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The Gift of Travel – Berlin, Part 2 – A Photo Essay

June 6, 2013 By Diana

This is the second in a series of what will be about 9-10 posts documenting and reflecting on our recent trip to eastern Europe. We spent 3 days each in Berlin and Prague and cruised the Elbe River between those two cities for 7 days.

You can read “Part One, Berlin Overview” here. . .

We arrived in Berlin on a Thursday, slept for a few hours and then walked around the city on our own for several more. On Friday, we joined a bus tour provided by our tour company (Viking River Cruises) and scouted out areas we’d like to visit on Saturday. Our son and his wife had strongly recommended we visit Museum Island, especially the Pergamon Museum and we had spotted the Jewish Museum from our bus tour, so Saturday became. . . Museum Day.

We left the beauty of our local town square behind,

. . . said a fond farewell to those sweet lilac bushes, and walked the mile and a quarter to this imposing building.

The Jewish Museum of Berlin is one of the most intimidating and disorienting museums I have ever had the privilege to meander. It is intentionally so. Documenting the long history of Jews in Germany, the building is strange looking, both outside and inside. You enter through an old, traditionally styled building and then must traverse an underground tunnel to enter the museum proper, a building designed by architect Daniel Libeskind and opened in 2001.

The floors are strangely slanted, the windows are askew, there is even a ‘nothing’ space which cuts through all three floors.

On the bottom floor, you walk into a room with nothing in it. Nothing. The walls rise three stories, the doors close and there is only the tiniest bit of light from the very top corner of the slanting space. It is deeply disturbing.

Outside, there is this collection of pillars, each built on cobblestones, leaning just slightly off center, with very limited space between them. They, too, rise high – at least two stories.

It is called the Garden of Exile. And it made me physically nauseous to explore.

To see the rest of the museum, you must climb three sets of stairs,
stairs that look like this . . .

. . . stairs that provide windows to the outside, but only in odd shapes and slits. From one of them, I looked down on the Garden of Exile and discovered the Russian silverberry bushes growing atop each pillar.

Trying to digest all the exhibits and simply experience the museum building itself requires enormous amounts of energy and concentration. We could have spent all day here, but knew we had more ground to cover.

One of the more interesting exhibits to me was the story of a 17th century woman who had a successful import/export business. Seeing the amount of traveling she did all over the continent of Europe and into parts of Russia was fascinating.

Something about this portrait captured the heartbreaking reality of so much of the story of Jewish people in Germany, and around the world. I found his expression haunting and moving. The one exhibit I regret not visiting (because we couldn’t find it!) was one called Fallen Leaves — 10,000 metal leaves strewn about the floor of the ‘voided space’ in the center of the museum, each with the names of victims of the holocaust. This exhibit is dedicated to all victims of war and violence and visitors are invited to walk on the leaves and listen to the sound of metal on metal as they do.

We walked out the back of the building to this interesting covered walkway, then enjoyed some of the architecture between the museum and the hotel, where we had a light lunch in our room of cheese/crackers/peanut butter/apples that we’d purchased at a local market.

We were tired! So we took a cab over to Museum Island to visit the Pergamon. Even the cabdriver was unaware that they had closed the main entrance and that one of the MANY construction projects in the city was happening right there!

We walked around to the back and entered through this lovely colonnade instead.

And this is what the museum is named for: the Pergamon Altar, dug up in Asia Minor in the 19th century and carted back to Germany, piece by piece. This humungous piece dates from about 200 years before Christ. The entire museum was literally built around it in the early 20th century.

There are pieces missing, but overall, this exhibit is stunning. And sobering somehow. To build this required some pretty sophisticated engineering, don’t you think? We think we’re so smart – but wow, there’s been a lot of amazing stuff done over the centuries.

But here is the one that just got me! The Ishtar gate from the temple of Nebuchadnezzer in 575 BC. Made of glazed brick, with bas-relief pictures of royal and mythical animals, this thing was so big, I literally could not get an angle to shoot a picture. The gate itself is stunning, the side panels are gorgeous, and then there is the long hallway, marked by ‘the Processional Way’ — more of those cobalt glazed bricks and animals. Truly stunning.

As an extra-added bonus, there was a temporary exhibit on the history of cities, with archeological finds from Uruk. This city of about 5000 souls dates from the mid 3000s BC. I mean, this is old stuff. And it comes from an ancient urban area.

A bill of lading – catch the date! And it is tiny – about 3 inches square. How did they ever get all that cunieform writing on there??

And, of course, there was jewelry. Lovely jewelry — gold and lapis lazuli. Women have loved wearing pretty stuff forever.
(And who knows, could have been some men wearing this, too, right?)

Just as we walked out of the museum at 6:00 p.m., we heard the bells from the nearby cathedral, calling the faithful to evensong. Perfect timing.

We arrived just as the service was beginning and photography was not encouraged, but I did get a shot of the cupola above the nave and of the front door after the service was over. It was about 45 minutes of scripture and music, almost all on the organ. And it was gorgeous. A gift, at the end of long, tiring and very good day.

We walked back to the hotel by Humboldt University. . .

. . . and saw this stunning angelic figure as we did so.

The photo below is the one that I put on the cover of Volume 1 (of 3)
of our picture books from this trip.

When I think of Berlin, I think of lots of things — activity, colorful architecture, museums and collections, new construction . . . and the river. The river is the heart of everything and wanders all around all things good to visit.
It’s a grand city and well worth any amount of time you can spend there;
we highly recommend it.

Next up – we begin our river cruise. I’l do that in about 5 posts, I think.
And then two posts on Prague.

Filed Under: Beauty, family, Family/Travel, God's gifts, memoir, personal journey, Photo Essay, photography, Travel, Uncategorized

A Deeper Family: When Time Collapses

June 6, 2013 By Diana

I am continuing to chronicle the journey with my mom through dementia over at A Deeper Family today. Every couple of months, words about this haunting process seem to rise to the surface. Thanks for your patience and encouragement as we take this difficult walk together. You can click here to read the rest of this essay. . .

Enormous chunks of time are gone now.

How can I watch this? How can I help? How can I say the right thing, do the right thing, be the right daughter?

I am beyond knowing most days. Beyond knowing.

We made plans last weekend for my youngest brother’s two sons and one daughter-in-law to make the long drive from their home to ours. My youngest brother, the one who died in his sleep just over three years ago. This would be the first time these nice kids would see Mom in her new living environment, the one we moved her to in February. The one designed for memory and cognitive loss residents.

The one that reminds me every single time I am there that my mother is fading into the woodwork, that the woman I knew is vacating the premises.

I have learned not to tell Mom about visitors or traveling plans too far in advance. When I do, she frets over it multiple times per day, convinced that NOW is when it all happens. Several weeks ago, she asked me to contact Ken’s boys; she wanted to see them. I was happy to do that.

Thank God for Facebook — connections were made, plans set. One day before our time together, I told mom that we would all go out to lunch together. She was excited and grateful and seemed to understand — seemed being the operative word.

Alarming situation number one: when we arrived, parking in the subterranean lot beneath the wing in which she lives, riding the elevator and turning the circuitous route to her unit, we found her standing outside the building, as cars drove nearby. Maybe that bracelet will be necessary after all, the one that sets off the alarm if she leaves with no one noticing. I dread it. Dread it.

Alarming situation number two: after greeting everyone gladly and expertly, she climbed into our car, while the younger generation climbed into their own, to follow us to the restaurant. “Who are those people?” she said.

Who are those people?

These, dearest mother-of-mine, these are the very ones you so wanted to see. The very ones. How do I answer you without letting the deep panic I feel creep into my voice? How do I DO that?

