on post holes and academic discipline

digging post holes…this isn’t the part I expected to miss

breaking down rocks with the metal bar, clawing out loose gravel with your bare hands, measuring to find there are always a few more inches to go

sweat dripping off your face, mingling with the coal and clay and rock (always rock, always rock…) as your neck acquires that particular shade of Kentucky red and your arms grow sore (they’re growing strong)

there is  nothing glamorous about this work, and some would say “leave it to the men, their shoulders are broader their backs are stronger they’re better suited to this sort of labor”

but the discipline bred a fierceness in the women (and men) of our crew
strength, confidence, determination
a willingness to dig deep, to break down and remove the biggest rocks, to fight frost and rain and mud and snow

knowing that the strength of the foundation matters

if we want the ramp to last

---

if we want the church to last

the strength of the foundation matters

the discipline of study breeds both a fierceness and a tenderness in women (and men)
strength, confidence, tenacity
a willingness to dig deep, to confront and work past the obstacles in our hearts, to fight resignation and fear and sloth and busyness

there is nothing immediately glamorous or instantly rewarding about this work
and some would say “leave it to the men, their minds are sharper their backs are stronger they’re better suited to lead”

but you dig in, sitting for hours at a time, uniting your heart with theologians and missiologists and Jesus (always Jesus, always Jesus…) as your tan fades to a fluorescent glow and your mind is stretched by a constant string of hurdles (it’s growing strong)

breaking down sacred texts systematically and inductively, shaking loose the accumulated debris of history, checking your syllabus to find there are always a few more chapters to go

this is faith seeking understanding

five years

I started this post two months ago, and it’s well overdue to be shared. I’ll be reflecting more in the coming weeks on leaving CAP, on the journey out west, and on starting seminary. 
Five years, has it really been five years?

Five years ago this week I landed in eastern Kentucky for the first time. A city girl, I was more at home in the black box and the dry rocky dust than in the lush greenery which seemed to suddenly surround me. The first place we stopped was WalMart, set back on a mountain whose top had been removed. The power went out while we were inside, and we emerged to a torrential downpour. It was the reset button on the life I’d thought I could control. I couldn’t explain to anyone why I’d had to come here, outside of the knowledge that it was the sort of holy invitation one couldn’t turn down.

I remember the first week of counselor orientation; sitting on the couches in the counselor lounge clicking away at a scenic design project, trying to meet deadlines at the speed of dial-up and finding some sense of security and self-importance in the fact that at least I had Important Work To Do. The fling with Appalachia was meant to last a summer, to fill a gap on the road to becoming a serious and perhaps very important designer.

I remember the first time I picked up a banjo – Jordan’s was lying around in the counselor lounge and I was somehow captivated by a sound I didn’t know I’d been missing. Learning to play came more naturally than being a camp counselor – though both were fumbling and terrible at first. It was in the practice, the courage to keep returning, that began to shape my heart and my hands. I became more than a competent, isolated artist as direct encounters with my own weakness and the sufficiency of grace and the love of the children washed into my spirit.

I remember spending time with the other CAP staff and volunteers. I can’t tell you what exactly, but there was something about their life that was desperately attractive to me. The mission was simple – an integrated life of community, spirituality, and service. A simplicity, a hope and joy in the midst of a region that so many had abandoned .

What began that summer has steeped into every facet of this precocious and wandering half-decade. When I boarded the plane to return to my city home, I knew it hadn’t been my last trip to Kentucky. That first night back in Denver, we went to see a show downtown, and what had once been so familiar was profoundly unsettling – how could so many people be bustling through a place where traffic lights outshone the fireflies?

I told everyone I met for the next three years that I was going back. I didn’t know how or when, and it turned out to be another year of theatrical education and two years of full-time academic theatrical carpentry work before I saw those gorgeous green hills (mountains, they are truly mountains) again. In that time I was baptized, called forth as a preacher, invited into life with the oddest string of communities. I had the opportunity to design and build some truly beautiful scenery. But it was that first small summer sacrifice which shaped my steps.

This summer may require yet more bravery. These next eight weeks are a farewell in the fondest to a place I’d waited so long to call home. I was uncertain, that first summer, if I’d yet arrived. I’m even less certain now.

 

Appalachia is remarkably willing to stand still, to look you straight in the eye, and prompt that perhaps you are the one who needs to explain yourself. In these hills I’ve been stripped of so many illusions, and become aware of how many I have yet to abandon. I’m not brave enough to leave this place, not fully. I’m moving to the flatlands of central Kentucky to pursue a theological education this fall. It’s a full circle to the rich, bookish academia I left behind seven years ago, but I’m not the impish author of certitude I once was.
Instead, I’m coming in with a holy limp, carrying and being carried by the stories of those I’ve served and those I’ve served with. If my soul must endure the smallness imposed by the flatlands, the confines of walls and concrete, textbooks and tomes, it will be with the fullness of a real life in mind, a knowledge that the beatitudes reveal the upside-down kingdom of God.

