HOPE November 10, 2019 Annalea Kauth Sermon

SCRIPTURES
Haggai 1:15b-2:9
Romans 8: 18-25

SERMON
Those are just two stories that teach us about hope. I will introduce you to another one that is a bit closer to us, not just geographically but also chronologically.

Today, I am going to introduce to you a fun, techy, inspirational website: Ted Talks. It covers an ever-expanding range of topics from music conductor Benjamin Zander tapping our love for classical music, artist Theo Jansen’s kinetic sculptures he builds from plastic tubes and lemonade bottles, Global Health Expert Hans Rosling’s inspiring presentations on world statistics, to our very own Krystal Irby sharing the joy of digital learning to help her students. Today I am going to go somewhere specific and focus on a story of hope, a Ted Talk given by Devita Davison, a food activist and Executive Director of FoodLab Detroit.

Do you know what a food desert is? It is defined by the USDA “as parts of the country vapid of fresh fruit, vegetables, and other healthful whole foods, usually found in impoverished areas. This is largely due to a lack of grocery stores, farmers’ markets, and healthy food providers.”  http://americannutritionassociation.org/newsletter/usda-defines-food-deserts

What does this mean exactly and what does that look like? Let’s look at a big city…Detroit to be exact. This city used to be the world’s industrial giant with a population of 1.8 million in the 1950’s. But with the move of factories and years of disinvestment, Detroit has become a prime example of urban decay - with a population that has decreased to under 700,000 today. Decreases in population and mean income have caused "food deserts" in the areas with the greatest need of fresh foods. But that doesn’t mean people have no access to food, they just have a greater access to fast food and convenience stores full of processed, sugary and fat laden foods. This has led to 70% of the population being obese and overweight, and struggling with diet related illnesses and diseases.

(Haggai 2:3) 3 Who is left among you that saw this house in its former glory? How does it look to you now? Is it not in your sight as nothing?

But Detroit finds itself with some very unique assets: open land, fertile soil, proximity to water, willing labor and a desperate need for healthy, fresh foods. Out of 140 square miles, 40 of it is now vacant. That is ¼ of the city. This has led to a people-powered movement of transforming the city with sustainable development.

(Haggai 2:4b) 4b take courage, all you people of the land, says the Lord; work, for I am with you, says the Lord of hosts,

What is hope? Is it passive or active? Can we hope for something we have no hand in building or aiding, or is that just wishing? Can we hope for something unseen?

Was it hopeful or wishful that I didn’t catch this cold? What if I told you I did nothing to help my immune system? Wish or hope? What if I did take steps to strengthen my immune system and healthy living? Wish or hope?

Wish is defined as “to have a desire for something, such as something unattainable,” while hope is defined as “to cherish a desire with anticipation: to want something to happen or be true.”

Do the people of Detroit wish for something better, or hope for it? I believe they hope for something better. They have built over 1,500 gardens and farms across the city. They hope for a better life, a healthier life for themselves and their children. They have now aided in the future of their city through food security. With these gardens and farms, they are growing their communities and building social cohesion. In places like the Brightmoor neighborhood, what was once an unsafe, underserved area has been transformed into a welcoming, safe farmway with lush parks, gardens, farms and greenhouses. Neighbors and volunteers came together to purchase an abandoned building to transform into a community kitchen, café and storefront with healthy fresh food.

(Haggai 2:9) 9 The latter splendor of this house shall be greater than the former, says the Lord of hosts; and in this place I will give prosperity, says the Lord of hosts.

A non-profit, Keep Growing Detroit, was a large help distributing 70,000 seed packets and 250,000 transplants in 2016 resulting in 550,000 pounds of produce. Keep Growing Detroit also manages and operates a cooperative, Grown in Detroit, consisting of about 70 farmers.

With the idea that restaurants also play a role in increasing healthy food access in the city, another non-profit was born, FoodLab Detroit, to help small food entrepreneurs start healthy food businesses. FoodLab Detroit provides education, workshops, technical assistance and access to industry experts. With their help, the small businesses have provided over 200 local jobs.

We all know that this not the save all, fix all and so do the people of Detroit. But this is just one example of the Urban Farming movement, decreasing our food deserts. It is one city full of people willing to work to better their lives and a city full of people with hope for the future.

(Romans 8:22-25)22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; 23 and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. 24 For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? 25 But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.

So remember, we wish upon stars - big burning balls of the past, but we hope for what is to come - the future. Let us not be passive with our hope. Let our hope be active within us and let that action bring hope to those around us. Let us work to be better, not just for ourselves but for those around us and those who come after us.

You know I cannot leave you without something from "The Ripples Guy". It is always fun for me to point out divine timing in my life. September 9th Boulder: “The best way to not feel hopeless is to get up and do something. Don’t wait for good things to happen to you. If you go out and make some good things happen, you will fill the world with hope, you will fill yourself with hope.” - President Barack Obama

And, “Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there’s no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic.” - Author Laini Taylor

The Ripples Guy October 8th tweet, “You don’t need to remain hopeful for a whole month, or even a whole day…just long enough to take few breaths inward and a few steps forward.”

And finally, the November 4th Pebble, “The future belongs to those who give the next generations reason for hope.” - Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Altars in the World, September 22, 2019 Ginger Rembold Sermon

Thank-you so much to congregant Ginger Rembold for supplying the pulpit this past Sunday. Click here to visit Ginger's blog Scribbles, Scriptures, and the Spirit for thoughts from her sermon.

Heartbeat of God, August 4, 2019 Candy Arledge Sermon

Thank you so much to congregant Candy Arledge for volunteering to be our pulpit supply this past Sunday and submitting the text of her sermon for us to read.

Heartbeat of God

Just imagine if we were in the place where we could hear the heartbeat of God. What an unbelievable privilege .

This morning I want to talk with you about a book I am reading, titled ‘Listening for the heartbeat of God, A Celtic spirituality ‘ written by J. Philip Newell. Newell is a poet, peacemaker, minister, and scholar. He “teaches and preaches internationally on themes related to the sacredness of the earth and the oneness of the human soul.” (1)

I have been reading this book on and off for the last several months, a page or two at a time, followed by long periods of prayer and reflection. The subject matter is such that it must sink into my sinews and seep down into my very bones, before I can move on to the next page or two. The foundation of this book is rooted in 4th and 5th century Celtic lore and spirituality, in which the Celts embraced John’s Gospel and his viewpoint of Christ, which emphasizes Love as the path to salvation.

