They kids will find “their” ornaments, the ones with their names on them, and my husband and I will reflect on friends and family that gifted some ornament or another to us or on the time we purchased it together to mark a special occasion.

Special attention is reserved, however, for all of our nativity sets. We have the Snoopy set, the wooden set made especially for children to play with, one made of clay, and another of porcelain. We make an inventory of each one: Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, the shepherds, the wise men, the angel, maybe a star, and certainly some animals. Usually there is a debate about which one is Joseph and which are the shepherds, they all look so much alike.

Poor Joseph.

It’s interesting how we say, “Mary and Joseph;” Joseph always being Mary’s “plus one” to the party.
I walk over and pick up Joseph from one of our sets and turn him over in my hands. Too often he is treated as an accessory, even in scripture. He disappears entirely after the story of the boy Jesus in the temple in Luke’s gospel. Mark never mentions him; neither does Paul in any of his letters.

I look at the small Joseph in my hands and wonder, anew, at his faithfulness. To marry a tainted woman, especially in Joseph’s time, was scandalous and Mary was tainted, carrying another man’s child. At least, that is how the world would see it. In a dream, an angel commands him to accept Mary, despite her condition, and trust that the child to be born is holy.

Against all odds, Joseph does as the angel commands. He could have written off the angel’s appearing as a dream. He could have bowed to social pressure and cast Mary out, as would have been expected. He could have walked away or cast out the son he knew wasn’t his own. But, instead, he stayed. He raised the child and loved the mother. He chose to bear down, deep into his faith, and remain steadfast and true to God and to Mary.

What would you do if every instinct, every societal norm, even every religious expectation told you to take one path but you knew God had called you to another? Would you be strong enough not to bow to pressure? What if it meant being abandoned by your friends and family? What if everyone called you a “fool” and shook their heads at your poor judgement?

This Christmas season, may we commit ourselves anew, not to the beautiful baby who smiles beatifically from his manger, but to the radical man who defies the world by dying on a cross, an ultimate sign of foolishness. May we find in our hearts the steadfastness and faithfulness of Joseph who dared to stay, dared to hope, dared to say “yes” to God.

I leave you with a poem I wrote many years ago during one of the first Christmases when I stopped seeing Joseph, the accessory, and started appreciating Joseph, the man.

A very blessed Advent and Christmas to you all.



Against the Screams

A young woman lies,
resting between the screams of pain.
A loyal husband waits.
Does he feel angry against the screams?
Does he question his decision?
Does he trust the angel in this moment?
Against her screams, can he believe?
Is he scared that the angel wasn’t real?
That it is all a lie?
Do those screams bring forth a savior
or a bastard son?
In this moment, does he have faith?
Can he?
Does he stay beside her?
Hold her hand?
Or does he go outside to wonder, wait?
He screams cut through the quiet dark of night.

And against the screams, he waits.

Monday, November 12, 2018

Dosas, Diwali, and Finding Home


V. starts the evening unsure and tidy, wearing a pressed button-up shirt under an approved uniform sweater bearing the school logo. This is a religious holiday, after all, and he has come as a guest to celebrate and honor the importance of the day. He comes into the kitchen to thank me for having him and hosting the dinner. Delhi is 10.5 hours ahead of Rabun Gap, a tremendous distance for a teenager feeling homesick as he watches videos and sees pictures of friends and family celebrations back home.

I give him a hug to welcome him, then turn to the stove, firing up the flame under a flat iron pan specifically made for cooking dosas, a south Indian specialty.

“Wait until it gets very hot,” V. hesitantly offers.

“Not too much oil,” he says next, as I begin to brush the pan to prepare it for the batter.

“Do you have the right batter?” he asks.

I smile and ask him if he would like to cook the first dosa. I am not offended, but genuinely want him to participate in whatever way will feed his soul and soothe his heart.

“May I?” he answers.

“Of course!” I say as I step aside and show him where to find everything he needs to start cooking.
Our house fills with more than thirty students and faculty members, but V. stays at the stove. K., another student from Delhi, arrives after basketball practice and sets up shop beside V. in the kitchen. I gather supplies for her to cook poha, one of her favorite dishes, and V. and K. enter a beautiful and joyful dance of cooking, smiling, and talking.

