My first memoir piece published!

 OK, I’m excited.  Here it is.  

Thanks to everyone who’s been encouraging me to keep going, and to submit pieces.

https://herstryblg.com/true/2021/7/15/a-habit-and-a-hardhat

My Easter Homily, delayed

 Alleluia!  I guess.  Sort of.

 

I don’t know about you, but I always feel behind a little on Easter Day.  Being deeply in the story means going through the shock and the grief of Jesus’ death.  It’s hard to let go of that and just rejoice.  Oh, happy day!  Thank God that’s over!  No.  

These past days we have been remembering a traumatic event.  Today is another one.  It may be joyful, but it’s still traumatic: a human has been raised from the dead.  We watched him die, but now he’s here. 

 

It’s enough to make anyone crazy.

 

So why do we go through this?  Why have generations of Christians walked this road?  

 

Many Protestant churches do not bother with Holy Week.  They don’t have crucifixes in their churches, but only empty crosses.  They seem to want resurrection without the passion.  Many people, Christians and non-Christians, see the focus on Jesus’ passion and death as morbid.  

 

And it can be.  For generations, the Western Church acted as though Easter never took, new life never came.  It’s possible to be so fixated on the cross that we deny the power of the resurrection.

 

We stand here today in the both/and.  Jesus died, a horrible death.  And Jesus rose, a shocking glorious new possibility.  

 

We need both parts.  

 

We go through the horror of Holy Week as a chance to reflect and be with our own horrors, the horrors of our own lives and the horrors of the world.  We go through it because it enacts the human condition of sin and vulnerability.

 

We rejoice at Easter because this too is part of the human condition.  Not bodily resurrection; we are promised that, but we don’t see it in our daily lives.  But we do see new life grow out of ashes.  We see people wake up seemingly from the dead.  Gang members become model citizens.  People suffering from disease become activists and inspirations.  Divorce, poverty, family death, addiction, injustice, are every day transformed into new courage and contribution.  Jesus’ resurrection is the peak of this experience, but it is not the only example.

 

If we deny the pain, we cannot find our way to the resurrection.  As a recovering addict, I know that denial just leaves us stuck in the mire.  In that place, we can’t even grieve.  

 

If we deny the possibility of resurrection in our lives, we settle for misery.  The voices in us may say we’re better off this way, without hope; we won’t be disappointed.  But those voices lie.  We will be disappointed again, we will suffer more loss, but the loss of hope does not soothe.  With hope we face disappointment, but we will also have access to joy and love and power.  

 

Today is the beginning of Easter.  We have 50 days to absorb this truth, to enter into the joy of the resurrection.  And we have the rest of our lives to live this delicious drama of being human, all of it.

 

Jesus goes before us, into the suffering and into the joy.  Mary Magdalene goes with him, and is sent.  In turn, the male apostles, and the women as well, are sent to proclaim the good news.  And now it’s our turn.

 

Alleluia!  The Lord is risen!

At the Tomb

 

I keep thinking about Sister Margaret Helena.

"Sister" was my teacher and guide when I entered religious life in 2000.  She was 96, crippled with arthritis, with Coke-bottle glasses that made her looks really mean something.  She was not a gentle, meek nun; she was a tough cookie, brooking no compromise with the Rule, and restless and frustrated with her limitations.  She was a perfect match for me, as I was pretty tough, and I wanted to live the life in its fullness, and I'm always restless and frustrated by limitations.  Her fierce love kept me in the convent in the early times (and not-so-early) when I wanted to flee.  

She died on October 30, 2003, five days before her 99th birthday and four months after I made my first vows.  We had the full old-fashioned burial, with vigil lamps around the coffin, the offices of the dead and the requiem mass.  

The night before the funeral, I sat vigil at her coffin.  I cried.  I sobbed, really.  And I told her: "Sister, I don't think I can do this without you."  She would not have wanted to hear that, but that's how it felt.

I'm remembering her today as I think about what that Sabbath day was like for the disciples.  Their beloved teacher, the one they pinned their hopes on, was dead and buried.  He had said things about rising again, but they had no idea what he meant.  There was nothing to do but sit.  And I imagine many of them said in their hearts, "Jesus, I can't do this without you."  

Jesus wouldn't have wanted to hear that.  He was training them to be more than disciples; he called them friends, he sent them to teach and heal and serve.  He didn't mean for his death to be the end of their roads.  But on that day, it probably felt that way to them.

Well, I was right on that vigil night.  I couldn't do it without her, in the way we had hoped for.  Six years later I left that community, bereft.  I knew the seed was in me, I treasured my vows, but I couldn't live them out in that way.

And yet, I was wrong.  God had not stopped working in my life.  Out of my tears I found my way to companions who shared the dream of a new community.  I brought my experience to the mix of what we were creating.  Over the years I've had to let go of some of that to make way for new forms of monastic life, but some lives on.  Sister is still with me.  More, Jesus is still with me.  If I will take the time to listen, Jesus still guides me.  If I will take the chance of following through, the Holy Spirit upholds me.  