Please join me over at A Deeper Family to read the rest of this post. . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Family, Aging, family, grief, memoir, personal journey, The Journey with Mom, Uncategorized

Midweek Service: Mary & Martha — With Our Whole Selves

June 5, 2013 By Diana

I think I have recovered enough decent old sermons to continue this series through the summer. Each week, I’ll also include a photo of one of the stained or painted glass windows in St. Vitus’s Cathedral in the city of Prague. Most of these sermons are dated, a few are not exact, but I can estimate the time frame in which they were originally preached. This one comes from the two-year interim period while we searched for a new Senior Pastor AND engaged in a massive building campaign that had been on the books for almost a dozen years. Our worship center (we met in a gym for over ten years) and office complex had to be completed by a certain date or we faced the re-submission and approval process which in Santa Barbara can take years. It was a season of flux and transition. It was also a season of remembering who we were as the people of God in this place.

Made to Matter: People Who Partnered with God Sermon Series
Mary & Martha: With Our Whole Selves
Luke 10 & John 11 & 12
October 5, 2003
Montecito Covenant Church

Let’s see. . . since we began our fall preaching series on September 7^th – that wonderful morning when we broke ground for the project that is now unfolding all around us – we’ve spent our sermon time each week looking at such great biblical characters as Barnabas and Paul, the apostle Peter, those 3 boys in the furnace described in the book of Daniel, and last week, another trio from the Old Testament, Moses and Aaron and Hur.

In fact, we’ve discovered a whole bunch of fascinating and encouraging guys to learn from over the past four weeks. And we’ve learned some good and helpful things as we continue to discover what it means to follow God into unknown territory during this time of transition and change here at Montecito Covenant Church. But today, in just a tiny change of direction, I think maybe it’s time we looked at a couple of the women in scripture who partnered with God. Seems truly appropriate to do so today, in good keeping with the theme of the morning, which has something to do with finding and maintaining good balance in our lives.

Greg has read for you a brief section of scripture from the gospel of Luke – the first story in the New Testament about a couple of sisters who were very important in the life and ministry of Jesus when he walked this earth. Their names are Martha and Mary, and I believe these two women from a long time ago can help us wrestle with one of the most important truths we’ll ever need to learn as followers of Jesus Christ.

And that truth is this: when we choose to enter into relationship with the Great God of the Universe by means of the pathway God himself has given us – the pathway that Jesus carved out with sweat and blood and death and resurrection – when we choose that relationship, we are invited, we are taught, we are requested, we are urged to choose it with our whole selves – with all of who we are.

And in the process of living out that whole-self relationship, we are reminded by the Word of God, and by the life of Jesus, and by the mistakes and the successes of God’s people as told to us in Holy Scripture – we are reminded that living the Christian life with our whole selves is not a particularly easy thing to do.

And why isn’t it easy?

Because we’re a messy, sometimes thoughtless, sometimes frazzled, sometimes thoroughly distracted bunch of people. Because we so often miss the point, get our priorities out of whack, allow ourselves to be hijacked by the culture in which we live, a culture that surely doesn’t go out of its way to encourage us to be whole people, living a life that is equally rich in activity and in quietness, in busyness and in stillness, in doing and being or – as Karen reminded us with her two hats earlier this morning – in acting and thinking.

Because sometimes, to be perfectly honest, we simply don’t get it. We don’t see why we need to choose ‘the better way’ as Mary is described as doing in the story before us today. In fact, we’re often not convinced that her way is the better way. Why should we sit on the floor at anyone’s feet when we could be up and moving, bustling about, accomplishing something.

In fact, I’m willing to wager that a goodly number of you – if you were really honest about this – might agree with me that Martha has gotten kind of a bum rap over the years. I mean, be real. Haven’t you always heard this story told in such a way that Martha comes off as the prototypical busybody, A-type personality who’s a little bit dense when it comes to the ‘really important’ thing that Mary has chosen to do?

Sweet, pliant, passive Mary – praised to the skies because she sits on her rear while all the work is being done. Be honest here, hasn’t that thought ever occurred to you when you’ve read or heard this story? Well – here’s my ‘honest’ response to the story before us today – and this ‘honest’ take comes in somewhat equal parts from both my own thinking and wrestling with this story over many years and from some of the scholarly reading and reflecting that I’ve done this past week. Here’s what I think about it all:

Martha is a trooper, in my book.

We’re told that she’s the owner of the home to which Jesus has come for dinner – and that’s a fairly unusual thing in 1st century Palestine – that a woman should be a property owner. That makes her interesting to me right from the get-go. And homeowner Martha has extended her wonderful gifts of hospitality to Jesus and she’s doing her hostess thing – the good thing, the right thing, the expected thing. She’s fixing a meal, she’s setting a table, she’s timing the meat and the side dishes so that nothing’s too hot or too cold when the food is spread. She’s workin’ it – apron around her waist, sweat in her hairline, doing her darnedest to make things nice for the visiting rabbi.

And she’s doing it all by herself.

She doesn’t live here alone, you know. She has a sister – undoubtedly a younger sister – one who seems to have sort of a ‘crush’ on Jesus. There she is, sitting on the floor at his feet – just like she was a real student of his! And Jesus is allowing it, even seems to be enjoying this conversation with a woman, treats her like she might have a brain in her head. But nonetheless, she is just sitting there.

So I’m not at all surprised that our friend Martha begins to mutter under her breath all the while she’s stirring the pots and setting the table. “I do, and do and do for you people, and this is the thanks I get???” And I am intrigued by the fact that she then proceeds to say those mutterings out loud, and directs them to . . .Jesus. Not to her slack-off sister, but to the rabbi himself. She’s no coward, that’s for sure. She seems to feel sure enough about her own relationship with Jesus to speak the truth – to share her feelings and her concerns.

And here’s the kicker for me in this story – Jesus is really so kind to her with his answer. Contrary to many interpretations of this little story, I don’t think Jesus is rapping Martha across the knuckles here. He loves the fact that Martha is doing something nice for him, that she is welcoming him to her home with food and drink and festivity.

We know from so many other small stories in scripture that Jesus himself was a great host – a person who loved to welcome others and to provide for their physical needs. And we also know that Jesus loved a good dinner party – had quite a reputation in some quarters as a bit of a party animal, if the truth be told. So as he responds to Martha’s outburst, he calls her by name – twice. “Martha, Martha. . .” which is a lot like saying, as the New Living Translation puts it, “My dear Martha.”

Martha, my friend, one that I love – these details are killing you! Let them go. Just let them go. I know your meal will be excellent. I thank you for your care for me. But . . . listen to me, my love. All of this hustle and bustle is just wearing you out. There’s more than enough for all of us to eat. Come, sit down for a while. Mary, bless her heart – she’s made a discovery today – a wonderful discovery. She’s found the most nourishing thing to do today and that’s to sit and listen to me, to talk to me, to learn from me, to be with me. Come, my friend. You do the same. We’ll all eat soon enough and we’ll love every bite of your beautiful meal.

That is the spirit of this brief couple of sentences. There is no condemnation in Jesus’ words – there is just a little bit of gentle pushing, a tiny, very careful attempt at re-focusing Martha’s attention on the most important thing about the day – being with her guest.

It is basically a call to Martha to be a whole person, fully engaged with all of who she is in her relationship with Jesus. Her generous service is welcome and gratefully received. But the personal interaction is what is missing. Sweating in the kitchen is leading to Martha’s being burned out and burned up. She’s tired and she’s resentful – a deadly combination when it comes to relationship-building.

But . . . here’s what I don’t want us to miss here: she tells Jesus about it!

She doesn’t just keep on muttering to herself, growing ever angrier and more bitter. No, she unloads it on the Lord. Now it is quite true she doesn’t get quite the response she thinks she wants! She thinks she wants Jesus to make things ‘fair,’ to get Mary off the floor and into the kitchen. But what she truly wants – and Jesus, of course, knows this – what she truly wants and what she truly needs, is to get out of the kitchen and down onto the floor – right there with her sister.

When I am working hard – when I am working too hard, to be more exact – I can so completely understand what Martha is feeling in this story. Especially if I’m working and someone else isn’t. I did this with my kids when they were growing up, I do it with my husband and my friends more often than I like, and I’m increasingly aware that I even do it sometimes when I’m all by myself.