Soon, both of them are on Facetime with their mothers in India. I’m not sure how grateful the moms are for the calls since it is not quite 7 a.m. their time the day after a major festival with parties. But our cooks want to ask their mothers’ advice and show them the fruits of their labors.

“It’s almost time to eat. I’ll keep things going in here so the two of you can go to the living room and tell everyone something about Diwali,” I tell our cooks.

“No! You go and do it. We want to stay here,” they tell me with wide eyes as their hands continue to stir and flip.

K. finishes her dish then works the room as her friends load their plates with food from her homeland.

V. sheds his sweater after my husband encourages him to get more comfortable. It is hot in the kitchen, especially over the screaming pan. I offer to take over so he can eat but he will not leave his post. His friends line up, plates in hand, waiting for him to deliver a hot and fresh dosa. He laughs and chats with each of them, talking about the dosas and other foods from home. He stays at the stove until every last bit of batter has been slathered on the pan’s surface, flipped, then stuffed with potatoes and spices.

This last dosa is his. He takes a picture to send to his mother, proud of his progress in perfecting the dosas over the course of the evening. He loads a second plate with rice, daal, sambar, paneer, salad, and chutneys. He sits at the table, welcomed by the others like an athlete returned from a successful competition.

Most everyone else has finished eating and moved to the piano. An American student sits at the keys and begins to play. The students around her are from the Caribbean, Afghanistan, Chile, India, Germany, and other countries. They find song lyrics on their phones and soon all are singing their favorite pop songs.

Candles burn around the room and a Bollywood movie plays, muted, on the television. I tidy the kitchen then plop into my favorite chair. V. sits with friends at the table behind me, talking about the food and his favorite Diwali traditions. In front of me, K. sings with her friends and dormmates.
Everyone is full and happy. No one is missing home because they have brought home here, into this room, with one another.

Sunday, November 4, 2018

Jesus wept, so why can’t we?



“Jesus wept.”

The shortest passage in the bible, John 11:35.

Jesus wept because he heard of the death of Lazarus, a man he knew and loved, a friend who was like family.

Jesus wept out of love and grief, not out of doubt.

Jesus wept because it is the human response to loss and sadness.

Jesus wept because it is what anyone with a heart does when that heart is damaged or broken by news that is not welcome.

Jesus wept but the world didn’t stop. No one judged him. No one left him.

Jesus wept and no one questioned if he was fit to lead or fit to serve.

Jesus wept in front of his followers, in a public place for all to see, and no one turned away, no one tried to hide him, no one tried to quiet him.

Jesus wept without shame or embarrassment because weeping is as much a part of human life as laughter.

Jesus wept because tears are prayers of thanksgiving in the depths of sorrow. Each tear is praise for a life lived that now is gone, gratitude for a gift given that is no more but we loved while we had it; a gift so great that the absence of it pains us to our very core.

Jesus wept because we celebrate life not only with smiles and joy but also with heartbreak and sorrow.

Jesus wept because he loved and to love is to risk it all for the sake of the other. To love is to know your heart will swell and break because that’s how God created each and every one of us.

Jesus wept because the pain of love is as rewarding and important as the elation of ecstasy.

Jesus wept for himself and his friends but not out of selfishness or doubt. We can mourn loss in the same moment we have deep and abiding faith that death doesn’t have the last word.

Jesus wept because faith isn’t about 24/7 smiles and praise but about steadfastness in the face of loss and pain.

Jesus wept because he could, in a full embrace of his humanity and capacity for life, love, suffering, loss, joy, elation, friendship.

Jesus wept because he should, because that’s what we do when someone we love leaves us, sometimes even when we know it’s temporary.

Jesus wept, showing us yet another stone in the path that paves the way of life, the way of the cross, the way of faith, the way that is discipleship and dedication to following him.

Jesus wept, so why can’t we? Why don’t we? Are we less human? Do we feel love and loss any less? Do we think ourselves better or stronger than the almighty? Are we so ashamed and embarrassed by our tears whereas God himself cried openly and with abandon?