John’s Gospel was understood by the Celts as one of love and “the expectation of finding God within.”(2) The Celts held the view that all of God’s creation was essentially good and reflected the goodness of God. The Celts embraced the concept that the heartbeat of God can be heard in All of God’s creation. All living things that God created echo His heartbeat. Therefore the “emphasis on the essential goodness of Creation” (3) is at the center of Celtic spirituality. Celtic Spirituality “ is characterized by the expectation of finding God within, of hearing the Living Voice of God speaking within ourselves.” (4) “It is a spirituality that recognizes the Authority of St. John and reflects his way of looking and Listening for God.” (5)

Pelagius, a 4th century monk with Celtic origins, had a large impact on early Celtic spirituality as well. Pelagius wrestled with the concept of being righteous before God. His focus was mainly on the relationship between us and Adam, and concluded that being righteous before God was completely up to us. The original sin of Adam did not apply to the rest of humanity. He maintained that all humans have Free Will, as did Adam, and we can make the righteous choice. Needless to say, this was indeed radical thinking for the 4th century time period. So radical, in fact, that Augustine challenged and repudiated Pelagius’ teachings and led a movement that resulted in Pelagius being condemned at the Council of Carthage in 418. Although Pelagius was condemned by the Church for His radical views, those ideas lived on and became a part of the foundation of Celtic spirituality.

It is a rare occasion for me to find a spiritual viewpoint that I can align myself with . But this is one that speaks to the very core of what I believe, and have always believed, about God and all of His creation. When I am in the midst of all that God created, usually on the back of a horse, I find myself totally awestruck at the magnificent beauty of nature. I see and hear the heartbeat of God all around me. It is not a stretch from that point to believe in the essential goodness of ALL creation. When I am surrounded by nature and God’s creation it is always a time spent in deeper reflection on God, Life, and Love.

But of all God’s Creations, we humans are the only creatures with FREE WILL. And though I acknowledge that mankind is essentially good, sometimes reluctantly so I must admit, I also acknowledge man’s free will. Humans have the capacity to do great good, and also the capacity to do great harm. It seems as though mankind co-exists with the heart of a lamb and the heart of a raging beast. Which one of these two wins dominion over the heart? The strong one will win, and the strong one is the one we feed and nurture.

This book, Listening for the heartbeat of God, is not a revelation for me. It is an affirmation for me.

The following are some of the ideas I choose to believe:

ALL OF CREATION, EVERY LIVING THING, REFLECTS THE ESSENTIAL GOODNESS OF GOD, THE HEARTBEAT OF GOD.

HUMANS, WITH THE GRACE OF GOD AND THE TEACHINGS OF JESUS, CAN MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICES.

THE ESSENTIAL GOODNESS OF HUMANITY IS NOT TOTALLY ERASED WITH ADAM’S FALL.

I BELIEVE IN ANGELS.

I BELIEVE THAT EVERYONE DESERVES A SECOND CHANCE AND EVERYONE DESERVES FORGIVENESS.

I BELIEVE IN GOD THE FATHER, HIS SON JESUS CHRIST, AND THE HOLY SPIRIT.


Footnotes

1. Wikipedia John Philip Newell
2. Listening for the Heartbeat of God, John Philip Newell
3. Listening for the Heartbeat of God, John Philip Newell
4. Listening for the Heartbeat of God, John Philip Newell
5. Listening for the Heartbeat of God, John Philip Newell
6. Listening For the Heartbeat of God, John Philip Newell
7. Listening For the Heartbeat of God, John Philip Newell

Spirit Scribbles: A Pentecost Worship, Sunday June 9, 2019, Ginger Rembold

Thank you so much to Ginger Rembold for volunteering to be our pulpit supply this past Sunday. Follow the link below to see the sermon, artwork, and liturgy from the service.

Spirit Scribbles: Pentecost Worship

Psalm 148, Revelations 21:1-6, May 19, 2019, Annalea Kauth Sermon

“Ripples” 

by Annalea Kauth

Have you heard of Paul Wesselmann? Paul Wesselmann is known as the Ripples Guy. He started an inspirational and thought-provoking weekly email called the Ripples Project.  These emails have a way of popping up when, without realizing, I start to feel a little stuck.  I will have forgotten about these weekly emails and then they will pop up alongside your emails, the radio station emailing about Gretchen’s radio ad, and even those numerous emails with Session and Keith.  The emails consist of three sayings, comments, or short writings; a Pebble, a Boulder and a Ponder.

For the last two months these emails have answered questions I’ve had weighing on my heart.  Questions I feel, didn’t think important enough to pray about, but are still there just the same.  Clearly, I may not have thought them important, but God did and he would send ripples along to me.

Case in point:

March 25^th’s Pebble:
“If you never heal from what hurt you, then you’ll bleed on people who did not cut you.”

And Boulder:

“Even when the wound is not your fault, healing from it is your responsibility.”

I didn’t really think much of this at first, but as the weeks progressed I started to understand.  To fight for a justice when an admittance is the best to come, can lead to “bleeding” on those who are there to stand with you and protect you.  It can keep you from hearing their acknowledgments and feeling their love for you.

April 1^st’s Pebble:

“One reason you're on this planet is to discover all the reasons you're on this planet.  Go find your reasons!”

Am I the right person for this, am I doing what I am supposed to be doing? These thoughts would come up and I would question my experience, and if I would be weak link because I didn’t or don’t have experience.  With this Pebble, God reminded me that experience is not the only reason people step up. God reminded me that he had surrounded me with a community of family who would help me discover and take great joy in whatever I found.

April 15th’s Pebble:
“Fear has two meanings: "Forget Everything And Run" or "Face Everything And Rise." The choice is yours.”

And Boulder:
“Being free of fear is not a matter of never feeling it, but of not being flattened when we do. We can feel it and know it is a natural phenomenon, also an impermanent one, which will have its say and be gone.”

I was going through a lot of “I don’t know”. We were going through un-charted territory and didn’t know what we would find. This causes a lot of anxiety and fear and I sure felt mine. God stepped in with this email and quieted the voices in my head so I could truly listen. By turning to him I was able to lay the weight of my fears with Him to allow me to keep going.

