The Coronavirus Era & The Weight of No Goodbyes

We stepped out of the hospice facility at every bit of 11:30 PM on that Thursday night.

As we gazed at the lights shining from the nearest towering hotel, my sister and I noted that the breeze felt like a memory with which we were well acquainted; reminiscent of nights from family beach trips in what could only be described as another lifetime, some thirteen odd years ago.

That's where some of our fondest memories of her would always rest--quietly sitting next to the pool wearing a smile and watching her nieces and nephews in waterplay shenanigans, reclined in a chair on the sand, relaxing, reading, drinking white wine of the chilled variety.

As we parted ways that night, we didn't think we would encounter Aunt Dana again...not this side of heaven, anyway. But her nurse let me know early the next morning she had made it through the night. Blair and I headed back to the parking lot we'd left less than twelve hours prior.

We talked to her peacefully resting frame, fielded questions from nurses and family members, and stood as vessels of telephone farewells from those who knew and loved her most.

As early afternoon began making its way toward evening, and after verifying that she was resting comfortably, we stepped away to grab a bite. We ate; we laughed. I dogged Blair for spilling ketchup on her shirt. We finished up and made the trek back assuming we were in for hours of more sitting and waiting.

Aunt Dana always did her own thing, so I guess I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was when I barely stepped into the room and could tell she was no longer there. Her body was, of course, but not her spirit. The room was not filled the same way it was when we left. Even the air was different. That's how remarkable she was. We called everyone who needed called, stuck around for logistical purposes, and then eventually parted ways again as the day drew to a close. I will never know why she left when she did that day--during the 15 minutes we were away from her--but I suspect it had everything to do with not wanting us to witness it, her exit from this life and entry into the next. After all, she never did want to upset or inconvenience anyone.

Flash forward 3 months, and I find myself on the other side of a non-goodbye--this time to one of my dearly beloved parishioners. Interestingly enough, Ms May reminded me a lot of my maternal grandmother, Dana's mom. Because of this similarity, I had a soft spot in my heart for her from the moment we met. She'd been wrought with a myriad of health issues in the past year or so. Her body just couldn't take any more. When they felt confident she had begun the process of transitioning, I called the hospital to see if I'd be allowed inside to see her. "I'm sorry, we're not allowing in visitors," the person on the other end of the phone replied. I hung up feeling stuck, grieved before she'd ever left for her eternal home. I could not do the one thing I was supposed to: be with her. After all the times she'd been there for me--to welcome me into her home, to tell me her stories, to send me a card in the mail, to give a thoughtful gift to my son, to make me laugh, to let me know time and time again how loved I was by her. I can only hope she knew that truth in my heart for her as well. Less than twenty four hours later, I received the call letting me know she was gone.

I don't typically struggle with death--at least not in an all-consuming way. I hold a firm hope in that the end of our earthly life is not the end of our life in its entirety. I have hope that God restores us in full and that we will see each other again. But not being able to say goodbye puts just a bit of that sting back into death, which God's triumph over the grave in Jesus Christ removed.

I guess I share all this to say that--especially in light of this season wrought with illness and grief, of meanness and spite--I hope we will treasure and care for the lives of the living among us. Both of our loved ones and of strangers alike. Will we take the time to show them all our appreciation? Will we make the effort to be kind? Will we do whatever we possibly can to show our love to everyone and hopefully in doing so show, too, the love of the One who made us all? 

That Love that permeates and endures and perseveres over all suffering, both now and eventually...

With God's help, I sure hope and pray it will be so. Love all y'all.

Peace,

Pastor Mary Kate

When Playtime Reveals Prejudice

Jesus loves the little children,

all the children of the world.

Every color is good and right;

They are precious in God's sight.

Jesus loves the little children of the world. 

I heard him say the words, and I did a double-take at the back of his head in the bathtub, glancing at Bo to see if he, too, had heard it. His face communicated to me that I was not mistaken.

"You can't play with us because you're a different color," we heard our son say on behalf of two brightly colored cars to his black one. We watched as he maneuvered the brightly colored race car and tow truck to turn their backs on the black one leaving it alone in the corner of the tub's edge.

It caught us off-guard, and I remember us quickly, almost frantically murmur-whispering back and forth to each other: Do we say something? Where would he have learned this? Did we miss something in one of the videos he watches before bath time? I'm sure he just heard it at school, one of the kids not thinking about what they were saying...

But we couldn't take a chance that it was a one-time thing. So, there we sat for the next several minutes, asking him questions, trying to get an idea of where this kind of play had originated. 

We asked if the cars could be friends even though they were different colors. No.

We asked if the race car and tow truck were beautiful. Yes.

We asked if the police car was beautiful. No.

Before we got too far into the "why" of these hypotheses--being that we were conversing with a freshly turned three year old--we asked about our skin color instead: 

What color skin do we have? White. 

What color skin does [insert name of beloved teacher at school]? Black.