The blessings have been right in the middle of sitting with a woman who’s just lost her husband of 40 years and hearing her laugh and tell stories, in the journey to the doctor with a woman whose first flare-up of bursitis introduced the worst pain she’d ever experienced, in sharing a bucket of KFC with a 91 year old man whose only desire is for “super-friends” to return and visit. It is in our poverty, our hunger, our thirst, our mourning, our meekness that we find the fount of every blessing.  Perhaps it’s true what they say…

“Almost heaven…East Kentucky…”

 

 

#weareorlando // my story

In the wake of the tragedy in Orlando this past Sunday, I have a story to share with you. The only one I have a right to share. My own.

the altar at central UMC, detroit 6/19/16

 

A night club is like a sanctuary when a sanctuary hasn’t welcomed you. Violence was done in a sanctuary. – Rev. Jes Kast

june fifteenth, two thousand and sixteen

 

The atmosphere is thick and heavy tonight, the music raw and full, the air conditioned by my own sweat. I’m alone with a guitar on the porch, breathing in a sticky Kentucky summer, but I could just as easily be slipping into a nightclub in Florida.

 

We seek out those places, you know. Places where you won’t ask us too many questions.

 

In the mountains, it’s the anonymity – we can leave our pasts behind when we come here, and for a while we don’t have to carry the weight of a future where you won’t have a place for us. We may not be known by others here, but at least we can pretend not to see ourselves. There are enough women running around in boots and flannel, driving trucks and staying single. If we stay busy, work hard, love our communities we’ll almost forget that this isn’t really our home. At least we’re venerated for our service, at least our exile was chosen, at least you haven’t yet rejected us.

 

I’m naturally inclined to solitude. When I’m on the front porch and the sun gently paints a misty sky, I don’t have to lie to anyone about who I am. 

But all of who I am tonight, and every night since Sunday, is heartbroken for the massacre in Orlando. For these young queer people, many from minority communities, the club was the place they didn’t have to answer any questions, they could put down the mask and embrace color and heat and music and holy humanity. The victims of this act of hate, violence, cruelty and terror were occupying the place where they felt safe, and free, and loved. Many had probably once been rooted in Christian community, and many of those had probably felt the pain of being rejected (or accepted on condition, which is almost worse) by Christian community.

 

---

My refusal to identify with them has been rooted in privilege, in pride, and in cowardice. I am afraid of the loss that could be born in me through this act of honesty. But I am realizing that in hiding, so many relationships that I cherish are already dying. I withdraw for fear of being unable to answer “How are you really doing?” I have waited so long, terrified that you will ban me from your sanctuaries. Fearful that you won’t believe the stories of an ever-present and loving Jesus if you know the woman speaking them isn’t straight. Ashamed to say that I am a desperate seeker of sanctuary.

 

I also see myself in the shooter. Lord, have mercy. I have silenced my own story. I have refused to engage with the ones around me whose joys and struggles feel all too familiar. I have let my uncertainties and religious traditions and keep me from seeing and loving myself and others. I have succumbed to fear. I’m sorry I never joined you all in the club. I’m so sorry there wasn’t room for us in the worship service.

 

I live in an Appalachian town, in a Christian volunteer community. This is a place with no vigils, no outrage. Nothing changed here on Sunday afternoon or Monday morning. No tears were shed. When we have the luxury to live unaffected by large-scale violence that so specifically targets minorities and marginalized communities are we #blessed? Or have we lost touch with our brothers and sisters? I can tell you that the silence of so many Christians who use Facebook to be so vocal on so many other occasions is just as resonant as the brave voices of Christians who have mourned with those who mourn, speaking pain and solidarity and hope.

 

My heart is rooted in this Christian hope, perfect love which casts out fear, faith which steps into the stormy sea with eyes on Jesus alone. This hope echoes through Scripture more deeply than a handful of proof texts. I do not need to hear those texts from you now. I have had a Christian leader, someone who had once offered to mentor me, lean across the table and repeat “You’re not gay. You’re a child of God! You’re not gay, You’re not gay, You’re. not. gay.” But I have had another Christian leader, (someone who may not consider themselves an advocate or ally), offer me a room in their family home for as long as I needed it when I was overwhelmed and exhausted and in need of breathing space. There are so many Christians who have spoken hope to me, who have made space and family for me whether or not they knew anything about me, but simply because I am their sister in Christ. And a special shout out to my family, who have been absolute champions of love and kindness this week.

 

And if I am able to share anything with you now, it is because of the brave, faithful, loving witness of my LGBT sisters and brothers, from the faithful Christians to those wounded or held at arm’s length by communities of faith. Words cannot speak my gratitude for your presence, your openness, your stories even as I haven’t known how to receive them or allowed you to receive me. You are such a beautiful beacon of light and love.