I see something that needs doing – a good thing, a necessary thing, a hospitable thing, a thing that I know God would want me to do. And I. . . bury myself in it.

I don’t look for the simplest way to do the thing, in fact I often get just a little bit hung up on doing it well enough that others will be suitably impressed.

And then, somewhere in the middle of it all, it gets twisted around somehow. And in addition to wanting to impress others, I also want them to know just how hard I am working.

And not only that, I want them to feel badly about how just how hard I am working.

And not only that, but I can very quickly move into a really sad ‘poor pitiful me’ mood and you truly do not want to be around when that happens!

Does this ever happen to you?

Well, let’s both learn a little something from Martha here. The next time we begin this downward spiral that moves from doing something good and worthwhile, to overdoing that something for the wrong reasons, to feeling really sorry for ourselves while we’re overdoing, to blaming others and inviting them into our misery . . . let’s do what Martha did. Let’s take our sad and hurt feelings directly to the one who will listen with compassion. Let’s tell Jesus about it.

And let’s try to quiet ourselves just enough so that we can hear his answer to us, which is very likely to be one like this: ”My dear one. . . chill out. Sit down a minute. Be quiet inside. Let me lead you with love to a better place, a place where all of who you are is invited and involved, a place where you can serve me in healthy, wholehearted ways and a place where you can simply be with me, as the prophet Isaiah said ‘in quietness and in confidence.’

Martha is not the villain of this piece. She is the center of the story and she does learn a powerful lesson – at least we hope she does. This story doesn’t actually tell us if that’s the case. But the apostle John takes up these same characters in chapters 11 and 12 of his gospel – and there we learn that both sisters have learned something from this encounter with Jesus the night he comes to dinner.

Interestingly enough, Luke places his story about Martha and Mary right in the middle of a whole section of his gospel where he is talking about what it means to be a disciple, one who learns, one who follows a master teacher. And these two women are there, without a lot of fanfare, just there – as disciples of Jesus.

John takes this truth even further in his retelling of a couple of very important events that happen just the week before Jesus dies. Martha and Mary have a brother named Lazarus, John tells us. And they are all close friends of Jesus and his inner circle of followers. They live in a little town called Bethany, which is on the way to Jerusalem. Word comes to Jesus and his crew that Lazarus is very, very ill. Several days later, Jesus arrives at Bethany – and he learns that Lazarus has been in the grave for four days. Martha hears that Jesus is near to the house – and in typical Martha fashion, she races out to meet him. And she greets him with a grief-stricken accusation: “If you had been here, our brother would not have died!”

And then she and Jesus engage in a really interesting conversation – a conversation of vital importance to all of the disciples’ growing understanding of who Jesus really is. The result of their dialog is that Martha makes a wonderful proclamation of truth about Jesus: “You are the Messiah,” she says, “the Son of God, the one who has come into the world from God.”

Martha nails it – she preaches it – she runs back to the house to tell her sister that Jesus has come.

And very soon, they both will witness the amazing miracle of their brother being raised from the dead. Martha becomes the one who learns . . .and she also becomes the one who proclaims! Martha is learning to be in relationship with Jesus as a whole person, with her whole self – her serving, action-oriented self and her thinking, learning, reflective self.

And what about Mary?

In the next chapter, Jesus is once again at the home of his friends. And, once again, Martha is serving him dinner. But Mary is not off in the corner sitting on the floor this time. No. Mary is doing something in this story – she is doing something amazing, something surprising – even shocking.

She comes to Jesus at the dinner table, she opens a jar of very expensive perfume. . . and she pours it over his feet. Then she loosens her hair – something seldom done in that time and place – and she wipes the oil off his feet. The whole house fills with the sweetness of the perfume and Jesus commends her for this act of service, this act of love, this act of sacrifice.

For Mary realizes – as no one else seems to – that Jesus will soon be dead. Maybe that’s something she learned while she was sitting at Jesus’ feet that day – who knows? But somehow, in some quiet, open-hearted way, she has discovered the truth at the very heart of Jesus’ ministry on earth: that he came here to die, for our sakes. And Mary acts on that truth. Like her sister, Mary becomes a whole-hearted disciple, one who relates to Jesus with all of who she is – her quiet, reflective self, and her loving, serving, acting self — her whole self.

And if we are to be in relationship with Jesus in this way – as whole persons, fully engaged in both service and silence, in both acting and thinking, in both doing and being – we must make space in our lives for both Martha and Mary. Both gifts are needed, both parts of our selves are invited to the table.

Does the Martha in you tend to crowd out the Mary? Do you too often find yourself buried by work, by good work, by God’s work . . . only to find yourself disconnected from God himself? Then, as we come to this table today, invite Mary to join you. Make a little space inside for listening and learning.

Or does the Mary in you find plenty of room for expression? Are you able to be quiet easily, sometimes too easily? Do you rely on your quiet nature too much sometimes, trusting yourself to be where you think you need to be spiritually rather than trusting God to fill you with power and strength so that you can also do the work to which he has called you? If that is true of you today, then I urge you to create some space for Martha next to you at the table today. Invite the more active part of yourself to fully engage in fruitful, meaningful service in Jesus’ name.

God has called us by name and we are his. All of who we are is his.

Let’s take our whole selves to God in prayer.

Gracious and loving God, father of our Lord Jesus Christ and our Father,
we come to you today acknowledging our need to live fully for you,
to live as whole people in your presence and in this world.
Help us always to choose the most needful thing
of being with you to listen and to learn.
But also help us to use the gifts you’ve given us
to serve you and to serve the world.
We pray this in the name of Jesus,
who modeled for us a life wholly lived,
a life fully lived,
a life lived with passionate action
and with quiet devotion.
Amen.

Filed Under: biblical reflection, biblical studies, Church, personal journey, preaching, Sermons/Homilies, Uncategorized, women, worship

The Gift of Travel – Berlin Overview – A Photo Essay

June 4, 2013 By Diana

From the earliest days of our marriage, travel has been a high priority for us.
Eight months into this adventure we’ve shared, we climbed aboard a freighter
and spent 18 days on the Atlantic Ocean to begin our two years of life in Zambia.
Every year since then, we’ve tried to see something of this great world
we live in, and we have never regretted one moment of it.
(Well. . . there was that 2-week camping trip when the weather
never allowed us to set up the tent. . . but even that was fun!)

Since our 25th anniversary, we’ve tried to go to Europe about every five years,
and about 8 years ago, we discovered river cruising.

Now this is a grand way to see things!
At years 25, 30 and 35, we rented cars in England, Ireland and Italy
and, for the most part,
enjoyed exploring those lovely lands from the front seat.
But sleeping on a barge (a very large barge, but still. . . ),
viewing village and city life from the vantage point of the rivers that run
through them, unpacking only once,
and enjoying walking tours
in every port?

Heaven.

This trip took us from Berlin to Prague with three days
in each of those great cities on either end, and
seven days on the river between them, The Elegant Elbe.

We flew into Berlin early on the morning of May 9th, having left LAX at 7:00 a.m. the previous day. Our room was ready, even at 9:00 a.m.,
and we crashed for 5 hours,
grateful for every single amenity of the Hilton Berlin,
beginning with the upside down bear at the door —
the first of many such bears found all around the city.

Our hotel was located across the street from one of the most beautiful
squares in the entire city and
we enjoyed walking this neighborhood each day we were there.

We took a long walk that first afternoon, right down to
the Brandenburg Gate and the Reichstag, or parliament building.
Dick had been to this area 50 (!!) years ago as a college student,
just months after the Berlin Wall went up.
It was a joy to see this city wide open on this return visit.

Berlin’s river is not actually the Elbe, but the Spree, and it meanders
everywhere. We loved the bridges and the boats and the sound of water nearby.

This double wide row of bricks winds its way around Berlin,
a tangible reminder of the wall that once stood
between east and west.