Is our skin beautiful? Yes.

Is her skin beautiful? No.

I almost wish someone had been recording this whole interaction between us three. Me sitting dumbfounded on the toilet, Bo sitting in the floor confused, Foster looking at us from his bathtub vantage point growing ashamed because he could tell we were unpleased with his answers to our questions [We assured him that we weren't upset with him AND that we needed to talk about the things he was saying because they weren't true. You'll see the way our conversation progressed toward the end of this post.].

We were perplexed because we think of ourselves as all-loving people--pastors or no. We have friends and mentors who span the various spectrums of diversity, and we are better for their friendship, teaching, and for their lives in general. We see and acknowledge the richness and value of who they are. Through them, the truth resounds for us that God did indeed create us all in God's image and that image transcends any barrier of difference the world seeks to self-impose upon humanity.

But as we talked with our son that night, we realized our privilege as white-skinned humans had allowed us to be unhurried in communicating these central ideals and theological groundings to him in ways he could begin to understand. These are aspects that we hope will one day provide a solid foundation for his own faith journey! And yet, we weren't overly concerned about communicating them to him because our lives are not personally impacted by racism and prejudice.

Here he was loving and being loved and taught by his Black teachers at school, these women for whom our family has given thanks to God over and over as they helped him learn to count and chased him around the playground and kept him safe from his life-threatening allergies. And SOMEHOW, we'd failed to use these beloved relationships to talk about skin color, about the ways God made us all, the way God made us all in God's image and made us all beautiful therein. Simultaneously, we failed to talk to him--in a way a three year old can begin to digest--about the ways in which white people often discredit and dehumanize our Black siblings because the world tells us again and again they are inferior. 

And because that lie does not affect us directly in our white skin, white people (including me and Bo) are guilty of allowing the realities of racism to fall from our purview.

That's what happened with our kid and if it hadn't been for that night in the bathtub, nothing about how we parent would be different today. I'm sure some of you will say, "He's too young to know anything about racism or prejudice!" But that sentence escaping his mouth that night was a clear foreshadowing for me of the direction he was headed.

And you know who's the first one to get away with being racist in this world we live in, don't you? 

A handsome, middle class white boy.

My son has a face that the world might say could launch 1,000 ships. He also has a face that allots him the privilege of getting away with being racist (and most other evils) and denying it for the rest of his life if given the chance. As his mother, I refuse to leave that up to chance.

So now, we frequently mention racism in our quiet time before bed. 

We routinely read stories with Black and Brown protagonists and we talk about their skin color and our skin color and about the richness and value in all of us, in all hues of complexions.

Nightly, we sing together the slightly adjusted lyrics to the popular hymn Jesus Loves the Little Children and when I ask him why we sing that song, he replies, "Because Jesus loves everybody...because God made all of us beautiful...so, we love everybody, too."

I may not be called to go to every racial equality protest. I may not be able to write meaningful teaching curriculum about antiracism. I may not sit at the table with some of the most gifted Black activists, preachers, and teachers. But I can learn from them. And I can allow the learning I glean to change the way I teach and preach--in my home, in my churches, in my everyday life. 

Our white children are not too young to begin hearing from us about how those with privilege and power--including us, their white parents--have benefitted and continue to benefit from the degradation and dehumanization of Black and Brown people. Our white children are not too young to hear from us about the realities of racism. 

No one but us is responsible for teaching our children about our divine connectedness to one another and the ways the world tirelessly seeks to sever those sacred ties. 

No one but us is responsible for teaching our children right from wrong as it pertains to human relationships that are intended to be firmly grounded in the love of God.

No one but us is responsible for teaching our children to incline their hearts and dedicate their lives to God's intent for justice and wholeness for ALL creation.

If this week has taught us nothing else, it has taught us that we must pay attention. We must do better. We have a JOB to do. We must raise the next generation to stand against what is evil and hold onto what is good in the sight of God. Because no one else is gonna do it for us.

No more excuses. It's what God expects of us, and with God, we believe all things are possible. 

Deep Peace,

Pastor Mary Kate

5.10 Sermon: Ahmaud Arbery & Mother's Day

Link to sermon (begins at 29 minutes):
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https://youtu.be/GT_iLfjF0P8?fbclid=IwAR3guFEXHlrJ4bQ2D5AuIznLk7XNKXPLxvds-3YmAQKRPGABlNAO6X_Wb7A
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Manuscript:

In this morning’s Gospel text, we find ourselves at a critical point in Jesus’ life. He’s just washed his disciples’ feet at the final meal they will share together earth-side. This humble act signals to the disciples that they are to remember very clearly that they are not God (and never will be), but are merely God’s humble servants who will continue Christ’s mission by his example once he is no longer physically with them.