 

You may not agree, you may not understand. That’s OK. I love you. I have, out of a desire to hold on to your love and keep you from pain, wrestled on my own for years. Wrestle with me. I have waited for the right time, waited to be healed, waited until my education was complete, waited until I could introduce you to a partner who might justify me in your eyes. But in every moment of waiting we are building a relationship which I fear may be shattered by the truth. I am unable to talk to you about my hopes and fears, my dreams and my heartbreak. My own heart has taken so much time to become at home with herself, and there’s a long way to go. I do not have all the answers for you, but I need you to know that I am right in the middle of the questions, the debates, that you are not as far removed from a queer person as you may assume. We are in your churches, your families, your hollers and your nightclubs. We are here. We are here. We are here. And we need you here with us.

 

May the part of us that has died with Christ, who took on the death we reserved for our most hated outcasts, also be resurrected with him as the Kingdom comes. As we mourn the tragedy which was perpetrated at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, may we see ourselves in the shooter and in the victims. May our prayers for peace and understanding be coupled with resolve and action and an overflowing of love. And when we are given the choice of who to protect, us or them? May we always be drawn to sacrifice us for Them, overcoming evil with good and following in the footsteps of our crucified and resurrected Savior. As Ryan O’Neil sings so beautifully, “our stained glass means nothing without the light.”

For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others… Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality. Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse. Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited. Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. On the contrary: “If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.” Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

note: this story first appeared on facebook on 6/15/16. i debated editing it to include some more current reflections, but i want to begin by sharing the original.

may twelfth//leroy’s day

this is my day. may twelfth. this is leroy’s day. 

on may twelfth we were delivering furniture, a departure from our usual routine. one of our elderly caseworkers asked us to come along to visit leroy, a man just past eighty who had been with the program for years. we were there to drive the truck and haul the coffee table and locking metal cabinet up stairs.

leroy is wiry and agile, hunched at the shoulders. soft-spoken and direct, he is in constant conversation with himself. he is bald, meticulous in appearance, and fastidious about dates and times. he opened the door and pointed directly to where the new cabinet would go.

i’m not complaining, now,
I just didn’t think it would be so big.

the apartment was stunningly spare. next to the large window which provided most of the light was a dining room chair with a tattered Bible laying open on the seat, acting as the end table for the only armchair. a single sofa anchored the wall opposite the window. there was a small table with a single kitchen chair. all the rest of the floors and walls were bare, absent of any excess or ornamentation. no family photos, treasured knick-knacks, or dollar-store supplies. a cd/radio boombox was the only concession to entertainment – no television or bookshelf or even a cd collection in sight.

back in the days of paper food stamps, he would use only what he needed and return the rest to the office. he’d never accepted offers of furniture before. he isn’t one to take a stitch more than he knows he needs and is able to use. nothing in the room is superfluous.

the half-size black locking cabinet overwhelmed the room, and after a bit of back-and-forth we moved it under his careful direction to the back bedroom. the full size mattress and boxspring sat close to the floor, one corner housed two pairs of cowboy boots and three old-fashioned suitcases. we found a place for the cabinet where the open door wouldn’t hit the wall.

the HUD housing inspector, they’re so particular.

he told us about the struggle to keep the place maintained to standards, to not scuff the walls or put in the wrong lightbulb. he had also been worried that the workers who were frequently in and out might notice his record collection. the locking cabinet had been a special request.

now i’ve got a place to keep my records. and these snap-front shirts,
they’re just so handy, they’ll go in there too.
when you go to the bank, you can keep your things right there…

a few, these very few treasured possessions. his record collection – what a luxury to preserve. especially when he told us he’d given his record player away more than a decade ago, to a pastor who’d needed one to listen to old praise and teaching records. a life of measured, patient, faithfulness.

oh, i’ve got to sit down…my ticker can’t take any more.
it’s getting too hot, i’ve got to go change my shirt. 

the excitement of the new coffee table, the locking cabinet (both donations from our warehouse) prompted Leroy to change from a snap-front shirt and jacket into a sweater vest which hung loosely on his spindley frame. as he eased into the recliner, he noticed the box on the sofa.

what have you got there?

oh my, oh no, oh my. 

am i allowed to ask how much it cost? (no, no you’re not.) jensen.
that’s the best brand, that’s always been the best brand,
oh, i didn’t know they still made these. 

it was christmas morning, twenty five years of christmas mornings as he retrieved his penknife and delicately unboxed the record player. the new coffee table was the perfect place of honor for this treasure. Leroy was transfixed by the radio dial, the volume knob, the arm and needle and turntable. the return of familiarity in a world that was growing so foreign.

i’ve never listened to this one before.
oh, that’s a good one. that’s a good one.