Fun touches of whimsy abound in this city,
from eyelashes on cars to silver painted street performers,
to wildly colored architecture, balloons in the park and wildflowers through the fence.

And speaking of flowers,
by some stroke of divine luck,
we arrived just in time for lilac season.
Oh my, they were gorgeous and filled long stretches of
city streets with their sweet fragrance.

We dined alfresco each of the three nights we were on our own,
enjoying a few Berlin favorites (like weinerschnitzel and curry wurst)
and finishing each meal with a scoop of apricot gelato.
To.Die.For.

There were reminders of Germany’s hideous 20th century history here and there,
with this stark holocaust memorial the most prominent.
(We also toured the Jewish Museum – but more on that in the next piece in this series.)

Visiting this thoroughly modern and very prosperous city,
it was hard to imagine the horrors that were concocted here,
the cruelties and outright evil deeds that occurred during
the twelve years of the Third Reich.

This is a growing city, with new construction dotting the horizon everywhere.
People are friendly, conversant in English and very aware of
the history that haunts them.

This gorgeous chapel is built next to the bombed out ruins of
the cathedral (now under repair, but not being rebuilt.)
We ducked in here and were stunned by its beauty and simplicity.
That figure of the resurrected Christ visits my thoughts
and dreams a lot these days.

Most of the wall has been broken into bits and sold as souvenirs,
but here and there are remnants.

This is what the wall looks like now, rotting and slowly disappearing.
But along one stretch of the river, a large chunk
has been preserved, artists have been commissioned,
and the entire structure is covered with brightly
colored paintings and sayings.

I think both images are representative of Berlin in 2013 —
a city with a most definite past.
But also one that seems to have a vibrant present and bright future.

There will be several more installments to this series over the next week or two; it was a wonderful trip and I’d like to share it with you as I’m able.

Filed Under: Beauty, family, Family/Travel, Fun, Marriage, memoir, personal journey, Photo Essay, Travel, Uncategorized

Midweek Service — “Waiting”

May 28, 2013 By Diana

I am slowly reading through a stack of old sermons, editing, deciding which I would like to place here as a record-of-sorts, primarily for my family and friends. In honor of the many years when my family attended a midweek service (now just about completely extinct!), in the middle of each week, I’ll put one up in this space. I am hopeful that remembering where the Lord has met me in the Word over these years will speak again of love and power and healing — in my own life, first, and in the lives of others as well. These posts will be longer than most and will always include reference to the text(s) of the day.

This was a sermon given at my home church, the place where I was called out to ministry, about a year after a traumatic cleaving in the congregation and a time of waiting for what might come next. I am happy to report that in the four years since that time, they have found a pastor they love and who loves them, and God is doing good things in and through them all.

“WAITING. . . “
Mark 5:21-43 with Psalm 130 and Lamentations 3:23-33
Preached at Pasadena Covenant Church, June 28, 2009
By Diana R.G. Trautwein

Two stories, one twisted within the other. Two stories, two women – one older, probably in the midst of what we today might call ‘the pause.’ One younger, just embarking on the journey to womanhood. Twelve years of bleeding, twelve years of life. All the usual resources exhausted for one, almost all hope gone for the other. Both in desperate situations. Both in need of a healing touch. Both in need of a saving touch. By the time they encounter Jesus, each of these unnamed female characters is…dead – the younger one, truly and physically dead – the older one, socially and communally dead – marked by her unceasing flow of blood as unclean, untouchable, unreachable.

One we meet in person – we watch her, sneaking up from the back of the crowd, wriggling her fingers up close to the traveling rabbi, wrapping them in just the very fringiest ends of one of the long tassels he wore. One we meet first through her father – an important man, given a name by our storyteller. A leader in his town, a man with a heightened sense of right and wrong, of clean and unclean, of all things good and righteous and holy, and all things not good, unrighteous, unholy.

Jesus and his disciples have just returned from a rather momentous journey across the Sea of Galilee, across that boundary line between the Gentile world and the Jewish world. There has been a storm, a vicious, terrifying storm – and Jesus, by the power of his word and his will, has calmed the storm.

There has been a terrifying encounter with a crazy man – living like an animal, filled with demons of all kinds. a man beyond the pale of human community, without hope, without recourse. And Jesus has met that man, met him with pity and with power – power to heal, to save, to transform.

And now, the boat is back. The disciples are back. Jesus is back. And as the little ship slaps its way up onto the sandy shore, they are surrounded by a huge crowd, an eager crowd – pushing and shoving, wondering about this wonder man, watching to see just what he will do on this side of the sea.

Striding through that crowd is the figure of an important community member, a leader in the local synagogue, Jairus, by name. And the first thing Jairus does is the last thing the demon-filled man had done – he falls at the feet of Jesus and begs him for something. The demoniac on the far shore, with the voice of the demons who had fractured him for so long, begged Jesus to cease and desist. The desperate father begs – over and over, our text tells us – for mercy, for healing, for salvation for his little girl, his much-loved daughter. And Jesus says, “Sure! I’ll come.” And they turn and head in the direction of the man’s home.

But then…

And isn’t that just exactly what so much of life is like? You’re heading in one direction quite often a really good direction, somewhere you are quite intentional about going, to do something that is a really good thing to be doing…

But then…

You’re busy raising a family, or you’re busy establishing yourself in a career, or you’re busy studying to get through school. Maybe you’re sinking your roots in a community, or fixing your home into a place of welcome and respite…

But then…you lose your job or your investment portfolio heads dramatically south, or you lose your scholarship or student grant, or your spouse becomes frighteningly ill, or your marriage begins to unravel, or…And, all of a sudden – you are seriously interrupted. You are forced to change direction. You are required to take a step back, to look at what’s happening in the moment, and to wait, to see what the outcome of it all may be.

Imagine what that waiting felt like to the leader of the synagogue. An important man, used to being treated with respect, even deference, humbling himself at the feet of a relatively unknown itinerant preacher/teacher/healer, taking immediate steps to accomplish what he had come to accomplish – and being stopped dead in his tracks by….this woman, this unclean, unwelcome, unacceptable…woman.

People pressing in on all sides, disciples skeptical of their own teacher, confusion in ascendance, and as the healer stops, turns, asks, “Who touched my clothes?” This woman – the one everyone knew was trouble to be around – this woman – the one that Jesus should have known was not worth his time, this woman – the one awestruck by what has just happened inside her own body, this woman – who dares to tell the whole truth in a culture – much like our own! – where truth is not easy to come by and is often hard to hear, this woman – stops the whole parade.

And Jairus is forced to wait, on the sidelines, out of the spotlight, his concerns for his daughter momentarily forgotten while the rabbi engages in a time-consuming, highly personal, deeply transformative conversation with this woman.

“Daughter,” he calls her. “Daughter,” folding her in with a single word. The actual physical healing takes but an instant – a momentary exchange of power. But the conversation, the truth-telling, the recognition, the inclusion, the blessing – ah, that is where the true miracle happens. And our storyteller gives us such rich detail, quiet commentary, instructive modeling as he describes it all for us.

Jairus is asked to wait – in the midst of an urgent, life-threatening situation – he is asked to wait…for a little while. But the woman…Well, the woman knew a whole lot about waiting. Twelve years worth of waiting. Waiting for doctors to be successful, waiting for the bleeding to stop, waiting for permission to rejoin her friends, her family, her worshipping community – for her symptoms required her to be on the outside of all the circles of her life.

Like so many stories of the Kingdom of God, these stories before us today are about insiders and outsiders – and about how unpredictable those definitions become when Jesus is the one doing the defining. Like the later stories of The Prodigal Son, or the Good Samaritan – the ‘usual suspects’ become the true neighbor, the party-worthy son. This woman becomes “daughter!” The leader of the synagogue becomes the man on the edge of the crowd, waiting for Jesus to continue on the way.