By April 29th’s Boulder, I knew I was doing this today:
“To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places -- and there are so many -- where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction.”

There were things and situations not where I thought they would be. With every meeting I would experience a great sadness when an experience or conversation was shared. I felt like those in Psalm 148, I couldn’t understand God’s relationship to those on the other side. I didn’t understand the magnitude of God’s steadfast love and mercy. God pointed out that I didn’t need to understand, I didn’t need to ‘fight’ the other side, my focus didn’t need to be over there but right here with you. I needed to open my eyes and see those hurt but compassionate, frustrated but kind, and find my way with you.

By May 6th’s Boulder, I was working through the scriptures for today, still nothing written yet:
“Everything grand is made from a series of ugly little moments. Everything worthwhile by hours of self-doubt and days of drudgery. All the works by people you and I admire sit atop a foundation of failures. So whatever your project, whatever your struggle, whatever your dream, keep toiling.”

This new heaven and new earth in Revelations 21 didn’t happen without heartache and suffering. Our toils these past few months are our foundation for the dream of that perfect vista view, where mourning and crying and pain will be no more.

This bring us to this past Monday’s email. We find things winding down and finishing, and we need to start looking to the future, near and far.

May 13th's Pebble:
“I don’t know what my path is yet. I’m just walking on it.”

And Boulder:
Sometimes you don’t need to have a Master Plan.
You can trust in your Not Knowing instead.
Sometimes you just need to take the next step.
A small step.
Into safety.
Or into the wilderness.
Trust.
Breathe.
The great Master Plan unfolds with each tiny step you take.

We all know our great plans of the future are never on the path we thought it would take.  I have been asked by a couple people when I told them I was doing this Sunday’s service if I was looking at this for a career, a calling. I was quick to say no, but my answer was not entirely true. I do feel called to be here today, but not to become a pastor. I do feel called to be a leader, but not the president as well.  I felt called here today because of my relationships with you. You have fueled my fire.  I don’t’ know what today will bring or how it will leave any of us. I will still have questions and God will still answer them; I just don’t know how they will come.  I do know that those pebbles you have dropped in my water are the beautiful ripples of your love and care I feel every day. Reminding me that all is in God’s divine plan. Your pebbles make me hopeful in this newness and are a beacon for me to find my way.

Psalm 40:1-6, Jonah 2:1-9, John 9:1-12, May 5, 2019, Ginger Rembold Sermon

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MUD 

       

        Wow. What a topic for a sermon.  Mud. Muck. Mire. The pit. The belly of a whale. I’ve kinda had fun thinking about this for several weeks.  What in the world do all these scriptures have in common...other than they involve yucky slimy stuff.  Is Ginger out of her mind?  (Probably!) Is this the lectionary for today?  Absolutely not.  But during Lent I came across an article in Presbyterian Today,  written by its editor, Donna Jackson.  She was lamenting the mud season of New England – we can relate.  That period of time in spring when the snow is melting, everything is brown and still bare and dead, and what is left is muck.  Muck that sticks to everything.  Jackson wrote, ‘When stuck in the mud, where is God?” 

        The topic of mud reminded me of when Rick and I visited Alaska ages ago  and we stopped along Cook Inlet on the Kenai Penninsula.  The tidal waters here are immense – 30 foot differences between high and low.   During low tide, to walk on the tidal flats is to risk the muck.  The water laden sand pulls one down and the more you struggle, suction begins to hold your feet fast. People have died on these flats. Your only recourse is to wait patiently for help...and hope it comes before the tide returns.  Is this the pit of David?  Where is God in the tidal mud?

        The events in the life of our congregation over the past year made me pause when reading Jackson’s article.  For we have been in a mess, stuck in the mud, caught in the slime of the whale’s belly.  We have felt at times like we wanted to just run away from it all.  The church seemed like Ninevah, and Tarshish looked really appealing!  And once we got our feet caught in the muck, like David, we  wondered if we could ever get out.  The mire seemed to just keep pulling us down. We had pride – we could solve this!  Yet with that attitude,  we just sank deeper.  Where was God?  Where was the holy in the mud?

        I picked up a book by Mike Howerton, a pastor in Redmond, WA, titled Glorious Messes.    The essence of his message is simple: we encounter God most profoundly in the middle of the mud.    I am not even going to try to summarize the highlights of this 200 page gem, but I do want to focus on several questions that spoke to me and perhaps might speak to you and our church as well.  Questions we might all try to answer for ourselves.

        First did we run?  I probably have.  No, I haven’t run to the extent of avoiding church, but I am a non-confrontational person.  I don’t like conflict, I try to avoid it.  I found Tarshish looked a lot easier than diving into the mud of Ninevah.  We run sometimes because we have a different agenda from God.  We run because of pride. We run because of our fears.  We run when we fail to act in a positive way.  But running doesn’t solve the problem.  Closing ones eyes and hoping we don’t step into the muddy part of the roadside doesn’t help. Running simply doesn’t make the mud go away!  Just ask Jonah.

        Secondly, have we waited patiently for the Lord?  Waiting is sometimes risky.  Waiting means trust that God is in the mud with us, beside us, that God loves all of us in spite of the mud, and wants what is best for all of us.  Waiting is HARD WORK!  It means letting go of our fears and agendas and giving God time to work through us and in us.  It means Letting go….like the phrase ‘Let Go and Let God’.  But so often we listen to ‘God helps those who help themselves’, so we squirm and wiggle with our pride and fears and manage to dig ourselves just a little deeper into the belly.  But God doesn’t wait to act until the mess is figured out.  God is a work all THROUGH the mess.  Have we noticed?

        Have we listened for God’s voice?  Jonah spent three days in the belly of a whale.  That’s a long time to wait patiently for God’s rescue.   Especially with all that slime and belly guts hanging around you!  And the smell couldn’t have been great.  But what else do you do when in the belly?  It’s dark!  You can’t read or play games!  Your cell phone doesn’t get reception,  So you might as well have a good long conversation with God and make sure that God does most of the talking and you do most of the listening.  I have trouble with that sometime.  It is so easy to tell God, ‘this is how I want you to fix this mess’, so make sure such and such happens.  Sometimes we are so focused on OUR solution, what we perceive as right and just, that we fail to see how God is at work making mud pies.  But like a loving father, God really does know best.  Like my Mama God, God works through the mud with forgiveness and grace.