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He has also just given the disciples a “new commandment,” which we know is only new in the sense that Jesus will give the ultimate commandment nuanced meaning by the surrender of his life to the powers that be and the glory of his resurrection that follows three days later, made possible only by the unequaled power of the Triune God. The disciples must lead lives of cohesion and love that could only be born of God’s Spirit at work within them and their community so that God will be known, worshiped, glorified.

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Next thing we know Jesus is telling the disciples not to be troubled. I imagine them all still gathered at table together, beginning to shift in their places on the floor as Jesus pours more and more wisdom into them—trying his best to prepare them for what’s about to happen. They’re anxious, and can we blame them? They’ve been by the side of their Rabbi, their Lord, their Master for a number of years, and now all of a sudden, what will soon become a divine transition is beginning to take shape before their eyes.

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The old and familiar about life as they know it is passing away in order to clear a path for something greater—of which they cannot yet possibly conceive. But before that “something greater” is revealed, they will experience inexplicable grief caused by the undeserved and ungodly killing of their Rabbi, Lord, Master. Jesus. The disciples don’t yet grasp all of this, but like we said, they know enough to know the earth is shifting underneath them even as the Passover meal settles in their bellies. As the one who helped create them and give them life, Jesus is far from clueless. He knows better than anyone the disciples’ fear and their lack of assurance about what’s to come as it flashes across their faces: What will happen to us? How will we go on if you’re not here to show us the way?

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Jesus sees all of it on their faces as they look at him pleadingly. So, he encourages them, “Do not be troubled. Believe in God. Believe also in me.” He goes on to tell them that where the Parent God is there is ABUNDANT room for all—for those who think they have it all together and for those who are certain they don’t and for everyone else in between. If it were not so, WHY in the world would he have told them it was?
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Thomas is the first to call bluff. “Lord, we don’t know where you are going. How can we know the way?” Then, as John has depicted Jesus doing five other times prior to this one, Jesus attempts to explain to the hurting and fearful disciples his true identity using what is called an “I Am” statement. This time he says (in response to Thomas’ question), “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you know me, you will know my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him.” Following this pivotal statement about Jesus’ identity and what it means for the disciples and the disciples that will follow them, Philip—seemingly out of nowhere—appears to test Jesus by telling him all the disciples would need to see is the Parent God and they would be satisfied……..as if what Jesus has said and shown them up to now in the years of life they’ve spent together as well as all he’s said on this monumental night are not sufficient.

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Jesus shows a lot of restraint with his disciples—including us today, and for that I am thankful. He tries to explain to them again and asks Philip (or maybe the entire group gathered in the space), “Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me?” He reminds them that it is the One True God who has made possible his life-changing teachings and actions throughout his ministry…the same teachings and actions that the disciples have heard with their own ears and seen with their own eyes. If they don’t believe now—as he’s about to be crucified because those with the most power and the loudest voices and the hardest hearts would not receive him as God—the disciples are in a world of hurt, as is the God ordained mission Jesus is leaving in their hands!

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He even says to them that those who BELIEVE in him WILL do greater things than the miraculous and gracious and revolutionary ones he has already done! If they don’t earnestly believe Jesus is who he says, that goes out the window. The world will be left with just a memory of “that carpenter’s son from Nazareth.”

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But, as always, with Jesus there is grace to be received. He KNOWS—as if he didn’t know prior to this conversation he certainly KNOWS now—that they are going to struggle with their unbelief. Therefore, they are going to struggle with their trust in Jesus when he’s no longer there to guide their every move. He knows this. So, he leaves them with a truth they can cling to, a truth that will remind them that all he has said about those who believe doing greater works than him WILL BE POSSIBLE—even for them, his wavering disciples. Jesus tells them, “I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father will be glorified in the Son. If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.”

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Can you imagine just how many hundreds of times the disciples must have chosen the “phone a friend” lifeline after Jesus was no longer with them? Long after the post resurrection appearances. Long after Jesus’ ascension to his heavenly throne. They must have called upon Jesus’ name so many times! Asking about the next right decision to make. Asking about having food for their ever-expanding following. Asking about how to proceed when they knew they were in danger. Asking for God to bless their efforts in ministry so that people far and wide would come to know God’s intent…that the Kin*dom of Heaven be not just the reality of the heavens, but the reality of the earth. With all of its worn-down and wandering and wounded and weak and weary—all together, at the same table, in the same community, in the same family. Yes, I imagine they had to ask Jesus for quite a lot. But he told them if they were asking it in his name, so that his will be done on earth, he would do it.

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As we stumble our way into this dystopian Mother’s Day (like something out of a Sci-Fi movie, really), I wonder what we are asking Jesus for in his name. Some of us are asking Jesus for a reprieve from this virus and its dangers so that we can safely see our mothers and our children again. Others of us are asking why in the world our moms had to leave this earth the way they did—in recent days or long ago. Others still are likely asking Jesus why their mothers could not love them the way they were meant to be loved. Some are grieving the loss of a child—whether it happened 30 years ago or yesterday. Some are asking “How long, O Lord?” as they toss yet another “not pregnant” test into the trash. Others are asking “How long, O Lord?” as they bury their children, taken away by yet another act of the perpetual evil that is racism.