I can’t tell you how many times in my ministry life I have said to people in trouble, “I think that waiting is often the hardest thing that we’re ever asked to do as disciples of Jesus.” It’s tough to wait in a surgical reception area. It’s tough to wait for an addicted friend or family member to wake up and smell the recovery process. It’s tough to wait for someone you dearly love to die, and to watch them suffer while they’re dying. It’s tough to wait for decisions to be made by other people about your future, your life – whether that’s getting into the school you want, passing the course you’re struggling with, getting the job you’ve interviewed for, receiving the promotion you believe you deserve, or getting an ‘all clear’ after rigorous cancer treatment. It’s tough to wait for whatever comes next when you’re part of a congregation that’s been through a hard year. It’s tough. It’s tiring. It’s sometimes very scary and very lonely.

So, why does scripture talk about waiting so often? And why is the language of waiting so often found in the language of lament, of all places? “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord,” our psalm of lament for today reads. “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits…” And the reading from Lamentations says, “It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.” And, “The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul that seeks him.”

I am guessing that our friend Jairus didn’t think it was a good thing to wait for the Lord. To stand there, desperate for his daughter, desperate to move, to go, to get there. And I’m guessing that this woman didn’t think it was a good thing to wait twelve long years in the midst of deep isolation for someone to finally help her.

And yet….

And here are the counterbalancing two words to the “but then…” of a few minutes ago…

And yet…

Our psalm goes on to say these things: “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord, more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning. O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is great power to redeem.”

And yet…

In waiting, there seems to be room, space…for hoping. In waiting, there is room for steadfast love. In waiting, there is space to experience the power of God to redeem – even the most difficult, the most painful, the most terrifying situations – all those hard things that seem to come right along with the territory of being human creatures who live on planet earth.

So what is there about waiting that can help create space for all of these good things? Space for hope, for steadfast love, for the power to redeem? At least one solid clue is found in the two interwoven stories in today’s gospel lesson – and that clue underscores the word of both the psalmist and the prophet in our OT readings as well. We are to wait….on the LORD. You could even change the preposition to wait ‘in’ the Lord or wait ‘with’ the Lord or wait ‘through’ the Lord, or wait ‘for’ the Lord, if that helps you wrap your mind around this concept a little more easily. The waiting talked about in the language of biblical lament, and the waiting pictured in the narrative in front of us is not the waiting experienced while standing around in the supermarket line, or sitting in the traffic lane at rush hour, or getting anywhere near the DMV office.

Both the woman and the synagogue leader waited…on the Lord. Each of them put themselves in the presence of the Savior, deliberately choosing to be near him. Each of them came to that presence, that nearness, with the concerns that weighed heaviest on their hearts, prepared to be completely honest and open about their pain and the reasons for it. Each of them came to the Savior, each of them fell at his feet, with fear and trembling…and each of them came with faith. Feeble faith – I’m sure it was at times. Magical, even superstitious faith – most probably it was at points. But faith, however feeble or unsophisticated, is welcomed by the Savior whose presence they sought. Faith, however flickering and doubt-filled it may sometimes be, is recognized by Jesus, is received by Jesus, is, in fact, seen by Jesus as a necessary and vital part of the healing, saving process. “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease,” Jesus said to the woman, after she knew in her body that healing had happened.

“Do not fear, only believe,” Jesus said to the synagogue leader when word came that his daughter was dead, while he was waiting on the Lord. There is a strange and wondrous alchemy going on here, one that I don’t begin to understand. An alchemy between the power and the willingness of Jesus to heal and to save, and the faithful obedience of the broken disciple who needs that healing, that saving. Neither the flow of blood nor the death of the daughter was a good thing – they were hard, tough, difficult things, the kinds of things that happen to people a lot. But…in the midst of each of those hard, tough, difficult things – in the midst of waiting on the Lord – they miraculously found…hope, they powerfully discovered…the steadfast love of God, they experienced…the power of redemption.

I’m not here this morning, in the midst of a place and a people whom I love deeply, to tell you that the hard things you all have experienced together in this last year are good things. They’re not – they’re hard! They cost a lot in shared pain, in doubt, in confusion and anxiety, maybe even in loss of trust and suspicion at points. You’ve been going through the ‘but then…’part, haven’t you?

But I am here to tell you today that you are, even now, in the ‘and yet…’ part. I haven’t a clue what your own individual healing or your healing as a community is going to look like, but this much I do know: it will come, it will happen. In fact, I would venture to guess that it has come and is happening – and here is the alchemist’s mystery in it all – it has come and is happening as you practice waiting on the Lord, both individually and corporately.

As you earnestly seek God’s presence, as you tell the truth, as you fall at his feet in awestruck wonder, as you take turns being in and out of the spotlight of his love and mercy, or waiting on the sidelines, as you open yourselves to the grace and mercy of God, you will find healing. Reaching right through the crowd to touch the edge of his tassel, or sitting quietly with just a few others in the bedroom of a dream or a vision that seems dead to your eyes, as you wait on the Lord – seeking his presence, offering your faith, no matter how frail it may be at any given moment in time, God is faithful. His mercies are new every morning.

“Don’t be afraid,” the rabbi will say to you. “Only believe.”

“Daughter,” our Lord will say to you, or “Son,” he will say: “Your faith has made you well. Go in peace and be healed of your disease.”

Let us pray together:

Oh, teach us to wait, Lord.
Teach us to wait on you,
for you,
with you,
through you.
By the movement of your Spirit
at work within us,
call us to yourself –alone and together.
Build in us a deep and lasting desire
to be intentionally with you.
Teach us to tell the truth,
to you and to each other.
Remind us of your glory,
that we might regularly fall at your feet,
both in awe and wonder at what you have already done in our lives,
and in acknowledgment of our ongoing need for you.

And strengthen our faith, Lord.
Strengthen our feeble knees and our faltering lips.
Teach us to trust –
to believe that in the middle of the mess –
whether it’s a new mess or one of long duration –
you are there for us
and with us.
In the name of our Savior,
who welcomes us,
even though our faith is small and tattered,
even Jesus Christ,

Amen.

Filed Under: biblical reflection, biblical studies, Church, church year, community, Encouragement, hope, personal journey, preaching, Sermons/Homilies, Uncategorized

It’s Word Candy Time!

May 6, 2013 By Diana

Hope your May is going well —
I am a tad later than I wanted to be with
Sweet Greetings for you all,
but here is a favorite quote
with an appropriate and lovely photo.

You need to find this website and have a little fun,
browsing, wrapping, sending sweet messages to
friends and family.

Just click here to go directly to the Word Candy website.
Another fine service from TweetSpeakPoetry.

Filed Under: Uncategorized

The Gift of a Long Life — A Deeper Family

May 1, 2013 By Diana

It’s the first Thursday of the month and time for my monthly post at A Deeper Family. And this one crept up on me, bigtime. Somehow, I thought the first Thursday was next week (duh!) and had set aside tomorrow afternoon to write this piece. Fortunately, truth dawned at approximately 9:00 p.m. for an essay that was due at midnight.

With the grands at Shell Beach, one year ago this month.

Forty years ago, I was a stay-at-home housewife with three children under the age of five, wildly in love with my kids but often overwhelmed by fatigue and feelings of failure.

Thirty years ago, I had two teenagers and a pre-teen, served as an active volunteer in church and community, loved entertaining large groups of people in our home and was oblivious to the truth that this good, rich time of my life was rushing by me.

Twenty years ago, I walked across the stage to pick up my master of divinity degree from Fuller Seminary after four years of study, all that studying done while managing a small floral business in my home, watching each of my children move into committed relationships and becoming a first-time grandparent.

Ten years ago, I was nearing the midway point of my pastoral life here in Santa Barbara, discovering the harsh reality of death in our family circle for the first time, trying to balance (what is that, anyhow?) home and church, family and congregation.