        Listen to the end of Jonah’s prayer. :I will sing praises to you”  Listen to the end of David’s plea. “He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God!”  , Have we really celebrated our blessings with praise and gratitude?    Have we given God credit for the ways in which God’s love has been manifest in our congregation and through our missions.  Have we taken a really good look at the positive over the past years?  Have we truly celebrated together as a faith family?   Rejoicing in God’s glory! Singing our praises!  Or has the mud stuck in our throat and rendered us silent while we dwell on on the mess. God’s help comes through the Hallelujahs.

        Back to the blind man.  Yes, mud in this story as well.  But notice what Jesus does with that mud – he heals the blind man.  Jesus uses his spit and dirt to heal.  How much muckier can you get than that?  And in the same way, God uses the mud to heal us, not in spite of the mess, but using the mess as an agent of change and transformation.  How can we be re-created through our mess?   Where is the Hallelujah as this church moves forward?

         Editor Jackson again closed with.  “Our mud season – those times of sorrow, challenges and dashed dreams – is a redemptive time to slow down, grab tighter to Christ’s hand and remember that God will always get us through.  We need to slosh through the mess knowing that something beautiful, something sweet awaits.  For there is always something waiting beneath the messes of life.  God is always there, preparing new life, preparing an Easter Alleluia, beneath the mud. It’s rather like finding that first crocus blossom.  Sing praise to God!  Alleluia! Amen!

        On one side of your insert you’ll find a place to reflect for just a couple minutes.  What is your personal mud at the moment? Perhaps it involves family, perhaps your faith, perhaps our community or world. Jot down a few words of where you find yourself in the belly of the whale right now.  Then pause, listen, and write a couple words of how you might praise God in that situation, and in so doing allow God to bring you out of the pit. 

 John 9:1-11

As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man who had been born blind.  His disciples asked him, “Teacher, whose sin caused him to be born blind? Was it his own or his parents' sin?”

Jesus answered, “His blindness has nothing to do with his sins or his parents' sins. He is blind so that God's power might be seen at work in him.  As long as it is day, we must do the work of him who sent me; night is coming when no one can work.   While I am in the world, I am the light for the world.”

After he said this, Jesus spat on the ground and made some mud with the spittle; he rubbed the mud on the man's eyes  and told him, “Go and wash your face in the Pool of Siloam.” (This name means “Sent.”) So the man went, washed his face, and came back seeing.

His neighbors, then, and the people who had seen him begging before this, asked, “Isn't this the man who used to sit and beg?”

Some said, “He is the one,” but others said, “No he isn't; he just looks like him.”

So the man himself said, “I am the man.”

“How is it that you can now see?” they asked him. He answered, “The man called Jesus made some mud, rubbed it on my eyes, and told me to go to Siloam and wash my face. So I went, and as soon as I washed, I could see.”

CHILDREN’S MESSAGE

        How many of you like to play in the mud?  Make mud pies or get that green slimey stuff you can buy in the store?

        I want to tell you a muddy story – it’s a true story when I was about Silas’ age,  I had just received a brand new pair of bright white tennis shoes.  They glowed!  It was springtime in California and it had rained a few days earlier.  The first time I wore my new  shoes to school, I was walking home by myself along the road – there was no sidewalk.  There were two puddles ahead of me with a strip of bare muddy ground in between them.  I didn’t want to walk around the puddles, so I went across the mud.  Guess what happened?  Yep, my shoes were a MESS!  I got stuck in the mud and it squished all over my shoes.

        When I got home I was so ashamed I made my life even worse – I lied to my mom.  I told her I had been looking at a book and didn’t see the mud.  When you are 10 years old, Moms are kinda like God.    I think she knew I was lying, but she took my very dirty muddy shoes  and later in the week – I think she deliberately made me wait - she washed them several times with bleach.  I hardly slept that week I felt so guilty for lying to my Mom-God. But my shoes came clean.  Later as an adult when I asked my mom, didn’t remember this story – that’s how God is – he cleans us up,  forgives and forgets.  But I didn’t  forget.   learned that God works through the mud to teach us some important lessons about love and forgiveness.

John 20.19-23, April 28, 2019, Pastor Katy's Last Sermon

FIRST SCRIPTURE READING John 20.19 - 23

Our first scripture reading is the continuation of last week’s Easter Readings. After Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalene at the tomb, he told her to go and tell the disciples. She did, proclaiming to them, “I have seen the Lord.” This scripture is the evening, of that first Easter day, but our sermon to follow will move back and forth between Christmas Eve in this sanctuary, and this Easter Evening Scripture.

19 It was still the first day of the week. That evening,

while the disciples were behind closed doors because they were afraid of the Jewish authorities, Jesus came and stood among them.

He said, “Peace be with you.”

20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side.

When the disciples saw the Lord, they were filled with joy.

21 Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father sent me, so I am sending you.”

22 Then he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.

SERMON

I love Christmas Eve. I love coming to the sanctuary at night. I love the darkness, and the green boughs, and the words of the antique hymns and ancient scriptures. I love that when stripped down, those scriptures tell the normal lives of each of us. Through the drama of angels, we recognize, the emotions of new parents, the promise of a baby, and their lineage passed down to us this night. Each year, evokes a different message, told with the familiarity of a bedtime story In those days a decree went out, and a lullaby, Silent Night, Holy Night.

I love that over the years, my family in attendance has changed. At first, it was my parents' and sister’s long flights from Texas to Idaho, and the harried winter drive into Eastern Oregon. Then, my family was the surprise of the ways those friends who knew me best, showed up, in a glance during a carol, in a snowball at my study window, and in my neighbor sitting in the back-pew - her son, having shoveled my winter’s walk. Family became the invitations of congregants, their kids greeting me on Christmas morning, “Merry Christmas, Katy.” Family became a lace and light blue stocking made just for me hanging on the mantle. Family became Music Room mornings blending voices with the quartet singing, “In the Bleak,” or, “Lo.” Family became those yearly faces that I could just discern in the dim nightfallen stained glass sanctuary; the community reunion which happened between the pulpit, and the pews, and the people. You became my family.

