The Up Side of Down

Is there an up side of down? I was returning to Krum from a clergy meeting and listening to NPR when I heard a report from an author who was making just this claim. Between the winter membership drive invitations, Megan McArdle made various points on while failure is so essential to human growth and well-being. It sounds counter-intuitive, but as I listened, I understood.

When we fail, we have the opportunity to learn from the mistakes we made. When things come easily to us, we actually may not learn as much. It’s the difference between seeing the results of our attempts as the outcome of hard work and effort or natural ability.

My husband is a saxophonist and currently teaches students from middle school to undergraduate. We have had many conversations about effort versus talent. From his perspective, he would gladly take the student willing to try and try hard rather than one who coasts on native ability. It’s a lesson that translates well beyond music. We all run out of talent at some point, whatever we are attempting, and it’s then that our effort must kick in.

Or worse, suffering and tragedy come through no doing of our own and we must be resilient. And resilience is built through failing, dusting ourselves off, and trying again. I’ve reminded myself of this lesson as I watch my son grow. It’s tempting to hover over him, to use my strength, resilience, and maturity to shield him from all harm. My hands instinctively rose to catch him whenever he was learning to walk and would stumble. While some measure of safety is important, I must allow him to try, to fail, and to learn. It’s the way that all of us become resilient individuals.

Resilience is about more than being strong. It’s the difference between the oak and the willow trees, if you’ve heard that old story. The two trees are standing on the bank of a river and the oak is bragging to the willow about how beautiful and strong it is, how its branches reach up to the sky, and its roots hold deep within the earth. The willow agrees, its branches sagging with sadness, brushing the face of the river. That night, a powerful storm comes with ripping winds. The willow’s branches are tossed by the wind, but its supple frame bends. The oak is not so lucky. With a mighty crack, the rigid oak breaks before the storm. That’s not to say that the willow is unscathed, but it survives because of its resiliency.

It can be the same way for us. Last year was an incomparably hard year for me and my family. I lost my grandfather, my baby, and my father in just a matter of months. While I was bruised and battered by the waves of loss and grief, I also recognized something profound. My spirit was like a weeble-wobble, those little toys that may sway and teeter, but don’t fall down. And eventually, by God’s grace, I began to be righted.

Especially in the loss of our baby, I recognized the healing capacity of our wounded places. My grief, and my willingness to be open about our story, gave others the permission to share their stories of pain. I heard so many stories from men and women who had finally found a safe place to share and be heard. While I don’t believe God causes the pain and brokenness we experience in our lives, I do believe God redeems it.

Christ is the exemplar of this redemptive power of God through the cross and resurrection. “He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that, free from sins, we might live for righteousness; by his wounds [we] have been healed” (1 Peter 2:24). In Jesus’ woundedness for our sake, we are offered grace upon grace. God can transform our wounds, our failures, our weakness into avenues of grace for ourselves and others. May we find that grace and claim it, wherever we find ourselves in this season. 

Remember you are dust...

Years ago, when I worked as an admin at a church, one of the other admins talked about “baby preachers” that came through the system. At that time, the senior pastor of her church was the chair of the Board of Ordained Ministry, so she kept all their files in her office. From her, it was a term of endearment.

Now I am one of those baby preachers. I’m often aware of all the things I don’t know, despite a Master of Divinity hanging on my wall. And I’m often struck powerfully, painfully, truly by the grace that I sometimes talk so much about that it becomes subject rather than reality.

I’ve been appointed to my church for 3½ years now. I’ve gotten to know so many of the people deeply. Their faces are dear to me and I know their stories. In teaching an older adult Sunday school class recently, I was able to step out onto political limbs for the sake of the gospel because I was entirely confident that I love them, and they know it, and they love me back. It’s an amazing place from which to do ministry.

So tonight, on Ash Wednesday, which has never been my favorite day of the liturgical year, I choked up…again. I didn’t remember it from last year, but as I looked into all of these dear faces, young and old, dipping my thumb into the bowl of ashes to trace there the symbol of death which has become a promise of life for us, I found my voice breaking. I see an upturned face, an expectant waiting. I approach. I press my thumb into the black grit. I trace a broad down stroke, with the words, “Remember you are dust…” And as I seal the sign across their brow, “…and to dust you shall return.”

Ah me! Across the wrinkles, I wrote it. Across the smooth skin of children, where time has left no sign yet, I wrote it. Across the foreheads of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, wives, husbands, grandparents, grandchildren, I wrote it. I wrote the fatal/immortal sign and felt the anticipated pain of losing them to this mortal sight.

To me, the reminder of our mortality is unwelcome. I don’t like being dust! I’m so much more, as I preached one Ash Wednesday a few years back. Death and the fear of death hang around all of us, why must our faith remind us of it, too? Just look at the pop culture, where men and women spend small fortunes to remain forever young. We all fear the march of time that robs us of vigor and spirits our loved ones away.

And yet, I know the hope in this day is that death does not have final say. Even as we enter Lent, even as we remember that we are but dust that our Eternal Creator crafted in the palm of an almighty hand, we know we are precious creatures who find their eternal home in God.

As William Wordsworth puts it in his Ode: Intimations of  Immortality,

            “The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

                        Hath had elsewhere its setting,

                        And cometh from afar:

                        Not in entire forgetfulness,

                        And not in utter nakedness,

            But trailing clouds of glory do we come

                        From God, who is our home:

                        Heaven lies about us in our infancy!”