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On February 23 of this year, Wanda Cooper-Jones got the call that every black mother prays she will never receive, while also knowing it is a likely possibility as the mom of a child with brown skin. Her son, Ahmaud Arbery, was murdered while jogging (like he did every other day) in a neighborhood in Brunswick, Georgia three miles from his home by two white men—a recently retired police investigator and his 34 year old son. The two have stated that they grabbed their guns and pursued Ahamaud after seeing him run down their street because there had been recent burglaries in the area, and they believed him to be suspect. Multiple news sources have now confirmed that there were no reported burglaries within the weeks leading up to Ahmaud’s murder.

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These two men took Ahmaud’s life—took Ms Wanda’s youngest son’s life—not because they thought he was guilty of an actual crime, but because he was guilty of what is so often deemed a crime in America: existing in this world as a black man. They saw a tall, built male with brown skin running through their neighborhood, and they deemed him a threat. They believed him jogging near their home somehow compromised their power. So, they did what they thought would restore the power dynamics in their favor: they cornered Ahmaud and took his life. An unarmed, minding-his-own-business, jogging-as-he-did-every-other-day-of-his-life black man.

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When Jesus told his disciples not to be troubled, he did not mean that they should not to be troubled by the evil in the world around them: the injustice, the cruelty, the hatred, the exclusivity, the bigotry, the greed, the selfishness, the prejudices. Jesus was troubled by those things. We see it in the Temple—flipping tables due to the ways God’s “house” has been desecrated for monetary gain. We see it when Jesus tells the men in power to pull the log out of their own eye before they continue dehumanizing a woman who was called an adultress. We see it the healing of those with demons and who are mute and blind and deaf and those with physical differences and illnesses—to ensure that those in power who treated these and others like the dirt on the bottom of their sandals would know that THESE were God’s people, too…God’s beloveds…that God cared for them deeply and saw them as whole even if the earthly powerful ones did not.

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Jesus wants us to be troubled by Ahmaud’s death and the countless other murders of black and brown bodies that have happened at the hands of white people. But Jesus does not want us to simply be troubled by these stories. Jesus wants us to ask hard questions of ourselves like:

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How might I have acted similarly if I saw a black man jogging down my street I did not recognize?.
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How have I been silent or complicit when I’ve heard about similar stories?.
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How have I allowed myself to be desensitized to the suffering of my black and brown siblings?.
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How have I knowingly or unknowingly dehumanized them?.
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How might my reaction Ahmaud’s story have been different if he had been a  white man who was killed by two people of color?
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          What Jesus does not want us to be troubled about is whether or not God is with us in the midst of such a vulnerable and condemning mission of self-excavation. Jesus meets us there and walks with us and digs with us in that work. Do we believe that? Do we trust that God meets us where we are in the evil of racism that existed long before us and continues to pervade people and families and communities and society even now? And do we believe that if we ask it in Jesus’ name, that Jesus will not only help us to unearth our own biases and prejudices and racism, our own complicity and indifference and self-exemption from the problem itself, but that Jesus will show us a NEW WAY, HIS WAY, THE WAY?

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          A way that does not involve us denying that racism exists or crying tears of pity or mumbling our anger aloud for all to hear, but a way that involves listening to the stories of those who have experienced the effects of racism first hand. The WAY, the TRUTH, the LIFE abides with the brokenhearted, the mistreated, the excommunicated, the dehumanized and then extends hope and healing as only God can. WE ARE CALLED TO HUMBLY PARTNER WITH GOD IN THAT SACRED WORK.

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 What could happen if we deeply listened to the stories of Ahmaud’s mother, Ms Wanda? To Michael Brown’s mother, Ms Lesley? To Tamir Rice’s mother, Ms Samaria? To Botham Jean’s mother, Ms Allison? To Trayvon Martin’s mother, Ms. Sybrina?

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What then might we ask Jesus in his name…to further his will…to further his Kin*dom in light of what we now know?

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How might we ask Jesus not just to change our hearts, but to evolve our beings as we seek to make God’s intent be the reality in this life—a table/a community/a life where all are seen as whole, where all are wanted, and all are welcomed just as they are?

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          How might we ask Jesus not just to evolve our beings, but to guide our every step and breath as we seek to make a change in ourselves for the sake of the world around us BELIEVING what Jesus said to be true: that those who believe in him will do greater things than him. All the while BELIEVING that Jesus goes with us into the work Jesus himself would be doing if he were here—into every uncomfortable listening session, into every intimidating phone call to our representatives, into every event where we acknowledge the truth that racism is still thriving and that we will not stop showing up for our black and brown family members until our Redeemer Jesus returns to us all in order to make all things right, all things whole, all things new—eternally. 