And so, approaching this Christmas felt a little different, knowing it would be my last. I asked my former co-worker, turned forever friend, Luke, to be my liturgist. I worked on my sermon for days, and for once it didn’t even bother me that the timing, as always, coincided with Anthony Lakes’ opening. On a Friday evening, with everything Christmas and social happening on Main Street, Kyra and I, instead, came to the church. With water glasses from the Fellowship Hall kitchen, cheese still in its plastic wrappers, and a bottle of wine without an opener in the church, we holed up in the empty Sunday School Room, and scripted out the sanctuary’s Christmas banner’s lettering of, O’ Little Town of Bethlehem. That Advent was about preparing, us preparing for the Lord, but there was also, for me, a tinge of preparing to say a good - goodbye.

The disciples, that Easter evening, may have found themselves similarly. They had been a family for each other for a long time. They had left the family they knew, dropped their nets, and said goodbye to their fathers. In the meantime, their names and titles changed, as have ours, and they learned to be fishers of people and healers, as have we. For moments, the disciples even walked on water, and often they fed the hungry, sometimes with only five loaves and two fish, sometimes in double bagged, “backpacks.” In the end, it came down to the sharing of a meal, and a garden, and trying to stay awake to pray. And because they couldn’t, because no one can, stay awake forever, the disciples found themselves latched behind closed doors, grieving their loved one, grieving his lack of a good - goodbye.

Therefore, I imagine Jesus coming and standing among them, like how the tone chimes ring us in on Christmas Eve, ever so subtly they move us from the hurried outside world to the peaceful sanctuary within. Jesus moving the disciples from their busied thoughts of what was going to come through the doors, to what was within the room. Jesus came and stood among them, the scripture reads. Then he said, “Peace be with you.”  There is a moment, each Christmas Eve, just minutes before the clock strikes six, when I’ve donned my stole, run through my checklist, and prayed. Then with bated breath, I walk downstairs and open the sanctuary door. I see pews, upon pews, of my family. You my family. I see the Lord in that sanctuary room. Former youth and their families take up whole pews, my running buddies and their children snuggle in the corners, the steady of my congregation slightly shift their routine spots, and the players, the musicians, the readers, the acolytes, the Worship Committee, and the children all begin to settle in by the presence of a black robe. For me, this year, it had begun at that point, his birth, and that good-goodbye.

If we disciples hadn’t seen Jesus appear in the locked room by our first Christmas Eve hymn of O’Come All Ye’ Faithful, or the poetry of the Advent Candle Readings, some kid during the Children’s Sermon was at least going to point out something as literal as the marks in Jesus’ hand or his sides, or the need for the manger to be not a display piece, but physically below Mary and Joseph in the children’s play. Likewise, there was a moment preaching, when the sanctuary was perfectly still, and I could see every eye. You were with me, we were a family of disciples. Together, we hung on each word, waiting, for him to be born, and once he was, I knew he had given us a good-goodbye. That Easter Evening, the scripture reads likewise, “When the disciples saw the Lord, they were filled with joy. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father sent me, so I am sending you.”” It was Jesus giving a good goodbye.

After I finish preaching on Christmas Eve, is the moment Christmas comes to me. After giving all I have, I finally allow myself to receive. I joined you, the other disciples, in listening to the soloist, hearing the promise of Peace on Earth and then, I get to unwrap the first gift. From the Christ Candle of the Advent Wreath, I got to light the first, small, candlestick. Then, I turned to my best friend Luke, and lit his next, and then we each took a side of the aisle.

On that Easter Evening, the scripture reads that, “Jesus breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”” Jesus must have been so close, for breath to pass, for the Spirit to hover and be revived in that space between their faces. With the song Silent Night almost a whisper on my breath, I knelt down to the first pew. In so doing, the dim light turned to glowing on the countenance of my family, You my family, and the Spirit hovered and was received.

I had had only once such a moment before in my life, my birth-great-grandmother was in her nineties by the time I first met her, which my birth-family decided was too old to explain that I was actually her eldest grandchild, who had been placed for adoption. Granny lived for a decade more after that first meeting, and so each time I saw her, I would kneel before her wheelchair, face to face, and speaking intentionally close so she could hear. I am sure my breath passed between us, and upon my breath, the Spirit breathed, I felt the love of family, family, even though she didn’t know I was.

There were the Christmas faces of my friends in the community, who came on big Sundays to sit in for my own family; and in their loving faces, the Spirit passed between our candlelight. On the next pew was a couple I married whose hopes and dreams I carried, and the Spirit hovered on those dreams between our candlelight. There were the church kids who came to edge of the pew to get the first light and holding their hands I tilted their candle to the flame and saw their face light up with the Spirit. There was the woman, who years before, had come looking for a friend on Christmas Eve and between our candlelight, and the light she passed, friendship was now on either side. There was the husband alone in the pew, and with one hand on his flannelled shoulder I steadied the flame as the Spirit passed between our candles. There was the family who had invited me after and I had not yet seen, and whom I worried my sermon might not fall well with, and instead, they all leaned in with giant smiles whispering, “Hi Katy,” their greeting breath of the Spirit opening the space between us. There were the former youth group kids returned, sitting as they used to with their families, and the light was the same Spirit that accompanied their growing up. There was the row of a family’s first Christmas after loss and the Spirit’s flame was resilient and steady in the bolster of family softly singing at their side. There was the couple who smiled at me, and in the candlelight lifted the celebration amidst all the stories we’d shared. At the end, near last pew, was someone new. I recognized their face from the community, and gave an excited whispered, “hi!” They smiled surprised and then tiled their candle. Between us the Spirit spoke the promise that the flame would continue for generations after I have packed my robe.

With the sanctuary lit, I walked back and rocked on my feet singing Silent Night, Luke next to me, his mom at the piano, Nancy Ames on guitar. I looked out over my family, all of us, come together in that room; having waited for Jesus, and found him. Having heard his message of hope for peace, and having said a good goodbye. And that Christmas Eve in this sanctuary, as on the evening of Easter with the disciples, the light of the Spirit bounced from face to face, and I loved you as my family, and I received the same. I love you, family of God. And the Spirit bounces here, among us now, and forever always, Amen.