he retrieved a record from the bedroom, one of several that he’d gathered after he’d given away his record player. it was an old family gospel record, and we joined him in hearing it for the first time. as the needle crackled across the surface, his toes began tapping and he smiled in spite of himself.

you’re so fine, you’re so fine // you’re mine, you’re mine // i walk, and i talk, about you

every time his caseworker took him on errands, he asked her to use her phone to play “you’re so fine” by the falcons. that was his very favorite song. he didn’t have it on record, so he only go to hear it when she visited twice a month. one of our coworkers heard about the song, and tracked down the cd as one more gift for Leroy today.

i didn’t know they had recordings this old. oh, merry christmas, happy birthday,
and tell her i hope she never gets a visit from the tooth fairy like me.

he was incredulous. he just kept repeating a litany of holidays. Leroy deftly navigated to track seventeen, and played it over, and over, and over. dancing, singing along, snapping fingers and tapping toes recalling a place and time that were all of a sudden resurrected. she took a video of him dancing, unselfconscious in his sweater vest.

you’re going to have to go to the store by yourself today.

we could have left him there for a month or two or twelve, content to immerse himself in the music. this was peace, and joy all at once.

you know, the fonzie, he said heaven is going to be 1957 forever.
that’s just fine by me, that’s just fine.

he changed back into his snap front shirt and walked us to the door. heaven was here, today too, you know. something too beautiful to name, which had us all on the brink of tears. holiness, an outpouring of honor, and a grand dash of 1959.

this is my day, may twelfth. this is leroy’s day. 

Leroy glanced at the calendar on the way out, marking a day that could easily have faded into obscurity. may twelfth. this is my day, he said. this is Leroy’s day.

thank you ever so much. 

You’re my first cup of coffee
( my last cup of tea) 
You’re so fine, you’re so fine
You’re mine, you’re mine
I walk, and I talk, about you

 

seven thirteen pm

It is three fifty-nine am on Ash Wednesday
And I wake up in fear. Tightness in my palms, chest, roof of my mouth. The sound of mice running a roller disco in the walls and ceiling. All that is unresolved spinning in my heart. Two more hours of agonizing wakefulness.

It is six forty-seven am on Ash Wednesday.
And I am reading. An email exchange is slowly bringing grace into a long-ignored wound, tenderness to a withheld confession, reminding a long-submerged vessel that not all of life can be lived in the solitary depths.

It is nine am on Ash Wednesday
And I am mudding. In a schoolhouse that is being transformed into a house of hospitality, the walls are scarred by the forcible removal of curtains, blackboards, cabinets. The exit happened with great haste, and now we are covering over the wounds to prepare them for a new coat of paint. Every valley is filled, so as to be indistinguishable from the unmarred surface on move-in-day.

It is ten forty-two am on Ash Wednesday.
And I am scouring. The bathrooms haven’t been used, let alone cleaned, in over a year. Left to their own devices, every surface is unseemly, crusted over. Before guests can arrive, every porcelain curve must be restored. The cleaning must happen in many layers, with great patience and a willingness to love what will be rather than refusing to encounter what is. We are prouder of this work than of any other we undertake this day.

It is one eleven pm on Ash Wednesday.
And there is dust on my face. The cinder block walls and ceiling of the main entry way are covered in bug debris, and I am sweeping them down. I wonder – how much gathered on a single day? Was it ever enough to notice? The webs are easily disrupted by the bristles, and yet are not obstructing the entrance or causing any structural damage. How long would we have left them, walked through the entry and commented on the dirt without picking up our brooms?

It is seven thirteen pm on Ash Wednesday.
And I am writing. In the sanctuary, our informal gathering of twenty or so has spent time recalling the beginnings of our story. We put pen to paper and name our brokenness, our need to come home. We lay our confessions on the altar, and our faces are marked with the sign of the cross made from the ashes of last year’s burdens.

It is eight thirty-eight pm on Ash Wednesday.
And I am reflecting. This year, He is with us in the restoring, the repairing, the rasping work of making new. We see the shambles our neglect has created in the past year. The tender, visible, invitation to join Him in dying draws us into a story we no longer have to control. We surrender our capacity to batten down, our desire for damage control, and embrace the gracious, unwavering renewal.

come as you are

i have half a post drafted out, covering advent and christmas and new year’s eve, but the story crowding my heart today doesn’t belong to me. it belongs to Sandy*.

i spent the day after christmas in a remarkable place. the day after the momentum has crested, the food has been eaten, the family has been visited is also often the day before we are expected to dive back into normal rhythms. this year, it was an in-between place. a holy saturday.

back in my hometown (read: large city) for the holidays, i found my rural-acclimated self a bit jarred by gated communities and suburban nativities. on christmas day, i received an invitation to spend the following evening playing the banjo for a church that meets in a half-remodeled building in the less refined part of town. nothing sounded more beautiful.

the walls were inscribed with verses scrawled in sharpie. (the lord is my shepherd, i shall not want // the light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it // praise god from whom all blessings flow.) they would be covered as the drywall was installed, but no less a source of strength to this place than the metal framing and concrete floor.

my long-time friend and musical collaborator laid out the chord charts as his fellow worship leader stepped out for a smoke break. we rehearsed a bit, learning each other’s rhythms and navigating transitions as folks began to gather.