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I have always struggled with Mother’s Day because I know it is far from a joyous occasion for many. Now I will wrestle with it even more as I remember Ms Wanda and her Mother’s Day baby Ahmaud, born May 8, 1994. He would have been 26 years old on Friday. She will never hold him again.

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How will that devastating truth affect the way I raise my own [white] son? I’m not sure yet. As he gets older, I hope we will tell him Ahmaud’s story, again and again—about how he was a beautiful black man who was killed merely due to the color of his skin and that Foster is privileged because he will never have to live with such fear...not because of anything he’s done or hasn’t done; merely because he was born into this world a white child.

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          I’m asking Jesus this mother’s day in his name that I will be brave enough and socially responsible enough and theologically responsible enough to teach Foster to pay attention to and be troubled by the evil and injustice he sees and hears about in the world around him. I am asking Jesus to help me teach him the lesson Jesus was explicitly stating and implicitly showing his disciples that final night they shared together: 

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Foster, you are not God. You must never pretend you are. You are merely God’s humble servant—called to love every single person and recognize every single person’s intrinsic goodness as a creature made in God’s image, filled with God’s very breath—the Breath of Life. You, too, are made in the Divine’s image and have received holy wind in your body to give you life. Life is precious. Treat EVERYONE’s that way. Hurt with those who hurt because of the oppression that holds them down and keeps them out. Rage with those who rage because of the evil that takes their beloveds away from them. Walk with those who walk toward righteousness as your God is righteous—striving only to pour the life, the light, and the love of Christ out into the world a little more boldly with every breath you’re blessed to take. And above all else, you must know THE WAY; you must know THE TRUTH; you must know THE LIFE. And you must LIVE LIKE THE WAY, THE TRUTH, THE LIFE. You will not always get it right. In fact, you will probably get it wrong more than you get it right, but my son, you must always try—in ever-thankful response to the image in which you and all others are made, the breath of life that you and all others breathe, and the grace that redeems you and all others again and again and again. Foster, you have been shown what it means to love God and love others. Follow THE WAY all the way home. I pray all of this in Jesus’ holy name. Amen

"Hatching" (& other pandemic normalities)

Picture taken from Amazon.com

We have been on quite the Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood kick in these quarantine days. I'm talking every time the television is on (and it's on a lot, okay?), we're firing up PBS Kids and waiting for that happy stripey family to get all of our butts in gear where dealing with our emotions is concerned.

Watching the show has honestly proven beneficial in recent weeks. Foster can now usually tell us when he's mad or frustrated (there are other emotions the show talks about, but he usually sits comfortably in some variation of those two when he's not over-the-moon happy about life). We're learning--read: me. I am learning--how not to react to his less than desirable emotions and am instead figuring out how to calmly talk to him about them. Oh no, honey. Rest assured that doesn't happen a 100% of the time. But a desperate mom will take what she can get. CAN I GET A WITNESS??

One of his favorite stories (correct. our book selection has also been infiltrated by the Neighborhood of Make Believe obsession) is about Daniel's class at school watching an egg hatch that they've been babysitting for the local farm. Right there in their classroom! The kids are obviously bewildered at the phenomenon. They also groan about having to wait for the egg to hatch and learn how to do it in ways that won't drive Teacher Harriet up the wall or out the door. (I won't ever blame you if you walk away, Teacher Harriet. Not ever.)

Foster has yet to walk away from this story (any of the 73 times we've read it in the past seven weeks) with a nuanced understanding waiting and how to graciously do it. What he has seemed to cling to is

hatching.

Now, whenever his dad or I am behind closed doors (usually during our work shift), Foster's ears perk when he finally hears the sound of a door cracking open. We hear, "Mama hatching!" "Dada hatching!"

He's absolutely thrilled about it.
Like, hollers with excitement.
The child acts as though he has not seen us in two years or that there's going to be some newly acquired skill or positive attribute we'll be able to share with him as we emerge from what he equates with the "egg" in which we've been working or that when we push that door open we'll hand him armfuls of presents.

It occurs to me now, though, that he thinks WE are the present.
We are what (or who, in this case) he's been waiting on with great anticipation.

He knows when we appear from out of our "egg," we will be new in some ways--much like that newborn baby duck in the story he adores so much. We will have put the day's work behind us--at least until he goes to bed--and our undivided attention will be his. The ultimate dreams of most babes, I think.

Which got me thinking...
I wonder if God isn't continuously waiting for us to "hatch."
Endlessly waiting for us to set aside the things we deem so important in exchange for spending uninterrupted, undistracted time with our Parent who only loves us and longs to linger with us--in prayer, scripture, journaling, stillness, silence. 

In what ways are you feeling the need to "hatch" in this season of life?

How are you finding or trying to find ways to spend uninterrupted, undistracted time with the One who breathed you into being? And how are those efforts renewing your being in a time that all but drains us?