John 20. 1-18, April 28, 2019, Easter Sermon

John 20.1-18 Common English Bible (CEB)

20 Early in the morning of the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb. 2 She ran to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said, “They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don’t know where they’ve put him.” 3 Peter and the other disciple left to go to the tomb. 4 They were running together, but the other disciple ran faster than Peter and was the first to arrive at the tomb. 5 Bending down to take a look, he saw the linen cloths lying there, but he didn’t go in. 6 Following him, Simon Peter entered the tomb and saw the linen cloths lying there. 7 He also saw the face cloth that had been on Jesus’ head. It wasn’t with the other clothes but was folded up in its own place. 8 Then the other disciple, the one who arrived at the tomb first, also went inside. He saw and believed. 9 They didn’t yet understand the scripture that Jesus must rise from the dead. 10 Then the disciples returned to the place where they were staying.

11 Mary stood outside near the tomb, crying. As she cried, she bent down to look into the tomb. 12 She saw two angels dressed in white, seated where the body of Jesus had been, one at the head and one at the foot. 13 The angels asked her, “Woman, why are you crying?”

She replied, “They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they’ve put him.”

14 As soon as she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she didn’t know it was Jesus. 15 Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?” Thinking he was the gardener, she replied, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him and I will get him.” 16 Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned and said to him in Aramaic, “Rabbouni” (which means Teacher).

17 Jesus said to her, “Don’t hold on to me, for I haven’t yet gone up to my Father. Go to my brothers and sisters and tell them, ‘I’m going up to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

18 Mary Magdalene left and announced to the disciples, “I’ve seen the Lord.” Then she told them what he said to her.

SERMON 

“Early in the morning, of the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.” I imagine that morning, while it was still dark, like Thomas Lynch, a funeral-director and poet, described his hopes for his own eventual graveside service. He wrote,

“I'd rather it be February. Not that it will matter much to me. Not that I'm a stickler for details. But since you're asking -- February. The month I first became a father, the month my father died. Yes. Better even than November….I want it cold. I want the gray to inhabit the air like wood does trees: as an essence not a coincidence. And the hope for springtime, gardens, romance, dulled to a stump by the winter in Michigan. Yes, February. With the cold behind and the cold before you and the darkness stubborn at the edges of the day. And a wind to make the cold more bitter. So that ever after it might be said, “It was a sad old day we did it after all^[1].”

So that ever after it might be said, “Early in the morning, of the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary came to the tomb.”

She came dressed for the memorial in mismatched shades of black, her countenance dutiful in sorrow. She came to make sure everything was just so, the scripture to be read, the flowers to be placed on the coffin as it descended into the ground, and once the earth was replaced and the burying done - the wreath to encircle Jesus' name forever carved in granite. She came to make sure everything was just so, and instead, it wasn’t. The dead wasn’t as it should be. Instead, she found the stone had been taken away from the tomb, the gravestone’s inscription - wiped blank, the memorial palm-fronds blooming floral, his catacomb - empty. His linens lay folded, his burial suit, placed back on its hanger. While the daylight began to creep in.

She stood, outside near the tomb crying. As she cried, she bent down to look into the tomb. She looked to the place where the death-eaters of clergy and funeral director, would fulfill their positions. Black-robe and black-suit bookending the coffin-bed, like head and footboards of an ever lasting sleep. Clergy at the head, to lift up the mystery of dreams, director at the foot to orchestrate the reality of eternal rest. What Mary saw instead were, “two angels dressed in white, seated where the body of Jesus had been, one at the head and one at the foot.”

The angels asked her, “Why are you crying?” As if grief was not what funerals were for. As if providing a platitude for her pain. As if they were not sitting at the place where Jesus had been laid to rest. Mary replied, “They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they’ve put him.”

As soon as she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she didn’t know it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?” Mary was looking for the dead among the living. Therefore, she thought Jesus was the gardener, with the callousness of death become routine, and this day the same as any other. She replied, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him and I will get him.” Jesus’ lifeless body, her own cross to bear, but, Jesus said to her,

“Mary.”

And for the first time, she realized the life, which was before her. The life which called out her name, and in so doing, taught her to look for that which was living among the dead. Taught her that she need not come to anoint his body, but to celebrate his life. Taught that the promise of Jesus, the promise of Easter, was not hidden early in the morning while it was still dark but instead was visible in the light at the break of day. Easter was not in the tomb, but in the garden, just as it was in the beginning, and through to his final hours, Alpha and Omega. Easter was in his life, and hers. Easter was every Spring in the Garden, Easter was each first day of the week, Easter was each and every day. Easter was and is always. Jesus was and is also always, even though she could not hold on to his physical being.

Jesus said to her, “Don’t hold on to me, for I haven’t yet gone up to my Father. Go to my brothers and sisters and tell them, ‘I’m going up to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Jesus was teaching Mary that you cannot hold on to the dead, at least as dead. That to hold on to them, is to find them in life. To find how the dead carry on in the living.

You look for Jesus, you look for the dead, in the faces of your children. You look for the dead in their old jokes given new laughter. You look for the dead in the next curmudgeon you meet where you can immediately see the softy underneath, because your beloved was likewise. You look for the dead in the warmth of their patchwork quilt. You look for the dead in their favorite hymn sung on a random Sunday in late April. You look for the dead in the shell the night waves washed ashore. You look for the dead when you ski a fresh line, or identify a new bird, these pastimes they taught you. You look for the dead in the scarf of a childhood dress your mother sewed. You look for the dead in a legacy of family friendships passed down. You look for the dead in your living out their occupation and calling. You look for the dead when your daughter bakes her mother’s cookies, (and your son patrols her streets). You look for the dead when your feet carry you dancing the Charleston, and when you end up calling a little kid, “Pal,” or, “Buddy,” which had been your own nicknames. You look for the dead when you find yourself sharing a heartfelt, ‘thank you,’ just as they had modeled. You look for the dead with each Spring’s first Lady Slipper wildflower.  You look for the dead when your grandchild puts on his dad’s cowboy hat, or responds to her grandmother’s name. You look for the dead when you also remember to pray for the living. You look for the dead in the calming of a storm and the promise of a rainbow. You look for the dead in the way you know to cast your net on the other side. You look for the dead in the celebration of a meal. You look for the dead when the waters wash you anew. You look for the dead, you look for Jesus, among the living, amidst the light.