Today, right now, I am retired from parish work; I offer spiritual direction from my home; I write on my blog, here at ADF, and several other places on the internet and in print; I have children older than most of the people I meet with or write with; I am married to a man I love deeply, a man who stays home most of the day because he, too, is retired; I am mother to my mother as she fades into the dim recesses of dementia; and I am Nana to eight grands, two of whom are college students, for Pete’s sake.

And at this moment, on a warm California evening, I am reading this list and wondering . . . who do I want to be going forward?

If I am blessed by continuing good health and even the moderate level of agility which I currently enjoy, I may live another fifteen, twenty, maybe even twenty-five years at the most.

What will these years look like when I stand there, in the future, and look back at now?

What do I hope for, dream about, pray for, purpose in my heart to do — or maybe more importantly — to be during however many decades remain?

Here, in no particular order of importance, are the things that rise to the top as I ponder that question:

Please join me over at A Deeper Family for the rest of this post . . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Family, Beauty, Blogging, death, family, Grandparenting, grief, hope, memoir, parenting, personal journey, The Grandkids, Uncategorized, women, Women in Ministry

The One Thing That Silences Heaven

May 1, 2013 By Diana

I’ve read the book several times.
I’ve even taken an entire seminary class on it.
That helped, actually.
That helped me to see the book as a whole,
instead of a bunch of crazy-making pieces;
as a dramatic re-telling of God’s story,
of incarnation, salvation, faithfulness in the journey,
hope for the future.

Still.

It’s a tough nut to crack,
filled as it is with highly visual language,
pictures of strange creatures, horrendous battles,
frightening predictions.

So when it showed up in the lectionary for this Eastertide season,
and when Pastor Jon chose to use those texts
for the preaching series,
I will admit to a few moments of freak-out.
“Oh, no!” I thought. “Not THAT.”

I’m talking about the book of REVELATION,
that frequently misinterpreted, over-analyzed, deeply profound
collection of visions from John, the teacher, as his life neared its end.
To tell you the truth, I was dreading it a little.

Little did I know.

This has been a dynamite series, rich with meaning and encouragement.
Our Director of Worship Arts took up Jon’s challenge to write a song
for each week in the series;
our chancel artists have outdone themselves with altar pieces,
and Jon (and Anna, our intern this year)
have preached the word with power.

From Revelation.

Each week’s text has been centered around a worship scene in heaven,
worship — the true theme of this book.
The magnificent songs that fill these passages are
ones that have been written and re-written over the centuries,
enriching worship services from Orthodox to Pentecostal,
and most certainly enlivening our worship, week by week this Eastertide.

This week’s text was particularly powerful — please read it below the picture.

“When he opened the seventh seal,
there was silence in heaven for about half an hour.
And I saw the seven angels who stand before God,
and seven trumpets were given to them.
Another angel, who had a golden censer, came and stood at the altar.
He was given much incense to offer, with the prayers of all God’s people,
on the golden altar before the throne.
The smoke of the incense,
together with the prayers of God’s people,
went up before God from the angel’s hand.
Then the angel took the censer,
filled it with fire from the altar,
and hurled it on the earth;
and there came peals of thunder, rumblings,
flashes of lightning and an earthquake.” — Revelation 8:1-5

Did you catch that?
“There was silence in heaven. . .
for about half an hour.”

Silence. In heaven.

And what is that makes all the noise in heaven come to a halt?

The prayers of God’s people are being offered on the altar.
The prayers of God’s people.

Rising like incense, heaven is silenced as the people of God
offer their prayers, their words of thanks and praise,
their, ‘Help, ‘Thanks’, ‘Wow,’ as Anne Lamott has put it recently.

EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE IN HEAVEN IS QUIET WHEN WE PRAY.

This is a picture I want to keep in my mind’s eye, day in and day out.
This is a vision that is important for us to grab,
to savor,
to hang onto
when it feels like all the silence
is on THIS end of the prayer equation.

The big take-away from this picture is this:

NEVER DOUBT FOR A MOMENT THAT YOUR GROANS AND SIGHS
ARE HEARD IN THE HEAVENLY REALMS.

NEVER.

All of heaven quiets for our cries.

And then, after the hearing:

those words, those sighs, those groans,
THOSE PRAYERS. . .
are thrown right back down onto the earth.
Do you see what happens?

“. . . and there came peals of thunder, rumblings,
flashes of lightning and an earthquake.”

As John enters into this vision, he actually sees our prayers —
ascending like incense, and then descending with power.

There are dangerous things going on when we pray, my friends.
Dangerous, wondrous, life-changing things.
The ways of the world are upset, the dynamic,
ever-fluid partnership that God Almighty has established with
the people of God is alive and well and making a difference.

MAKING A DIFFERENCE.

So why, then, do we spend so little time in prayer?
Why do we more often choose to spin our wheels,
to worry,
to busy ourselves
with whatever we think it
is God ‘needs’ us to do
in order to change this world of ours?

Why is prayer so often a last-order resort
rather than our first thought?
Do we feel like we’re taking an illegal escape route of some sort?
Do we think there’s something magical about it all?
Are we afraid to take the risk of believing
that the God of the Universe
invites us into the work of creation,
the plan of salvation,
the transformational work of redemption?

Or maybe we worry too much about being ‘nice,’ and polite,
politically correct and proper when we pray.
Maybe we need to remember the psalms of lament,
the cries of dereliction,
the heartfelt pleas of those who suffer
that are woven throughout scripture.
Maybe we need to shout down heaven’s doors when despair hits us hard.
Maybe we need to keep on pounding and pounding on the gate,
like the widow who refuses to stop pleading her case.

Maybe we don’t believe that prayer makes any difference at all.

Ah. But it does. It does.

Not always the difference we hope for,
maybe not even very often the difference we hope for.
But maybe, just maybe,
that’s not the point.

Maybe the point is that prayer is the greatest school of all,
prayer is how we learn and grow and understand.
Prayer is the cauldron in which the work of the Spirit gets done in us,
and then through us, in the worlds we inhabit, day after day after day.
Maybe the prayers that we offer to God are then flung back into our very souls
as fire and lightning and earthquake . . .
changing us from the inside out.

Maybe prayer is where the truest transformation takes place.

And maybe, just maybe,
the deepest experience of prayer begins to happen,
when we, too, learn to be silent.
To stop.
To pay attention.
To offer just one word, or two,
to sit in the presence of God,
in the anteroom of heaven itself,
and become prayer.

Our very selves, offered on the altar, and then flung back to earth,
slivers of shimmering reflected glory,
living out that deepest, wildest, most profound prayer of them all:

THY WILL BE DONE, ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN.

AMEN.

Joining with Jennifer and Emily and Ann tonight.

Filed Under: biblical reflection, biblical study, church year, prayer, Spiritual Formation, The Church, Uncategorized, worship

Those Little Things — Reflections on Omaha: A Photo Essay

April 27, 2013 By Diana

It was a retreat about big things,
God-sized things.
Dreams, to be exact.
Dreams that God plants in each of us,
designed specifically for us,
invitations to step out, step up, practice obedience.

But what I most remember are the small things,
moments of grace and beauty,
reminders that the God of big dreams is ever and always,
the God of the details, too.

As I told you last week, I almost didn’t get there.

When I did get there, it went something like this.

A pinpoint landing on an Omaha runway, after five different attempts,
late in the evening of the opening session.

During those rugged 36 hours of trying to get there,
I had re-packed my bags to make the checked bag heavy,
the carry-on, light.
Instead of my usual flying outfit of sweat pants and shirt,
I dressed up a little, knowing the arrival time would
barely allow space to breathe, much less change clothes.

So I hurried off the plane, found my rental car, but lost my heavy bag, and took off
over 35 miles of Nebraska country roads,

arriving at the retreat center just after dark,

exactly in time to offer the first of my assigned contributions —
the closing prayer.
I jokingly asked everyone in that gathering space to tolerate
well the clothing I was wearing, as the rest of it was still enroute.

That outfit included the earrings at the top of this post.