Take heart. I'm not positive, but I'm fairly certain (thanks, Daniel Tiger) that hatching is an exceedingly gradual thing. The important thing is that we keep up the good work of trying to break out from the shell of ourselves. Mad love, dear ones.

Peace,
Pastor Mary Kate

Pajama Resurrection (& other pandemic normalities)

I don’t know that I’ve witnessed a more tangible sign of the joy resurrection brings than that exhibited by my son on the very rare occasion I have pulled his pajama shirt over his head in the past seven weeks—not right before bath time, right before we pull yet another pajama shirt over his ever-growing trunk; but on the few afternoons where we just cannot bring ourselves to remain stationary in our home for one more second.

His arms stretch as far as they will reach above his head. With eyes closed, a natural smile steadily widens across his face—a clear shift from stagnancy and mundanity and stillness to relief and hope and freedom occurs as the neck of the pajama shirt passes over his eczema-clad face. Something new is beginning; he can feel it deep within him, even at two and a half. We exchange his pajama shirt for a different shirt, a “normal” shirt. A shirt he’d wear if he was still going to school four days a week—learning from and being loved WELL by his teachers, playing with his friends. 

And just like that--with the changing of his shirt comes the changing of his being.
From old to new. From death to life.
He remembers his true identity; he is a child of resurrection. 

It is difficult for me to admit as a parent but a part of my child has died, has been cut off, is no longer. He will not ever again know "normal" as he did 52 days ago. 52 days. 52 days of tv and crafts and books and painting and potty training and snacks and hide and go seek and Facetime calls and car rides and wagon rides and being fed up with the same ol' thing day after day after...

All "in these four walls." All without human contact beyond that of his father and me.
24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

I often find myself wondering what he's thinking, how he must be feeling in the midst of all this. He's grown at a seemingly exponential rate in these 52 days--by height and weight and smarts and cutes. He is so different than he was; I don't really know how to explain it. All I know is these changes and developments are happening and his teachers aren't here to witness it and encourage him. His grandparents can't pull him close and tell him how proud they are or remind him how much they love him. His church families likely do not even register on his mental radar anymore, and that is unsettling for me as it will be in the care of our parishioners we will have to leave him once church services resume.

Will he begin to recognize them as the morning goes on?
Will he think we've betrayed him as we walk away?

These are the questions with which I now sit as we were alerted today that his school will be reopening in a couple of weeks. Things will be different there, too. They've told us so and also--thankfully so. They're doing all they can to make sure that children are protected and families feel assured about bringing their little ones back into the building, back into a revised version of what we all once knew as "normal." Even still, my mind goes down the nearest, darkest vortex of rabbit holes...

What will all of this newness be like for him?
What will it be like FOR ME?
Will he be safe?
Will he still be as protected from his food allergies as he was?
Will he still want to play?
Will he resemble some version of the child his care givers remember?
Will he be scared?
Will he be traumatized at the abrupt change of pace and location and people?
Will he begin to recognize the school and his teachers and his friends as the first morning back goes on, or will he recoil at them in misery until we return at the end of the day?
Will he think we've betrayed him as we drive away?

What I hate most is that for every one of these questions, my answer is, "I don't know."

There is no way of knowing.

And I--perhaps like some of you--do not do well with not knowing.

But what I am slowly beginning to know, hesitantly beginning wrap my mind around is the fact that (eventually, perhaps even in the near future) our existence will have to pick up speed and pick up the new way of life as daunting as that feels to utter (or write) aloud.

A time is approaching where I will have to take off my literal and metaphoric pajamas in exchange for "normal clothing." It is a risk on which my mind and heart are not so ready to embark, yet I ultimately know that living in fear of the unknown with no hope for anything but that way of life makes me as good as dead.

Yes, much like my son, parts of me have died in the past seven weeks. Parts of me are no longer parts of me because of all that we have been through--as individuals, families, communities, nations, and the world at large. 

But I am not dead.

I must allow myself to unlearn some of the fear while proceeding forward with ample caution.
I must allow myself to unlearn the ways of death that have plagued this season of life and attempted to become my "forever normal".
And I must allow myself the grace to embody lessons my son has taught me in the midst of his all but rare yet impactful (maybe more so for me than for him) pajama resurrections: 

Be hopeful for what's to come even if I don't know what it looks like yet.
Be receptive of the grace that comes to me in the midst of the unknown.
Proceed with faith and (perhaps tentative) joy for the steadfast presence of God with me and within me.
Proceed with assurance of and confidence in my true identity: a child of resurrection.

It will be a process. 
It will not be linear.
There will be step ups and set backs in no particular order.
There will be difficult and draining decisions that need to be made.
There will be hurt feelings and hearts made heavy by the ebbs and flows of the unknown yet to come.
And there will also be moments that remind me (and us) that God is not in the business of leaving creation to its own devices--alone in our devastation, destitute in our mourning clothes, immobilized by our fears.