Thomas Lynch the undertaker poet describes similarly how when he someday dies, he hopes people see his life. Not only his life past, but his life present. At the end of his poem about his own funeral, he writes,

“It's yours to do -- my funeral -- not mine. The death is yours to live with once I'm dead…All I really wanted was a witness. To say I was. To say, daft as it still sounds, maybe I am.”

“Maybe I am.” Maybe Lynch is, in that moment. Maybe on a cold February, or during April in a garden, his mourners will read that very poem, and follow his directions, and in so doing, he will be alive. Surely they will see the dead amongst the living. Lynch, and clergy, who deal so closely with death, know the space to which Mary came. We know the dark hours between Good Friday and the light of Easter. We also know, when we come to the tomb, to look for the Gardener. Like Lynch, all the gardener really wanted was a witness. To say he was. To say, daft as it still sounds, maybe I am. Jesus is the I AM, and Mary is this witness. She sees the gardener and hears that Jesus is.

Then as if answering Jesus’ question, “Who are you looking for?” Mary Magdalene walks back while the sun rises, and then announces to the disciples, “I’ve seen the Lord.” Her words - are present tense.

Jesus’ life remains present tense. I have seen the Lord. We have seen the Lord. We see him each time, we look for the dead amongst the living. This is the promise of Easter. That, the dead, are alive amongst the living, and alive forevermore. Alleluia, Amen.

---

^[1] https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/undertaking/undertakers/tract.html

Matthew 21. 1-17, April 14, 2019, Palm Sunday Sermon

Matthew 21.1-17 Common English Bible (CEB) Entry into Jerusalem

21 When they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus gave two disciples a task. 2 He said to them, “Go into the village over there. As soon as you enter, you will find a donkey tied up and a colt with it. Untie them and bring them to me. 3  If anybody says anything to you, say that the Lord needs it.” He sent them off right away. 

4 Now this happened to fulfill what the prophet said, 5 Say to Daughter Zion, “Look, your king is coming to you, humble and riding on a donkey, and on a colt the donkey’s offspring.” 6 The disciples went and did just as Jesus had ordered them. 7 They brought the donkey and the colt and laid their clothes on them. Then he sat on them.

8 Now a large crowd spread their clothes on the road. Others cut palm branches off the trees and spread them on the road. 9 The crowds in front of him and behind him shouted, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessings on the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!” 10 And when Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred up. “Who is this?” they asked. 11 The crowds answered, “It’s the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.”

SERMON 

21 When they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus gave two disciples a task. 2 He said to them, “Go into the village over there. As soon as you enter, you will find a donkey tied up and a colt with it. Untie them and bring them to me. 3  If anybody says anything to you, say that the Lord needs it.” He sent them off right away. 

We were the disciples sent away in preparation. 

When they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives…

For a year, I read and prayed through every profile on the Church Leadership Connection, which matches pastors and churches. Some were of interest, and had inspiring mission programs, or thoughtful statements about what they believed. Others seemed to lack life and held out for a pastor, often a young one, to come and bring it back. First Presbyterian Church, Baker City described itself as a mix of ranchers and farmers, teachers and lawyers, with a vibrant youth ministry, budding mission programs, and an open and diverse theology. It spoke of the outdoors, and the mountains, and a congregation who identified itself with the land. It talked about being a church family. 

I described myself, the various places I’d called home, and my connection to nature. I told of my hopes of being with people, and hearing their stories, and worshiping together, and what I believed, which was likewise, pretty open, and as I do I wrote with my heart, and the mind of a writer, such that though the committee was looking for an older man, Bob Moon, apparently pulled my profile out and said, “Look at this.”

I remember Candy having warned me that the drive up from Boise would scare me, and I would think, there is no way I am coming here, in the middle of rolling sagebrush hills of nothing, and then, she described, toward the very end, we would crest a hill and see the Elkhorn range rising up in glory. 

We had a great visit. I loved this church and it’s people, and driving back to the airport I knew there was a sense of call. The Pastor Nominating Committee PNC, felt the same, because though they had told me they were going to interview another candidate, they called me on the drive back and extended the call, later canceling the other candidate’s visit.  It was like the church and I had come up and found the donkey and the colt, just as the Lord had said we would. It fulfilled a prophecy, that calling I had felt nudged toward since my childhood, but only later understood. That discernment and connection the PNC felt, and the calling that ensued. 

Likewise, I don’t think I have ever been so welcomed to a place. The church was packed, the potluck immense, the gifts humbling. My presiding over and serving my first communion, overwhelming in it’s depths and humbling in its sacristy, and one of those moments where I just shared what I felt and the gratitude of serving you, and you smiled I remember. Do you remember Maddy and Alex’s communion, where tears ran down my cheeks, and yours, the entire time? Do you remember how so many you showed me hikes, or baby livestock, or the Snake River on a boat, or opened your home for dinner, or brought me the first harvest of morels, or taught me to drive on snow? I likewise, tried to return your welcome and share my care. You prepared me for funerals really quickly, as I had something like four in my first three weeks and I made sure to hear all the stories so I could lift those people up in commendation. I slept on church floors and talked in my sleep on youth trips, and I agonized over every Christmas and Easter sermon for weeks prior. I studied the scriptures and heard their application to your life in eight years of Lectionary Bible Study. I likewise learned your stories and I don’t think there is one person I have not visited or with whom I have not shared some special time. 

In all those moments where you welcomed me, and I welcomed you, and we loved the people of God, we welcomed the Lord, and waved palms for him together. We were the crowd, you know, spreading our clothes on the road. Cutting off branches from the trees. Shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessings on the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!” We did a lot of ministry together. We did SO much ministry together. And when Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred up. “Who is this?” they asked. With your ministry First Presbyterian Church stopped being known as the rich church, and became known as the church that did hands on Mission work in the community.  Our youth ministry was vibrant, and Vacation Bible School was like Disneyland for elementary kids. Our worship, was solid, and often creative, and we crowds of the church answered, “It’s the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.” We pointed to Jesus and heralded his name.