This is my "who am I?" for the #rethinkchurch
photo-a-day project for Lent.
Follow me to see more: @UMeldergirl

So while I may not like Ash Wednesday, I do my best to wrestle with it and find its blessing, as Jacob taught. And I pray that I never become so hardened or practical or accustomed to grace that these moments fail to move me toward tears.

 

But when I got home, just before my 2½ year old’s bedtime, grace continued to abound. He saw me, pointed to my forehead, and laughed. Mommy had a dirty forehead. Oh yes, child, and how much dirtier am I within. But there is good news for me and for you and for all us dirty folks.

What are your thoughts on Ash Wednesday? I’d love to hear your take.

Revelation at the Rail

I was serving communion on Sunday. I had half a loaf of bread in my right hand, swaddled like a newborn, and I was tearing pieces to give to the people worshiping with us. Pinch, tear, give, cover, “The body of Christ, broken for you.” It’s a powerful moment; one of the reasons I pursued becoming an elder in the United Methodist Church. The sacraments are holy, mysterious things in which bread, water, and other common elements become conveyors of grace. Good stuff.

Now for my confession – even extraordinary means of grace can become routine in the life of a pastor. I know – you’re shocked and appalled. I wonder of ob’s and midwives would confess the same thing about birth. In any case, on Sunday, I was a little distracted. I was doing a very un-choreographed dance with my partner, who had the tray of shot-glass sized juice cups – to the rail, around the Advent wreath, around the lectern, avoid the other servers! Bend, serve, watch, move, repeat.

There are a lot of mundane things I think about as I serve communion. Are her hands open? Is he ready to receive? Do I have enough bread left to manage this group, or should I signal for more? How many folks to go? Watch me, juice server, so we make sure that everybody gets both. Is she going to be able to get up from kneeling? The juice cups are stacking up there. Who left some bread on the rail? Seriously.

Then I noticed a pair of older adults making their way to the rail with their granddaughter. The grandmother, a tall, slender, stately woman, carefully knelt at the rail, arranging her skirts. The granddaughter, who’s maybe 3 years old, watched and stepped up onto the kneeling cushion before kneeling, too. The grandfather knelt on her other side. Then the little girl realized she couldn’t see over the rail, so she stood back up. She was very cute – all blue eyes and blond hair and sweet expression. The grandparents cupped their hands, the signal that they were ready to receive, and she followed suit.

I smiled, a little wistful. I haven’t figured out how to worship with my family much yet. My son is at the church all morning, most of the time. He comes in for children’s time, twice, but then is whisked away by the childcare staff before communion, which is probably for the best for a very wiggly 2 year old. And if my husband is in church, he’s usually running the sound board, which puts him across the sanctuary and up a floor from me.

So I savored the sweetness of this family moment, of a child being brought to taste and see faith. I felt such love within me – a love that started with my child, but which, more and more, is being grown by God. And I realized that this is who I am to be as a pastor. I am called to love each and every person who comes to the rail, who comes through the door, who is a part of my community, like I am able to love this child. God continues to teach me, even when I’m not expecting an epiphany. What has God taught you lately?

Bodies in the Body of Christ

A girl wears a bikini at church camp and it’s considered inappropriate, so instead of singling her out, the camp directors decide that everyone will wear t-shirts at the pool.

A girl is on mission trip and is repeatedly asked to change clothes since her sleeveless t-shirts and shorts do not abide by the clothing policy.

A boy at camp decides to wear short shorts at camp in celebration of 80′s day. He and his friends laugh while some of the counselors roll their eyes.

A pastor at a local church wears a skirt and top to worship since the worship leaders have decided not to wear robes over the hot summer. A few congregants comment that her skirt length is not appropriate.

How do we consider bodies as members of the body of Christ? I’ve been thinking about this for a long time since our faith is radically incarnational. God took on flesh. God was born, experienced the best and worst of human existence, and then suffered a horrible death, but that was not enough to conquer God who rose from the dead, body and all. God not only created us to be beloved children; God loved and valued us enough – desired to be in relationship with us enough – to humble God’s self to life in a body.

So what do we think of these precious bodies that God values so much? As Americans, it seems like we spend most of our time objectifying bodies, especially female bodies but male bodies more and more. Bodies are seen in everything from works of art to crass commercials. Bodies are washed, clothed, cared for, loved. Bodies are dirtied, humiliated, stripped, hated.

So what is a faithful follower of Christ supposed to do? Here is what I’ve discerned so far:
1) Respect Bodies – Respect other bodies’ needs. See their needs as no different from and just as important as our own.
2) Heal Bodies – All bodies deserve to be healthy and whole. Persons should have access to good food, water, shelter, and medical care to ensure their body’s health. Touch is a powerful remedy in itself; there’s a reason it’s included in healing services.
3) Love Bodies – Handle and observe bodies with love. I feel a surge of compassion when I see the very young and very old struggle to walk, stand, kneel. I admire the grace and prowess of athletes and youth. And when a body needs love – in the form of a hug, handshake, or gentle touch on the shoulder – I pray I might have the grace to offer what I, too, need.

In baptism we use water in the ancient act of washing a body. In communion we gather bodies around a common table to learn how we can all receive the nourishment we need. God pours out grace in ways our bodies recognize and with which our souls resonate.

There are things only having a body can teach us. Think of learning to ride a bicycle. When I try to describe the intricate art of sitting, balancing, peddling, racing over pavement or dirt trails, it sounds ridiculous. Even watching my son as he learns to stand and, eventually, walk gives me new appreciation for the skills I’ve taken for granted for years.

So it’s no surprise to me that God teaches us through our bodies, too. And maybe, as we give and receive respect and healing and love, we’ll be better at living as the Body of Christ, too.