If you know me at all, you know that I love earrings.
Love them.
And collect them, too. But that purple-pink color is hard to find,
and I remember how pleased I was to find these beaded ones.

Exhausted, I headed back to the hotel where I was staying,
after a brief run through a 24-hour Walmart to purchase
a few toiletries, something to sleep in, and a change of
underwear and shirt.

As I got ready for bed, too tired to see straight,
I realized that one of my beaded, purple-pink earrings was missing.
I looked through all layers of my clothing, my large purse and then
I scoured the car the next morning.

No earring.

Can I just admit to you that this loss made me a little bit teary?
I know, it’s just a small thing.
But sometimes, it’s those small things that trigger
the big emotions. My own fatigue played a large part in those tears,
I know that. But it was the missing earring that
somehow represented for me the deepness of that fatigue,
and the difficulty of getting to Omaha at all.

As I have made a lifetime habit of doing, I sucked it up.
I’ve gotten quite good at that over these years.
Quite good.
Generally, when I’m struggling, you’ll see only the topmost layer
the layer I can joke about, make light of —
because I’ve taught myself to . . .
rise above?
stifle?
put a good face on it?
see the glass as half full?
avoid whining?

I don’t know all the reasons why, I just know what I do.

So I sucked it up, got up in time for breakfast, traveled back to the conference center,
and asked the Lord for eyes to see what I needed to see.

Here are a few examples.

Quiet moments of conversation, tucked away here and there,
faces intent and engaged, attention being paid.

Friends becoming sisters.

Earnest times of prayer and connection.

Brothers here and there, encouraging, serving, sharing.

Watching one of the most beautiful women I know turn like a flower toward the sun, time after time after time —
doing exactly what the Lord equipped and called her to do.
Thank you, Dee, for dreaming big and following hard.

Shared laughter, creative thinking through glitches.

Astounding leadership skills, gifted speakers and organizers.

In-real-life connections, arm-in-arm, heart-to-heart.

Beauty in abundance, from short to tall, from north to south,
from every single face.

The glory of a family farm as spring begins to peek through the earth.

The joy of women’s voices, preaching, teaching, leading, blessing.

The power of small symbols to tell big truths,
the simple act of writing out the roadblocks,
depositing them at the altar,

entrusting them to the far reaches of an Iowa farm pond,
another small but concrete act of relinquishment.
These stones of heartbreak were tossed to the bottom of that pond
this weekend — they were read, remembered, prayed over and then
released by the hands of two generations of women of God.
Jennifer, Lydia and Anna Lee — we thank you.

Sunday morning arrived and still no luggage.
In that bag, I had packed Sunday-morning equipment that I could not access,
yet new friends helped to gather all that was needed,
all that was right.
This was my primary responsibility for the weekend,
to lead us all in a service of worship and communion,
to remember who we are,
to celebrate who we might become.

And again it is the little things that spoke most powerfully –
the bread, the cup.
And these stones of remembrance,
shiny and bright, reminders of how God
is in the business of changing the rocks of regret
into reflections of glory.

The bread was hand baked, tough but delicious.
We had to work a little to tear off our portion.
And somehow, that was a powerful small thing for me,
reminding each one who came, by name,
that the Body was broken for them,
and by them — a gift that must be taken
with energy and commitment.

But here is the tiny thing that was perhaps the one thing that spoke to me,
just me — Diana —
most powerfully over the course of this rich, rich weekend.

On Saturday afternoon, I was too tired to stay for informal conversations,
and too old and infirm to even think about the ‘brave’ activities like zip-lining.
So I headed back to the hotel for a shower and a nap.

As I opened my car door, something shiny caught my eye.
Nestled on the floor of the car,
the very car I had inspected carefully for just such evidence,
was my lost earring.

It winked up at me, in the middle of my exhaustion,
in the middle of my constant anxiety about being enough
and doing enough,
and it said to me these words:
“I see you, Diana. I know you.
What was lost is found, sweetheart.
What was lost is found.”

And so I was.

Yes, my bag eventually found me,
two days after returning home!
And as I unpacked all those things I knew I had to have to
do the job for which I had been called,

I remembered again. . .
it isn’t the stuff that makes me who I am.
It isn’t the stuff that defines me.

I am a pastor.

I didn’t ask to be, I didn’t even want to be.
But I am.
And it is God who provides what is truly needed,
often through the loving generosity and creative ideas
that emerge from the people in my life at any given moment in time.

I am still unpacking, friends.
Still unpacking all my stuff.
Oh, the suitcase contents are long since stowed away,
but I am unpacking nonetheless.
And prayerfully asking, “What can I learn? How can I change?
Who am I now, and what dream are you asking me to own?”

I’ll keep you posted.

Today, I’ll join em’s prompt late and on Monday, I will add this to the links at Laura’s, Jen’s, Michelle’s places.

Filed Under: Uncategorized

The Prayers from #JTreat

April 22, 2013 By Diana

Wow, what a wild and wonderful weekend it was! The Jumping Tandem Retreat was all that we hoped and prayed for . . . and more. I hope to write some personal reflections soon in this space, but until then, here are the prayers I read at the close of Friday and Saturday evening’s keynote events. And the homily from Sunday morning’s worship service, too.

Friday evening, after Holley Gerth’s wonderful beginning to our weekend together, these words from a martyred Zimbabwean pastor’s notes, found after his death:

“I’m part of the fellowship of the unashamed.
I have the Holy Spirit power.
The die has been cast. I have stepped over the line.
The decision has been made– I’m a disciple of His.

I won’t look back,
let up,
slow down,
back away,
or be still.

My past is redeemed,
my present makes sense,
my future is secure.

I’m finished and done with low living,
sight walking,
smooth knees,
colorless dreams,
tamed visions,
worldly talking,
cheap giving,
and dwarfed goals.

I no longer need preeminence,
prosperity,
position,
promotions,
plaudits,
or popularity.

I don’t have to be right, first, tops,
recognized, praised, regarded, or rewarded.

I now live by faith,
lean in His presence,
walk by patience,
am uplifted by prayer,
and I labor with power.

My face is set,
my gait is fast,
my goal is heaven,
my road is narrow,
my way rough,
my companions are few,
my Guide reliable,
my mission clear.

I cannot be bought, compromised, detoured,
lured away, turned back, deluded, or delayed.
I will not flinch in the face of sacrifice,
hesitate in the presence of the enemy,
pander at the pool of popularity,
or meander in the maze of mediocrity.

I won’t give up, shut up, let up,
until I have stayed up, stored up, prayed up, paid up,
preached up for the cause of Christ.

I am a disciple of Jesus.
I must go till He comes,
give till I drop,
preach till all know,
and work till He stops me.
And, when He comes for His own,
He will have no problem recognizing me…
my banner will be clear!”

And from Saturday evening’s creative and inspiring message from Jennifer Dukes Lee, this adapted piece from Celtic Daily Prayer:

Teach Us to Speak, Teach Us to Listen
adapted from “Caedmon – A Declaration of a Dream” in Celtic Daily Prayer, pg. 85

Teach me to hear your story through each person,
to cradle a sense of wonder in their life,
to honor the hard-earned wisdom of their sufferings,
to waken their joy that the King of all kings stoops down
to wash their feet,
and looking up in their face says,
“I know, I understand.”

This world has become a world of broken dreams
where dreamers are hard to find and friends are few.

Lord, be the gatherer of our dreams.
You set the countless stars in place,
and found room for each of them to shine
You listen for us in your heaven-bright hall.
Open our mouths to tell our tales of wonder.

We have a dream that all the world will meet you,
and know you, Jesus, in your living power,
that someday soon all people everywhere will hear your story,
and hear it in a way they understand.

I cannot speak unless you loose my tongue;
I only stammer, and I speak uncertainly;
but if you touch my mouth, my Lord,
then I will sing the story of your wonders!