And that was Palm Sunday, and it’s where our scripture ends today, in this triumphant celebration of welcome, in this recognition of the prophet, when we came in the name of the Lord, but we know the rest of the story. Don't we? Today begins Holy Week, in this season of Lent. We will go through the Last Supper this week, where we will sit as disciples, while Jesus foreshadows his body torn, his blood shed. We will go though Maundy Thursday and condemn the waste of perfume, and Jesus will have to remind us that is not a sin to anoint him, that we will not always have him with us. On that same day, he will bend down to wash our dirtied feet, and none of us, none of us will be clean, whether we ignored the mud that mires this journey or walked directly though it. We the disciples will have betrayed him with a kiss, or slept through his capture when he asked us to pray with him. Then there will be Good Friday where we, the same crowd, have turned from honoring Jesus’ king-like entry in Jerusalem, with all our hopes for his ministry and his saving, to shaming his exit with a crown of thorns. Then Saturday will come and we will sit vigil. We the disciples will wait in darkness, wondering where Jesus has gone. Yes, Easter will come, with all its new life, and promise. There will be another pastor, I will have another life after this. But for me, today, and maybe for you, I am sad that I am part of the crowd that went from saying,

“Hosanna,” to, “Crucify him.”

Matthew 25:1-13, April 7, 2019, Sermon

SCRIPTURE 

Matthew 25:1-13 Common English Bible (CEB)
25 “At that time the kingdom of heaven will be like ten young bridesmaids who took their lamps and went out to meet the groom. 2 Now five of them were wise, and the other five were foolish. 3 The foolish ones took their lamps but didn’t bring oil for them. 4 But the wise ones took their lamps and also brought containers of oil.
5 “When the groom was late in coming, they all became drowsy and went to sleep. 6 But at midnight there was a cry, ‘Look, the groom! Come out to meet him.’
7 “Then all those bridesmaids got up and prepared their lamps. 8 But the foolish bridesmaids said to the wise ones, ‘Give us some of your oil, because our lamps have gone out.’
9 “But the wise bridesmaids replied, ‘No, because if we share with you, there won’t be enough for our lamps and yours. We have a better idea. You go to those who sell oil and buy some for yourselves.’ 10 But while they were gone to buy oil, the groom came. Those who were ready went with him into the wedding. Then the door was shut.
11 “Later the other bridesmaids came and said, ‘Lord, lord, open the door for us.’
12 “But he replied, ‘I tell you the truth, I don’t know you.’
13 “Therefore, keep alert, because you don’t know the day or the hour.


SERMON 
At that time the kingdom of heaven will be like caregivers who took their lamps and went out to meet their loved one. Now five of them were wise, and the other five were foolish. The foolish ones took their lamps, clay lamps that had traveled distances, between the caregiver’s home and their loved one’s home, to the loved one’s doctor’s office, to the pharmacy, or the grocery store, or to the clothing store to find a different type of shirt that the caregiver could slip on over the loved one’s changing body.

Clay lamps formed with so much time, of keeping company, of researching alternatives, of waiting without answers, of wondering why, and when the time will come, and grieving the reality that it is coming.

Clay lamps shaped with so much worry, worries of falling, of driving, of choking, of leaving, of what they are eating, or not eating, or remembering and not, worries of pain, and balance, and flexibility, and capability.

Clay lamps of energy, of lifting, of giving an arm, of remembering to walk slowly, of bending to tie a clumsy oversized shoe, of finding and delivering lost glasses, and of reading to when those glasses fail, of tilting cups with straws to sip, and wiping up the dribbled remnants, and the physically and emotionally hard strain of wiping, and speaking in almost a yell.

The foolish ones took their lamps, but didn’t bring oil for them.

But the wise ones took their lamps, filled with all the same things but also brought containers of oil.

Containers filled with their own needs, of regular and routine exercise, of time with friends, of people to talk to both within and outside the system, of caregiver support groups, and the awareness of church members.

Containers of saying yes, and asking for specifics, “Can you find a shirt that will slip over their body, can you sit and read once a week, can you make a meal once a week with all these dietary restrictions, can you keep me in prayer?”

Containers of good boundaries, “I will not look up medical research on the internet. I will allow my siblings to each have a part, I will remain my loved one’s spouse, child, grandchild, and allow hospice or home health to come in. I will say when and how I am available but my loved one will need to voice their needs. I will take the trip I was planning, and also plan another one.”

Containers of conversations, “of gratitude for what their loved one has given, or disappointments never said, of planning for what their loved one desires at the end of life, and after it, and their hopes for it, and their fears and approaching it.

The wise ones took their lamps, filled with all the same things but also brought containers of oil.

5 “When the groom was late in coming, they all became drowsy and went to sleep. 6 But at midnight there was a cry, ‘Look, the groom! Come out to meet him.’ 7 “Then all those bridesmaids got up and prepared their lamps. 8 But the foolish bridesmaids said to the wise ones, ‘Give us some of your oil, because our lamps have gone out.’ It was no wonder their lamps had gone out, because no one can sustain that light to care for another without also refueling their own container.

9 “But the wise bridesmaids, who knew how to care and keep their lamps lit replied, ‘No, because if we share with you, there won’t be enough for our lamps and yours. We have a better idea. You go to those who sell oil and buy some for yourselves.’ But while they were gone to buy oil, the groom came. Those who were ready went with him into the wedding. Then the door was shut. They couldn’t get back the time that had already passed. “Later the other bridesmaids came and said, ‘Lord, lord, open the door for us.’ “But he replied, ‘I tell you the truth, I don’t know you.’ You are not recognizable when your life becomes another’s and light burns out. “Therefore, keep alert, because you don’t know the day or the hour.

Keep alert, because it’s not just caregiving, which drains our containers of oil. Is it our own all-consuming ailment? Is it friendships or relationships breaking and divorcing? Is it our financial situation, is it a project at work? Are we addicted to another’s addiction? Is it trying to be everything to everyone, or to our family, or a friend? Is it our political stance, or constantly checking and watching the news, the e-mail, waiting for the phone, or the next diagnosis? Keep alert. The bridegroom is never far away. There is a rainbow after a rain, there are flowers after winter, there are songs after silence, there is calm after the storm, and so often birth follows death, there is life to be lived, and resurrection. Do what you can to keep your lamps lit. Do what you can to find light in the darkness. The bridegroom is on his way. There will be a banquet. There will be Easter someday.