There WILL be life and life abundant.
Who knows what it will look like? No one.
Who knows what forms it will take? No one.

The important thing is that we KNOW LIFE ABUNDANT EXISTS AND IS COMING IN FULL as we wade through the murky depths of all that is unknown. 

We know this because God does not leave things undone.
God does not leave the story to unfold in the shadows of death. 
God does not leave, period.
And that, beloveds, is our blessed "knowing" in all that is unfamiliar.

May each of our equivalent 'pajama resurrections' be continuous; may they be swift; and may they be nothing short of renewing and restoring in ways that remind us to whom we belong, who we are, and for what we were made: living in ways that celebrate and share and seek to make a reality with and for all others God's sacred gift of life abundant.

With God's help, may it be so.


Deep Peace, Dear Ones,
Pastor Mary Kate

I Hate Sundays (& other pandemic normalities)

[Our son unknowingly created a piece that precisely
depicts the way that I feel in the midst of my own 

grief while still feeling assured that God is with us.
I refer to it often, and took my motherly liberty
of naming it for him: Pandemic Resurrection.]

----------------

Sundays stick to my insides like freshly laid tar. They cling to my muscles and my brain waves. They draw my ribs and lungs much too close together.

I try to worship, but it is usually in vain.

I am thankful that God meets me anyway.

I rage vacuumed today.

That’s right. Rage. Vacuumed.

We had just finished watching a beautifully done worship service by friends in Michigan (Thanks Revs. Elise and Ryan Edwardson!) like we have done every other Sunday of this relentless season of life.

That’s when I felt it.

Bubbling up like an unfortunate inferno with which I am all too familiar.

The anger.
resentment.
stagnancy.
loneliness.
misplaced-ness.
not-enough-ness.

Rather than self-destruct as I have been known to do when similar near-explosions have loomed just beneath the surface of my being, I decided to channel that energy into relieving the living room floor of the past month’s fuzz, dust bunnies, and other miscellaneous particles.

I hated every bit of it.
Slinging toys left and right, away from the wrathful path of the vacuum while my husband and son played at a safe distance on the couch.

Now that I’ve had an hour or so to sit in the aftermath of the rage cleaning, I feel a little lighter. A little less tar-ry.

I’m still feeling degrees of the previously mentioned emotions. Their weight, however, is not as immobilizing, not nearly the degree of nearly-erupting-inferno that they were prior.

Why?

Because, after the rage vacuuming, I stepped away.

Stepped. Away.

From the room
From my son
From my husband

Just for the briefest of moments. And you know what I did?

I changed my clothes (rage vacuuming leads to rage sweating), I turned on some piano music (thanks Erika Scissom!), and I washed my face.

How profound. To feel swallowed up by enormous feelings and just...step away to tend to them.

Now, my heart is back where it belongs:

missing our family
missing our friends
missing our church families
praying for people working in the COVID-19 line of fire
praying for people who aren’t given a choice about going to work
praying for people who are overworked
praying for people who are struggling to pay the bills and put food on the table or both
praying for people who are especially lonely and hurting and hopeless-feeling
desiring a reality where resurrection is a gift felt deep in the bones of all who are weary and desperately in need of new life, abundant

It’s okay to hate some days.
It’s alright to rage clean if that’s what gets you recentered.
It’s necessary to tend to our own heaviness...with the prayerful hope that in so doing we may rise to the exact purpose for which wewere created: tend to the heaviness of others—with nothing short of the compassion, mercy, grace, and love of Christ.

This journey is not linear, folks.
It is winding, twining, warped.

And even so, God is with us.

Be patient with yourselves.
Be gentle with yourselves.
All so that you might be those things and more for those in your midst who are suffering; all so that others may come to know the persistent and prevailing love of God.


That’s the take-away for me today. Maybe it is for you, too.


Deep peace, dear ones.

Pastor Mary Kate

Crying into My Coffee (& other pandemic normalities)

For a few years now (I think it started in seminary), I’ve felt as though drinking coffee from a mug is a sacred act—especially as my morning routine continues to evolve, adding more tasks and responsibilities as time goes by.

In other words, there is something about cradling the warm cup in my hands and being still that ushers me into a holy place.

I’ll be the first to admit, however, that I do not generally care for being still. In the stillness, I feel entirely too seen and known—whether by others, God, or myself. And, for as long as I can remember, being seen and known in such a way is unsettling for me.

For our family, self-quarantine was initially chaotic as Bo and I scrambled to find our footing as pastors of three churches collectively—making sure we stay connected with them in various, old and new and sometimes even innovative ways. That on top of trying to keep an energetic and fairly intelligent toddler engaged and challenged proved to be just that—a challenge.

But now that we’re in a rhythm (day 28, roughly), chaos is slowly settling into calmness, semi-clarity, and—unfortunately for me—stillness. 

I just do not do well with it.