I cannot hear unless you loose my ears;
I turn away, and miss the quiet cues;
but if you touch my ears, my Lord,
then I will hear the wonders of your word,
the wonders of your word as
told through those I meet.

So touch our tongues and touch our ears,
tune them to the Truth.
And as we share and as we hear,
may we not forget to tell
your story–of love and grace and peace.

Here am I, my Jesus–teach me.

And Sunday morning’s homily:

Jumping Tandem Retreat
Closing Worship Service
April 21, 2013

Finding Our Way Home
Acts 9:36-43, Psalm 23, Revelation 7:9-17, John 10:22-30

It’s been a rich time together these three days. We’ve been stretched — some of us quite literally! — we’ve been encouraged, we’ve probably been a little bit overwhelmed from time to time, I’m guessing. After all, dreaming great, big, audacious dreams can do that to a person. Dreaming any kind of change, imagining a picture of a new future, big or little or in-between — any kind of dream can feel sorta scary.

And now, in just a few short minutes, we’ll begin to journey back home, that place where all these dreams, no matter their size, just might begin to come true.
Are you feeling the butterflies? A teensy bit queasy? Uncertain? Excited? Challenged? Maybe even hopeful?

Well, good.

Because that means we’ve done the job God began throwing our way many months ago. Our fearless leader, Deidra Riggs, began mulling and yes — dreaming! — about each one of you a LONG time ago. And look around you — go ahead, look around. And now, look down at your own lap, at those hands of yours and those feet.

Do you see yourselves?

YOU are Deidra’s dream come true, dear friends. Yes, you are. Yes, WE are — every single one of us, young, old and in-between. And I want to tell you a little secret here: you, we, each of us and all of us together — we are GOD’s dream come true, too.

So, as we spend these few moments together, facing God, linking arms and hearts, singing and speaking, hearing the Word, eating the Word, I invite you to reflect with me on the strongest single image of this week’s lectionary texts, a word-picture we read about very specifically in 3 of the passages before us today. It’s a through line, a sparkling red thread, as my friend Sandy King might say: and that red thread is this one: the image of God as our shepherd.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t run across shepherds very much where I live. We’ve got some goats roaming the foothills above my house — rent-a-goats, actually, goats for hire, sent out to eat up the oh-so-dry underbrush that is so dangerous during wildfire season in southern and central California. But sheep and shepherds? Not so much.

Yet our scripture is full of ‘em — full of sheep and those who tend them, both literally and figuratively.

God is described as the Shepherd of Israel at several points in the large arc of our OT narrative. David, Israel’s greatest king, began his career, corralling those pesky sheep-critters. And his most famous psalm, the one we read responsively just a few minutes ago — number 23 — is a primary place where we discover a God who looks out for the sheep of his flock, who tends those he loves, all of us who live and work on the edges of the wilderness with its wild beasts and steep cliffs and barren landscapes.

In this psalm, we meet a Shepherd-God who brings weary sheep to cool, still water, to green pastures for food and rest, and then guides them right through the darkest and scariest ravines.

And in that last chapter of our holy book, the image of lamb and shepherd comes together in ONE Kingly Savior in the passage from Revelation 7 — a passage rich with symbolism and singing, with contrast and transformation and eternal joy. An endless sea of people, all kinds of people, from every race and nation and language, and all of them coming out of trials and troubles to get to that throne room, to wear those white, white robes, to sing their hearts out to the One on the throne, who sounds a lot like the Good Shepherd of Psalm 23.

Our gospel reading for today reminds us that John used this same imagery to tell us about Jesus when he walked the earth; he uses words about sheep and shepherds all through chapter 10. In fact, Jesus preaches a small sermon on this image at the beginning of the chapter, a few verses before our reading for today. Jesus proclaims himself to be the Good Shepherd, the one who lovingly tends the sheep, who knows them and protects them, and walks beside them across the barren back-countries of life. And Jesus makes a claim with those words, a claim to be God the Shepherd, an image all those listening should have recognized.

Somehow, however, folks didn’t seem to catch on to what he was saying. And in the scene before us today, Jesus is most certainly not on heaven’s throne. Instead, he’s on the hotseat.

And even though Jesus is surrounded by people who are on the very grounds of Israel’s primary place of worship, this scene is completely unmoored from the worship scene we heard about in Revelation 7.

To be accurate, this circling crowd of adversaries is not in the temple — they’re alongside it, milling around, almost menacing in their probing and questioning. They’re located, the text tells us, in a magnificent long, covered courtyard or porch, with double columns all along the sides of it, columns that stood 38 feet high. Surely an awe-inspiring place — but those folks circling around Jesus out there on Solomon’s Porch? They are SO not wearing white robes.

No, they are not. They are full of themselves, they are full of attitude, and they are confused. They’ve got these dreams, you see. They’ve got it all figured out — and the Messiah they’re looking for doesn’t look a thing like this strange-talking, fringe-people-loving, low-brow rabbi standing before them. They think they already have all the answers — yet, in reality, they don’t even know how to frame the right questions.

Because that’s where everything that’s good and right with the world, everything that’s true and holy and helpful and life-giving — that’s where it all begins: with good questions, asked in a spirit of humility and openness:

Who am I?
Why am I here?
What is real?
Who is God?
Where can I find hope?
How can I go on?
What do I dream about?
What dream has God planted in me?

These are good, open-ended, honest, searching questions, sincerely asking for answers, and when they’re asked well, they’re laid out with no pre-conceptions, no expectations, no ready-made answers. These are good questions. Not easy ones, but good ones.

The people in Solomon’s Porch, however, were not bothered by honest self-reflection nor were they interested in understanding much beyond their own snarling, circling selves. “How long are you going to keep us guessing?” they ask, anticipating the answer they thought they knew. “Tell us who you are,” they demand.

But Jesus knows their hearts. And he knows that they do not hear him, they are not his sheep. And how does he know this? Because he has already answered their question and they missed it.

Oh! I do not want to miss the answers! I want to come before the throne with my heart honest, my hands open, my attitude easy, my imagination fired up, my conscience clear.

And that most likely means that I am going to have to admit that I am not my own shepherd, that I cannot be my own shepherd. I want to allow Jesus to be the shepherd he is and not the shepherd I think he should be. I want to know that I’m heard when I bleat, that I’m found when I’m lost, that I’m fed when I’m hungry, that still water is around the next bend.

I want to offer my dreams up, like the gift that they are, releasing them to God’s tender care and provision. I want to listen for the One True Voice, to recognize it in an exceedingly noisy world, and to trust it when I hear it. I want to be fully engaged in worship, and not ‘alongside’ it in the bustling porches of this life. I want to sit at the shepherd’s feet, not circle around him with a menacing attitude. I want to let him lead.

I want to let him lead.

That’s what a shepherd does, right? He leads. He provides. He protects. He sings my name.

And I also want to know, in the very deepest parts of me, that I am part of a flock. We may not all look alike, we may not all think alike, but we are, every single one of us, just plain old sheep. Sheep, I tell you. And we don’t go through this life all on our own, no, we don’t. We belong to one another almost as much as we belong to our Shepherd.

In the early 1980’s, during one of the endless skirmishes between Israel and Palestine, soldiers moved into an area and rounded up all the sheep, shoving hundreds of them into a single pen. A widow came to the officer in charge and begged him to let her in to find her sheep. He laughed at her. “Find your own sheep in this throng? Fat chance. But go ahead if you think you can – and good luck to you.”

She entered the large pen with her son, who carried a flute with him. Softly, he began to play a particular sequence of notes, over and over again. Suddenly a head popped up, then another, then another, until as they left the pen almost 30 sheep followed happily along. They heard the song of the shepherd, my friends. They heard the song of the shepherd and they came together as one to follow him out to safety.

My prayer for each of you in the days and weeks ahead is that you will hear that shepherd song loud and clear, that you will follow it out of whatever place you may find yourself penned in, that you will know you’re not alone in the following, and that the song will lead you all the way home.

Amen.