Sandy sat near the front, enthralled. as folks around her made small talk, she listened to us practice with her eyes closed and her arms up. when we finished, i found her eyes and saw that though her cheeks had caught a few tears, her whole heart was smiling. she shook my hand and thanked me. i told her it’s not often i get to play for someone who brings their whole heart to the song, and that i was honored to meet her.

as was the practice in this community, the 30 or souls gathered together shared a meal before worship. a stranger there myself, i collected a plate and sat across from Sandy and began to listen. at the table, where we draw essential nourishment, no weakness is obscured for long. her story quickly moved from small talk to the difficulties of the past and of the present- a struggle with alcohol, a child in and out of jail, a long and fierce loneliness. she apologized for the tears, for sharing so much. i reminded her that it’s an honor to be given these stories and to be able to give thanks for god’s grace running through them.

as I shared a bit of my story – carpentry, kentucky, banjosity – she leaned in close, looked me straight in the eyes and said

“god loves you. i can see it”

not knowing, of course not knowing, that in my blinding self-sufficiency and relational unsteadiness, in a time when i could only feel the space longing to be filled, that those were the words that would shake my soul awake. in that moment, she was Christ the stranger with skin on. for all my grand notions of serving that community that night, the greatest act of love happened that moment, in eyes locked across a table. i thanked her deeply, reminding us both that there was nothing more we needed to hear.

as we moved into worship, a ten minute sermon delivered with great immediacy was book-ended by a smattering of worship tunes. i delighted in lending a banjo line to simple songs, chorus-driven, come-holy-spirit songs, that brought great joy and presence to this place filled with others. in their midst, i heard this last song as if for the first time. it was Sandy’s story, and she savored every line.

“come out of sadness, from wherever you’ve been
come brokenhearted, let rescue begin
come find your mercy, oh sinner come kneel
earth has no sorrow that heaven can’t heal

so lay down your burdens, lay down your shame
all who are broken, lift up your face
oh wanderer come home, you’re not too far
so lay down your hurt, lay down your heart
come as you are.”

come as you are. amen.

“goodbye red, from kentucky!” Sandy said, as we hugged and thanked each other for the gift of presence that evening. she then prepared to board the van which would take her to the overnight shelter. temperatures were expected to be in the low teens that night and she had no home to return to.

after she left, i couldn’t stop thinking about what i would have done had i met her on the street. like any good white middle-class twenty-something female, i would have most likely rushed by, eyes averted, scared that she would demand something of me. like anyone accustomed to a life unnoticed, she may have been fearful to speak.

in holding ourselves back, we would have missed the opportunity to see Christ in each other, to give glory to the presence which had so strengthened and encouraged us. in rejecting the incarnational presence & immediacy of the poor, the stranger, the other, we lose our great freedom, granted by our christmas refugee who spent his first night in a stable.

i was stunned by the faithfulness of the volunteers who prepared food, taught, led, and cared for this congregation every week, and even more so by the folks who kept coming, willing to be seen in their hour of need and to meet their savior there. neither party operated under any great pretense of competency – the invitation was “come as you are. we will be there together, exactly as we are. and somehow this gathering together will prepare us to receive him, exactly as he is.”

maranatha. amen.

*names changed

How could we forget you? //Great Story

During our AmeriCorps year of service, we are asked to write a Great Story. In honor of the one-year anniversary of this work, here’s mine.

The best kinds of stories are the ones that come to you slowly, and then all at once. The sorts of stories that would make more logical sense were they told in reverse, but instead seem to expand beyond their margins as they unfold long after the telling is over.

These stories are made of distinct moments. On a cool, damp September day, I found myself standing on the porch of a 100 year old home hit hard by the August floods. The bridge was barely wide enough for a truck to pass over, and the logs that had been pushed out of the way were threatening to roll into the creek. It seemed a little thing, too small to contain the raging waters that had come upon the home without warning.

I had been talking with the eighty-nine year old resident between puffs on his nebulizer, the crucial aid to breathing through his coal-black lungs. This man has lived alone since the death of his only son, and has no deeper desire to welcome us ragtag carpenters as guests in his home, to show us the love of his God who has been steadfast in the trials and abundant in the blessings.

He had come to us in a moment – after the floodwaters had risen to the level of the floor in his house and fallen back away, he stood on his property, waving his arms at any passing vehicle for help. A school bus driver had seen him, and our Disaster Relief department sent a crew to help with immediate clearing away. Water had claimed the floor and most of the panelboard on the walls. Our brave survivor told us stories of the snakes who had invaded, and how he’d shut himself in his bedroom and prayed.