Jesus wept. And so do we, can we, should we.

Thursday, November 1, 2018

Thanksgiving and the Radical Suffering of Christ



“Let’s go around and name one thing we are thankful for from the last year.”

We all look around the Thanksgiving table, wondering who will be brave enough to go first. Hopefully, it’s someone across from you. That means you have the time it takes seven or eight people to talk before you have to say something.

This is a Thanksgiving tradition in our family and I’m sure in other families around the country. I look forward to hearing what people remember from the year that has passed and what they hold dear. Some years, the exercise is easy; we can think of too many moments of gratitude to share. Other years it’s more difficult as we think of hard times, lost loved ones, or difficult days.

To be sure, it is a valuable exercise and is part of the purpose of our national holiday. Thanksgiving is set aside as a day for giving thanks, not presents. For celebrating the bounty of God’s blessings and the company of friends and family. It is one of my favorite holidays, not only because the food is amazing but because the purpose is simply to be with one another in gratitude. I hope this year brings you too many memories of gratefulness to number.

But it’s also possible this will be a year for you when you struggle to name just one person, one event for which to give thanks. We are human and suffering is a part of the rhythm of life. Perhaps this year brings one more empty chair at your table from the loss of a loved one, perhaps by death but perhaps by a broken relationship.

Too often we emphasize the risen Christ, the one reigning on high, liberated from the cross. In fairly typical fashion, Christ the King Sunday falls the Sunday after Thanksgiving and we look to the coming of the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven while also celebrating the ways the kingdom is already realized in the kingship of the risen Christ. It’s a Sunday about triumph and glory.

But we must remember the glory and triumph were preceded by the suffering and darkness of Good Friday. There can be no resurrection or ascension without betrayal and crucifixion. That, too, is something for which to be grateful this Thanksgiving. At the heart of the Gospel is Christ’s willingness to bear the pain common to all of humanity. We must never forget the radical and subversive action of the cross, on which Jesus of Nazareth hung in the very public act of humility that was the ultimate show if his power.

Why is this radical suffering so important? Because through it Christ defeated death and won for us liberation from all that would bind us. But also because it means we have a God who suffers as we suffer, who willingly enters into our pain and darkness. We are never alone, even in the deepest abyss, because Jesus is there with us.

I won’t say that all suffering brings transformation and revelation. Another habit we have is saying, “There must be a reason for this,” meaning that God makes us undergo the pain to teach us some valuable lesson or another. But to do so is a gross rationalization. We live in a sinful world and some of our pain is caused by another’s brokenness, not because there is some grand plan. Similarly, our souls inhabit human bodies and those bodies fail us, not as punishment but simply because of biology.

The message we first carry with us is not that there must be a grand reason for our suffering. The primary message of the cross is that we have a God who loves us so deeply, so completely, that God inhabits the depths of our suffering with us. We are never abandoned, even as we find ourselves taking up our own crosses.

Prayers and thanksgivings for you all, my friends. As the season of gratitude falls upon us, I pray you find quiet spaces to tuck away into, spaces where you can plumb the depths of your experiences and rest both in and from your suffering. This year, I lift you all to God in my prayers of thanksgiving, grateful for the love and light you share with the world.

Enzymes and Hospitality


I confess: I’m a small science nerd. I’m not one to read books about the subject but I do love watching biological processes at work and taking note of the way the laws of physics govern our world.

My love and fascination for enzymes, especially, has not faded. Enzymes are catalysts that expedite chemical reactions. When atoms combine to form new molecules, often enzymes are the workhorses making that it happen. The enzymes are not a part of the new molecule, but they bring the elements together and make them happier. Nature provides a facilitator to move things along and bring things together that otherwise may not have bumped up against each other.

Enzymes create an active site for two substrates to connect. The enzyme brings these substrates together until they can meld into a new product. The new product releases from the enzyme, allowing the enzyme to reset its active site and prepare for new substrates. Isn’t that beautiful?