I like to stay moving, on the go, busy—you know, as many of us do.

And so, ironically, in this new stillness of our mornings coupled with the warm coffee mug cupped in my hands, what I’ve found myself praying almost as fervently as I’ve prayed for God to heal and restore all things unto Godself is that God would forgive me and deliver me from worshiping the idol of busyness.

Because I do. Not just in these days where I’d much prefer to set a limb ablaze as process the emotional weight of the global health crisis through which we are all literally just trying to survive one day at a time. But also in the everydayness of what we once called normal.

We’re not going back there, you know...the what-was-normal is no more. A new normal will be the future outcome of our present reality. And that’s really hard for me to grapple with a lot of the time. Maybe it is for you, too.

It is why I have—unintentionally—begun what I suppose you might call the (albeit strange) spiritual practice of crying into my coffee. 

Two nights ago, I got the phone call I’d been holding my breath waiting for, dreading: one of my beloved parishioners passed away. Not of the virus-that-shall-not-be-named but of a surprisingly aggressive form of cancer. I couldn’t visit him before he died. I can’t go hug his wife and cry with her. I do not yet know what it will look like to grieve his death and celebrate his life with his family and our community. I can’t comfort my parishioners in person as I would normally have the privilege and honor of doing.

So, this morning—perhaps with more freeness than usual...not by choice but by heartbreak—I cried into my coffee. 

Big. 

Silent.

Hot. 

Ugly. 

Tears.

Plopped down onto my shoulders one after the other, after having traveled the outline that separates my cheeks from my mouth as I sipped my coffee, completely surrendered to the weight of my grief.

As I mentioned earlier, we’re not going back to what “was” before what we now know as COVID-19. But perhaps, that’s not all bad. Transformation is occurring—often for the better. We’re appreciating each other and our families and our friends and our communities and strangers and people we’ll never meet more than we did before this started. We’re putting in the time to stay connected with those we love. We’re finding out about ourselves—our capability for creativity and/or our need for rest. We’re learning (or at least I am) that no amount of worshiping the idol of “busyness” will protect us from what threatens to break our hearts and crush our spirits. We’re learning—for better or for worse—that fully experiencing and feeling our emotions is necessary and that they’ll eventually catch up with us anyway if we don’t.

I guess, all of this to say...don’t try to hide from the heaviness of what’s going on around us and within us. Don’t try to cover up grief—yours or that of the world at large. Things look different than they did a month ago, so allow yourself flexibility where you are able. Receive whatever it is God might be teaching you or reminding you in this season. Embrace the new and at times perhaps strange spiritual practices that allow you to reconnect with yourself and with God within you.

Take heart, dear ones. 

This is not forever.

God holds us close in these times where we cannot hold one another like we long to do.

God has us.

We have each other.

And while these truths do not altogether “fix” the suffering and the anguish and the fear and the loss, they certainly make for a much more hopeful outlook than if they did not exist.

Know that you’ve got what you need to carry on—even if it’s just a breath at a time; know that you are fiercely & deeply loved—with every breath you breathe. May these assurances sustain us in the days ahead.

Deep peace,

Pastor Mary Kate 

3.8 sermon audio: John 3:1-17

·         If we don’t believe with every fiber of our being that Jesus Christ is in a perpetual state of SAVING us from our own humanity with every breath we’re blessed to breathe in this life then we’re sorely mistaken. When once asked if he was saved, David Lowes Watson answered,

o   I am not saved. I am being saved.

·         In other words, if how we currently exist in the world—as sinful, fallible creatures—is what it means to be “saved” as in…God’s done with us because there’s nothing left to fix or alter or refine or prune or SAVE…then we are in a heap of trouble as my friend Rev. John Weaver would say.

·         There is still work to be done. WE ARE A WORK IN PROGRESS FOR GOD UNTIL WE TAKE OUR FINAL BREATH. The minute we begin thinking that we’ve reached the peak of righteousness, we can rest assured that we’re nowhere near it.

·         This isn’t a sermon to make us feel awful about who we are; it’s to remind us that without the saving grace of God made available to us in Jesus Christ, we are NOTHING. We are nothing without God. We know this. So, why do we insist on wasting precious time with petty pursuits of false righteousness just so we can appear to have a leg up on someone else…in faith, no less!?

·         When we should be spending our precious time saying THANK YOU to God for the power of God’s Spirit and God’s grace at work in our lives…that it is possible to repent of our sinfulness, to reorient ourselves from our way of doing things to God’s ways…and that that possibility is endlessly available to us because of nothing else but God’s unconditional, unmerited love for us.

·         I mean, WOW. What a gift! No matter how many times we fall short, get caught up worrying about the wrong things, get off track with who God is calling us to be, there is always and forever GRACE.

·         Grace that redeems us.

·         Grace that refines us.

·         Grace that renews us.

·         Grace that reconciles us.

Grace that restores us.