When my crew arrived to begin the work of replacing the floor, he wanted to tell me everything. I could see the disaster volunteers who had been with him for a few days starting to lose patience. He doesn’t wear his hearing aid, he’ll tell you that with great pride, and he only has two teeth with a tooth-sized gap between them, so it’s neither easy to understand him nor to make yourself understood. But he wants to tell you everything. In the beginning especially, he was desperate to share as much as he could with as many as possible.

The work would take us a few weeks to complete, and most days our crew was only two or three. Re-flooring and re-paneling a few rooms in a house with no square corners was an undertaking that demanded our full attention and stretched all of our carpentry sensibilities. For a while, he only knew us as “that Man” and “that Lady.” “Hey lady!” he’d exclaim, as we carried a 4×8 sheet of advantek back out to the porch to be cut and measured once more, “you’re a good helper! Hey man, she’s a good helper!”

I had come to Appalachia a trained carpenter eager to serve, with thoughts wrapped up in what I’d be able to do. My pride in that moment brushed up against the reality that it didn’t matter how I thought of myself, or what level of training I’d acquired – what mattered was how he saw me. In his eyes I was a young lady, helping out my older male coworker who had started volunteering in his retirement. And, though he knew a good job when he saw it, he was far less concerned with perfect corners on the molding than he was with our willingness to sit with him as he ate the lunch delivered by the senior center.

“It’s good to have company, isn’t it. It’s good to eat with friends” He’d tell us the same stories every day. If we could spare a person we’d take turns sitting and listening throughout the day. And we learned quickly that we’d have to save the last hour of the day for goodbyes – as soon as he realized we were leaving he’d find something important to show us, an artifact to share or a repair that couldn’t wait. He was so afraid we wouldn’t come back. After so many years of living alone, he was afraid that these new friends would be washed away too.

That day on the porch, the work had challenged my limits, and I was eager to finish cleaning up and get home. In a paused moment, I clasped the knife in my pocket, and realized the most fundamental tool of man’s orchestration is an instrument of separation. We’ve always taken pride in the ability to cut away, to compartmentalize, to separate cleanly and without emotion.

I claimed to be here as the servant of the God who brought all things together and then dwelt in his good work, never abandoning it, never allowing it to decay beyond repair. And yet, I sought to separate myself from this man, from this place, to Get Things Done with a clean line between myself and the work. I am quick to find the lines between myself and others, needing always to know on which side I should stand. My heart was challenged to expand, to find connection where common sense told me to separate, to love him in his absurdity and hospitality and hope.

Though he never shied away from showing emotion, the most vivid moment came on a regular work day. When we arrived, he told us his refrigerator wasn’t working. An inspection informed us that it was beyond repair, but we couldn’t leave him without one. He kept his spoons there, so that the mice wouldn’t get them. Bread, bologna, peanut butter, orange pop, all had to be refrigerated too. We called our manager who approved a trip to Lowe’s for a new refrigerator, and when we brought it by a few hours later, he began to cry.

“I thought you’d bring an old refrigerator, I thought it would be used. I never thought I would have a new refrigerator.” He told us how he’s been just like Job, the Bible character who goes through great trial, losing everything. The man who had survived the loss of his son, the fear of being alone in the flood, working in the coal mines, the snakes and the rodents, was moved to tears by the solid beauty of a new refrigerator.

To have to receive so much in such a short amount of time after being on the losing end of life for so long – the grace was too much to bear unacknowledged. I’d never seen what I consider such a basic household appliance in such a light. It became an emblem of our work there – a reassurance, a security, a fresh hope that this home would give no cause for worry or fear. As we concluded the repairs- painting and cleaning and making room for the new carpets that contractors were bringing in, I began to find my own reasons to linger. In conversation, in work, in lunchtimes, the joy was found in building up rather than paring down.

All of my work in this past year has been colored by this story, this first encounter with an open-hearted man who could easily have become another job, another disaster victim, defined by his misfortune and need rather than by his gracious hospitality. Instead, he’s a friend who I ask after often and think of every time I drive by Little Paint Road. He expected us to stay around. Every day, he reminded us that he was turning 90 on March 24th, and would we be there?

On March 24th, we returned. A few volunteers, a bucket of KFC and some butterscotch cake. He exclaimed over and over again how good it was for us to be together. He counted, there were nine of us around that table. He beamed with pride when he recalled our time working together, pointing out again the trim around the windows. I’d done it myself, and six months later his comment was still “You see that there? She’s just as good as any man!”