Today I sit at Jesus' tomb, with my companions.  And I remember all those I've buried, all those who have tried to teach me and strengthen me.  I grieve this day, but I know, I know, that my Redeemer lives.   That is enough for today.

It's Here. The Way of the Cross Opens Before Us

 It's been three weeks since my last post.  When Lent began I planned to write at least every Sunday.  So much for plans.

Three weeks ago life got really complicated.  It's better now, but it took a while.  We've had medical issues of various sorts, and planning for Holy Week on Zoom.  And I had good news: my first piece of memoir writing was accepted, to be published in July.  In the midst of all that, I plumb forgot to post here.

Now it's Palm Sunday, and we're entering into the heart of Jesus' story.  Yes, his birth is important; without his incarnation, we wouldn't have the rest of his story, or of our own.  And yes, his ministry is essential, his teaching forms us today.  But his central teaching is this: there is no life without death, there is no new life without relinquishing the old.  There is no new possibility unless we are willing to die to who we have known ourselves to be, what we have "known" to be true, what we have held out as most important in our lives.

"Those who love their life will lose it; those who lose their life for my sake and for the Gospel will have eternal life."

Thomas Keating's Welcoming Prayer sums up this path of discipleship.  He welcomes all that comes to him, and he lets go of all that might obscure the way:

"I let go of my desire for power and control.  I let go of my desire for affection, esteem, approval and pleasure.  I let go of my desire for survival and security.  I let go of my desire to change any situation, condition, person, or myself."

To call this a tall order is to minimize it.  This is the central challenge of our lives, to stare all of this in the face and mean it.

This is what Jesus did at the end.  He let go.  He "welcomed" this hard path, as he trusted that it was the only way forward.  He trusted that it was not the end.  In the garden he prayed to have it be otherwise; on the cross he cried out his fear; but he did not abandon his certainty that this was what God called for, and that God had promised new life would come.

As we walk with him, and with Mary Magdalene this week, take some time to reflect: where am I holding on to how I think things must be?  Where am I still clinging to some version of my life?  Where is God calling me to let go?

The challenges of this past month have planted in me the desire to let go more.  They were hard enough without my resistance; resistance just makes things harder.  So now I'm praying to let go, to welcome it all, to walk with Jesus and trust in Jesus' God.  Mary (all of them!)  is with me, with us, grieving and remembering and hoping against hope.

May you lose your life this week.  May you find the risen Christ at the end of the journey, offering you more than you can ask or imagine.  May it be so.

Cleansing the Temple

Ouch.

As I read today's Gospel (John 2:13-22), I felt the pinch.  I thought of Paul's words: "Do you not know that you are God's temple and that God's spirit dwells in you?" (1 Cor. 3:16)  So I had to look.

I looked in my heart, in my actions.  In my temple, I found lots of things beside the presence of God and the worship of God.  I found a money-changer, and someone selling doves.  I found myself putting my comfort in front of prayer.  I found places where I hold myself out as a woman of prayer, while I go to the mailbox looking for checks.  I found lots of times when I "welcome" people to the house of God, to the Companions community, without really seeing them.  I see the insanity of thinking I'm in a position to welcome others to a house that is not mine.  My temple is a mess.

This Lent has been powerful for me so far.  Even before it began I was being challenged to see the ways I cut people off or keep them in place.  I've seen more of my lack of trust in God, my compulsion to control others to feel safe, my racism.  I'm seeing more and more the cost of my perpetual haste - the sloppiness and lack of attention I can give to what and who is given to me to notice.  I'm daunted by the size of my mess.

I'm really not being hard on myself here.  I'm being honest.  Isn't that what Lent is for?  I'm actually excited, as I begin to face the mess in my temple.  I don't know what happens later, but I can smell potential, in the same way we can see possibility when we clean our homes.  What might I notice, and do differently?  How might I be a better of ally of BIPOC, a better Companion, a better friend and sister?  No, I'm excited.

So I pray: Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.

All the pictures of this scene, following John, emphasize Jesus' anger and violence.  It may be holy zeal on his part, but I don't want to think of God's cleansing in me as the act of an angry, violent God.  I think of God showing me the mess and giving me tools to get to work.  God is not angry, but God is also not co-dependent!  In answer to my prayer, God says, "Here you go."

What are the tools I'm given?  First, God gives me inner eyes to see the mess and the desire to clean up. These don't start with me; they are a gift in themselves.  Then God hands me the glass cleaner, so I can see myself better.  Now it's time for the dust rag of humility, letting me see others more fully.  God offers the broom of willingness to sweep away the distractions that get between me and God.  But a broom isn't enough.  To really clean, I need the mop: renewing my baptismal covenant, letting myself be washed again in my heart.  And not least, God shows me the door to take out the trash!  Prayer, more prayer.  Letting go of the dust, the dirt in my soul.

Then I can look again.  Better, I can ask a companion I trust to look with me.  Did I miss something?  Probably.  Just like cleaning my house, I do what I can see at the time.  But I also get to notice where the shelves are clean, the floor is clean, the mirror is looking better.  I can stop sneezing from my own dust and start breathing deeply again.  I can look outside.