When we engage in the ministry of hospitality, we do the work of an enzyme. We set a table, dress up our lawn, arrange plates and napkins, and prepare food. We make ready our active site. Then our guests, our substrates, arrive. Some of the guests know each other and share a bond already but others will be meeting for the first time. They will introduce themselves, get to know each other, and form a new bond. By the time they leave, these substrates are in relationship with one another and we, the hosts and catalysts, can clean and reset the active site for another meeting.

Case in point: Recently we had a group of people to our house to celebrate our son’s birthday and mark Oktoberfest. There were people from four different parts of our lives in attendance. Once all of our guests had arrived and dinner was served, I walked around to watch and listen. On the deck, a family new to the area visited with school families and church members, learning why we all love Rabun Gap and Saint James. On the lawn, the parent of a kindergartener visited with a fifth-grade teacher. The parent called me over and said, “My new BFF!” wrapping her arm around the teacher. “We had the same nickname growing up! We’re just finding out what else we have in common.”

Yesterday, I happened to be on Facebook and saw a friend of ours of fifteen years comment on the post of another friend of twenty-two years. The two people live in different parts of the country and would not know each other were it not for our wedding thirteen years ago. Now, they are friends.

Enzymatic activity at work.

I feel the same way about being a priest, especially around the altar. So much of my job is connecting people so that ministry can grow out of their new relationship, organically and dynamically. I hear someone shares an interest that matches another person’s resources and my job is to bring them together to talk and see if a new product might result from our efforts. Similarly, I set the table on Sunday morning for the congregation to gather around and be fed by God. The action of gathering at the altar creates a new product: the body of Christ. I’m not the host, simply the catalyst. And I love this work.

I sometimes hear people either degrade themselves or one another around the art of hospitality. Some people say they couldn’t host people to their houses because they aren’t perfect and can’t create the “perfect” environment. Similarly, people will criticize someone for hosting parties because they want to “show off” their fashionable houses and perfect abilities to pull off a gathering.

These thoughts are wrong and, in the process, we are discouraging one another from performing one of the most fundamental ministries there is. Welcoming each other through acts of hospitality is a primary ministry that gives birth to many more. I don’t delight in having people into my home because I get to show it off. To the contrary, I don’t make extra efforts to have everything looking perfect or even tidy. I simply love seeing people meet, laugh, connect, eat well, and leave happier than when they came and with new bonds and relationships.

In an age of isolation and alienation, could we not do with some more enzymes? Do we not need more catalysts for bringing people together rather than fewer? To that end, I encourage you, brothers and sisters, to consider the ministry of hospitality. Consider creating active sites where new products might be formed. We hunger for connection and relationship, renewal and purpose. This does not happen if we do not first get people together. Won’t you partner with me, then, in some enzymatic activity?

Holiday Imperfection


I shared this on social media on October 30 and got lots of giggles, so I thought I'd share it here. Enjoy!


Typical and expected wording for social media post:
Yay! 48 monster pops made and cooling for the kids’ Halloween parties tomorrow!
Now for the realness:
1. I bought the rice crispy treats pre-made and we just decorated them.
2. I was reminded why I am a cook and not a pastry chef or candy maker. I HATE working with candy and candy melts.
3. I was also reminded why I generally kick everyone out of my kitchen when I’m cooking. This is the “Prayerful Kitchen” because cooking is a prayerful and meditative process of me. That said, God blessed me with three hyper-verbal children. Do you know how meditative cooking is with a 10-year-old talking the entire time? It’s not. Not in the slightest. I had to tell her that if she kept talking incessantly, I would have to kick her out if my kitchen.
As you look at all the perfect holiday pictures from now through New Years, remember most of them have a back story. You’re not seeing the temper tantrums, the relatives who aren’t on speaking terms, the burnt cake, the dropped turkey, and you certainly aren’t hearing the constant thread of curse words pouring through most everyone’s heads.
Friends, you got this. You don’t have to “do all the things.” Do what feeds you. Do what excites you. Do what fulfills you and your people. Don’t try to do it perfectly and don’t pretend that you did it perfectly.
Sending everyone love and light as we hop on the holiday train!

Fleeting Life and Ash Wednesday

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” from the imposition of ashes in the Ash Wednesday service, Episcopal Book o...