We took pictures to share with his friends at church – he’d been telling everyone for weeks that the big day was coming, whether it was his church family or the teller at the bank. No one he meets is a stranger for long, and birthday cards came in from around the world, one even hailing from Australia. 90 years, and what mattered most was that we were all there together. His great fear was that we wouldn’t remember him. As we left, he called off the porch as always “You all are my super-friends. You won’t forget about me, will you?”

There was nothing left but truth. “How could we forget you?”

I will build you up. Again.

There was a grief born of gazing into the eyes of the life I left behind. To see this world spinning on, madly and fully without me, realizing I’ll never be returning. This year was built on rhythms of trust & fall, faith & broken hallelujahs, new life & freedom of identity. This Rocky Mountain life, saturated with a particularly ordinary beauty, reached a decisive conclusion when I moved to Appalachia in August. Winter evoked a bittersweet remembrance of the music, the sermons, the painting and building, the students and colleagues, friends and roommates, the campus and the mountains, the hustle of the city and the vibrance of old town at night. I found myself afraid to let go of who I became in that place, afraid to lose the God who I met there.

On new year’s eve, in the living room of an apartment, we shared visions of thankfulness. Mine was refracted through a single word. Freedom. Feeling very much myself, with the the permission to see the goodness in all of the life placed before me by the one who made it all and still finds it beautiful. 

The inclination, born of fear, is then to say “Well, that was the year. And I’ll never find a home like that again, I’ll never feel so free and known and loved again, I’ll never again have a place to preach and design and liturgize . I’ll never again find in a lenten sacrifice such great reason to sing ‘Great is Thy Faithfulness’.”

2015 demanded a new word. Freedom, yes, each and every day. But can it be the same freedom? Am I truly starting over, out of sync with the rhythms which had turned mourning into dancing?

photo by don o’brien, creative commons https://www.flickr.com/photos/dok1/97287035/in/photostream

In the heart of a new year’s sermon, I found my answer. I found my word. Again.

The people who survived the sword found grace in the wilderness; when Israel sought for rest, the lord appeared to him from far away. I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you. I will build you up again, O virgin Israel, and you will be rebuilt! Again you shall adorn yourself with tambourines and shall go forth in the dance of the merrymakers.

For those of us who have tasted freedom, who have danced with the spirit and seen the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living, who have been broken and gloriously restored, the challenge is not to believe that something beautiful can be done, but that it can be done again. That our most recent encounter was not the last, that we haven’t peaked, that the glory is not behind us, and neither is it waiting ahead just out of reach. That we are not offered grace only in and for a single moment, but that in every instant grace is inviting us into the joy of dancing again.  

We are the people whose ancestors crossed the Red Sea, seeing the waters part for us again on the banks of the Jordan as we come to the Promised Land. We are the survivors of the sword, finding grace in the wilderness over and over again. We are the people walking in darkness, aching for a word from a long-silent God, who hear a voice crying in the desert, proclaiming that He has come to us again.

I did not leave God in Fort Collins. Suffering, the root of perserverance, character, and hope, is again a part of this story in Appalachia. Moments of bitterness once again threaten to overwhelm seeds of hope, as mundanity and bureaucracy stifle attentive, considered change or growth. In those moments, again seems more of a threat than a source of joy.We do not want to again face the pain of unreconciled humanity that anchors our hearts to this broken-down earth.

And yet, once again, there is healing here. Just as we carpenters undertake renovations that restore again the beauty of homes that have fallen out of repair, He comes to us over and over again, never tiring of immersing us in rhythms of his own making that become our very heartbeat. Now that we have eyes to see and ears to hear, let us see again and hear again, taste again and feel again, and return to the dance of the merrymakers with the confidence that we will once again encounter the joy that lifts our hearts into the kingdom of heaven.

indignation. expectation. incarnation. (words for advent and for unity)

There’s a debate raging on the internet. (Isn’t there always?) Positions have been stated, fingers pointed, heretics identified. It’s a sign of the aching wound of disunity that has never fully healed, the speck of dust in our eyes as we find it impossible to imagine that Christ has been refracted through any lens other than our own corneas. 

 

 

I’ve hesitated to add my voice to the ring – what’s to say I won’t simply be another clanging gong advocating the advancement of my own thoughts? I used to be a debater about these things, rising quickly to condemn whatever shard of difference caused anxiety in my own heart. I am trying to learn, as my sister Sarah Bessey says, to be a critical thinker without having a critical heart. So I’ve been praying for the people rather than sparring with the ideas. But an afternoon encounter with some classic Christmas carols spurred this reflection, and I submit it as a third way for us to engage in the work of the Kingdom together. 

---

How does this Christ come to us? We, who growing weary at the end of another year of waiting for the kingdom to come, have begun re-sharpening our plowshares should the need for sword arise. We, who once again turn our eyes towards the stable, where we seek the Messiah to burst forth in a chariot, to finally answer our debates and fight our wars and restore our dominion over earth. We, who hope he affirms the pride and violence and fear in our hearts, that he finally tells us who has always been right (us, of course!) and who has always been wrong (everyone else, naturally!). And we, who are perfectly ready for him to be exactly who we’re expecting.