I don't know; maybe this doesn't sound like a project you want to get into.  But I find that each time I do it, I'm happier.  Yesterday I gave the car its spring cleaning, and I like knowing that it will last longer and do better than if I had let it go.  My soul is infinitely more precious than the car!

If you think your soul is maybe in need of spring cleaning, go to it.  God be with you.

Take Up Your Cross

“If any want to become my followers, let them take up their cross and follow me.”

Wow.  That doesn’t sound like good news to me.  

I want to follow Jesus.  I love seeing people restored to health, to soundness of mind.  I love his words of love and forgiveness.  I admire his union with God, and I want some of that myself.

But the cross?  To the people of his time, this is not a metaphor.  The cross is a daily presence for them, a brutal reminder of Roman power and cruelty.  I don’t want to even think that there’s a cross with my name on it.

I thought Jesus came to bring life.  Abundant life.  Is this a contradiction?  Or a test?  What is this?

It’s not a contradiction, or a test.  It’s a very challenging invitation.

In Jesus’ time, people watched him die this horrible death.  Many of his followers also died in this way.  But somehow, more and more people decided that what Jesus promised was worth the price.  Over the next years, thousands of people would die on crosses.  More would die in amphitheaters, torn apart by animals.  Over the centuries some would be drowned, or stoned, or burned, or or lynched, or shot.  Many would die at the hands of others who claimed to be following Jesus. 

In our time, people marched in Selma, in Birmingham, in Moscow.  People faced mobs and police and armies.  From poor peasants to archbishops, people faced into their fear and took up their crosses.   

No one forced this on them. 

The cross is not something other people put on us.  That is just suffering and oppression.  Jesus doesn’t want us to intentionally aim at suffering, or allow ourselves and others to be passive victims.  His is a message of empowerment and liberation.

The cross is the path to life only when we pick it up.  When we actively choose to face the danger, when we risk our comfort and safety to follow Jesus more faithfully, our lives begin to expand.  

There are lots of dramatic examples, but they are not the only crosses we encounter.  More commonly we face the cross in our daily lives.

When do I pick up my cross?  When do you pick up yours?

When I apologize to someone I’ve injured.

When I acknowledge my failures, either of omission or commission.

When I hold my tongue when I’d like to argue or offer advice

When I raise my giving toward a tithe, and give it to causes that Jesus would recognize

When I make consumer choices in line with care for creation

When I make time to pray, and serve, which limits my leisure time

When I speak out on a topic that might draw controversy or opposition

When I acknowledge my faith in the face of others who would disdain it

Some of these sound pretty tame compared to hanging from a Roman cross.  But they are actually more challenging.  I might hang on a cross with hatred in my heart.  I might curse my oppressors while they kill me.  And then, Jesus says, my bravado earns me nothing.  The goal is not to lose my life; the goal is to live, to save my life.

So what is this life that I’m promised if I pick up my cross?

“I came that they might have life, and have it abundantly.”

I’m not promised survival, a longer life.

I’m promised a full life, a life of meaning and purpose and joy.

That’s the secret.  That’s why all those people, past and present, picked up their crosses.  They had discovered what it was to be fully alive, to be the person God had created them to be.  And they had learned that backing down would cost them that fullness of life.

Perfect love casts out fear.

I’m not there yet.  

But I do want to follow.  

I want to go there. 

 

Jesus, hold on tight to me.  Yell in my ear, help me hear you over the roar of my fear.  Stretch out your arms and gather us all.  Amen.

Wilderness

 

Yesterday I was talking with someone who mentioned that he had always assumed that growth is about confronting things and making people change.  He is learning that that isn't true.  I need to learn that too.  I think Jesus can teach me about that.  Maybe you too.

When Jesus goes to the wilderness, he wasn't there to make anyone change: not himself, not others.  He likely knew that he'd be confronted by his "demons," his desires and fears, but he didn't go for self-improvement.  He was driven by the Spirit to allow himself to be cleansed of anything that stood between him and God, him and God's mission for him.  I'm certain he grew through that experience, he came out equipped for the ministry and the sacrifice he performed, but he didn't do that through his own power.  He prayed, he listened, and he obeyed the word he heard.  He didn't even make himself change!  He let God take care of that.  Anything that might be a barrier to his purpose would be purified by God, not by making himself change.

For me, growth is about letting myself be confronted, and letting God change me.  When I let myself be confronted by others, or by my conscience, I open a channel for God to work.  It usually involves grieving some relationship or opportunity that has gone awry, and forgiving myself and others, and waiting for God to show me a better way.  I don't like doing this work.  But I don't know an easier way; I don't know any other way that will take me back to God and myself.

As we enter into Lent, I'm praying to be open to God's word and love.  I know that will mean confrontation with myself, and perhaps with others.  Jesus did after all confront others, and Paul tells us to "teach and admonish one another in all wisdom."  But it's not up to me to change others, or even to change myself.  It's up to me to notice what is put before me, and to ask God for courage and strength to withstand the temptation to evade it.  

And then, it's up to me to let the angels minister to me.  They're all around.  Can you see them?

Blessed and holy Lent to you.