In coming to us, the greatest king, most brilliant theologian, purest-hearted “good person”, and beautiful bearer of the image of God, this only perfect human being, arrives in humility that is pure, unassuming, and helpless. Not exploiting his equality with God to his own advantage, he instead assumes fully the humanity of those he had come to save. He arrives as an infant, saying to us “I am with you in this.” In all things, he is with us, at once fully familiar and utterly different from anyone we’ve ever met. This is the leader who will choose to journey with unschooled fishermen and corrupt businessmen, who will shame the proud and the self-assured while healing the heretic and the lost cause.

In standing outside and seeking to deliver pure truth – divorced from grace, beauty, goodness and mercy – he could have swiftly condemned us, pointed out justly our faults against his kingdom, and distanced himself forever from us happy heretics. That would have been Truth irrefutable. And impossible for us to understand as it sat distanced from our everyday lives.

But in dwelling among us, as we see God finally made flesh, moving into our neighborhoods and waiting three patient decades to make himself known, his life as God-with-us becomes something we can taste and see. Our understanding shifts from the concepts of God we’ve attempted to codify to the person of Jesus we’re getting to know. He allows us to present our lives to him, to show him our daily rhythms and allow them to be shaped and formed in ever increasing unison with his. He journeys into our ordinary lives, and as he exalts bread and wine, children and donkeys, suddenly nothing is beneath his glory or beyond his grace. The Kingdom that was once so incomprehensible to our establishments, whose ruler who once seemed so foreign and out of place to our ways of knowing that we cried for his murder rather than his mercy, becomes a reality as our hearts are tuned over and over again to seek this incarnational grace.

As we seek to grow in love for those whose ways of living seem so very different from our own, may we enter in humility. Christ assumed our humanity with all of it’s inconveniences and indignities, walking alongside us until we could see His truth, beauty, goodness, and love. May we be willing to walk just as patiently alongside those who move in rhythms unfamiliar to us, to follow Christ in laying down our own right to be right or have power over a situation, and in choosing unity without mandating uniformity, incarnation over indignation, compelled by the brotherly love that allows us to say to each other, over and over again, “I am with you in this.”

Let us turn our eyes again, not to the chariot-house or the armory, but to the manger. And sing, in eager expectation…

veni, veni, emmanuel

the one you were talking about (we are the other)

This post is part of a synchroblog over at http://www.shelovesmagazine.com called “We are the other”

As Austin Channing, the instigator of this beautiful series reminds us, there is power in sharing stories of ways in which we’ve felt profoundly “other”. She writes:

These experiences are not mine alone. And that’s why it’s so important to listen to the voices at the margins.

Because our experiences are not just isolated moments when the world turned upside down in our individual lives. They speak to a larger narrative of trauma being experienced around our identities, our bodies, our personhood. These stories remind us that the trauma continues until we succeed in becoming radically inclusive people of God.

This is a shard of my story, based on a phrase that never fails to make me feel “other” . May it be strength to those who feel just as other as I sometimes do, and hope to those who fear the other in their midst.

---

i don’t believe in women pastors, you said

sometimes a whisper, sometimes a gaze, sometimes a shout

sometimes you said it to me, but it seemed louder when you said it to her

sometimes. sometimes you said it with silence

and so, if that is the path i would travel, either i’m a disservice to my gender or to my calling

and this idea stands between us as people

you see, when you say, “i don’t believe women should be pastors”
you’ve said it about the carpenters among us as well, remember. and about the intentionally single, the musicians, those who are friends with men, the designers, the leaders, the feminists, the academics. you’ve said that based on the way were born, this is what we should not be.
what i hear, even as I realize that maybe you don’t know you’re talking about me
even though i know you think you’re articulating an idea and defending a position, a tradition, an opinion

what i hear, in those moments, is that you don’t believe in me. that you look at who I am and the truth that cries from every tendon to be shared and somehow see that which must not be.

something that is so other, so foreign, so terrifying to you that it must be drowned out, argued against
something you are willing to drag out in the public square and debate and make decisions about
because it is so far outside the realm of your comprehended experience
that it is a fear and challenge to your own personhood

fear.
somehow, you learned to be afraid of the day i might arrive
that i might bring challenge to the world you’d dreamed of bequeathing.

so you fortified yourself against the idea of me before we ever met
forgetting in the ease of your generalizations and positions
that behind every position is a person

for it is far easier to fear the mystery in the other
than it is to love the precise oddity of the neighbor

and as i learned from you

feeling the weight of how foreign i was to you
and how incomprehensible you had become to me

I began to fear myself

and so i kept the other in me as far away from you as i could, and only showed you what felt same, expected, safe

because i’m the one you were talking about

---