For the Ones Who Leave...

Years ago, I read two blog essays posted by Sarah Bessey, "For the Ones Who Leave" and "For the Ones Who Stay" (or something close to that...I don't believe that the original essays are still posted). They were written in 2014, when World Vision USA reversed a decision to change its employment and conduct policy to allow them to hire employees in same sex marriages, after a flood of donors responded to the change by dropping their child sponsorships. 

At the time, I was already struggling to figure out whether there was still a place for me within my church tradition, after more than a decade of struggling to find space for myself as a single woman in pastoral ministry. The struggle and grief I felt that people would stop funding programs to support families and children in need because of a policy change that essentially made space for Christians of diverse convictions was significant, and only added to the wrestling I was doing about how to faithfully remain part of the church when the cost to me was becoming increasingly steep.

And it says something that I still remember those two essays more than perhaps any article I read as a seminary student during that same time. And I read more than a few!

They gave me permission and language to acknowledge that faithfulness could be found either in knowing when to walk away into the wilderness, trusting God enough to believe that they would meet me there, or in staying within the church body I was part of, committed to faithfulness in spite of her imperfections. It was an immense relief, and permission to discern which path was the more faithful one for me. 

Several years later, it was a clear nudge from God as I was praying one evening that made it clear that the time had come for me to choose the faithfulness of the ones who leave.

In recent weeks, a book called On Holy Ground has been published by the Mennonite Brethren Historical Commission, documenting the stories of fifteen women leaders within the Mennonite Brethren Church. Several people I consider friends have contributed parts of their stories to the book. 

I can't bring myself to read it. Even watching the book launch online was challenging.

Subsequently, I learned that the national conferences in Canada and the USA had ordered the book to be reprinted with three pages removed from one of the women's story. The missing pages can be read here.

(However, to be clear, none of what follows is commentary on the book itself--I haven't read it and cannot comment on it. To be clear, my reflections are based instead upon my experiences as a woman who ultimately left the MB Church, which have been brought to the surface by witnessing the news surrounding the book's publication.) 

Witnessing these events unfolding has bothered me, in part, I believe, because I have had a front row seat as the stories of so many women within the MB Church have been silenced over the years. Not usually in such dramatic and public ways, but as one after another has left the church after trying so hard to find a way to stay and use her voice and her gifts, but finding it impossible.

And part of my concern is that as these women find places for themselves elsewhere, their stories are lost. 

The story of the journey of women in leadership in the Mennonite Brethren Church is not complete without hearing from these voices, too. The voices who are no longer around to tell their stories, to speak of the joys and pains of their journey as women leaders within the conference, and beyond it.

And it is complicated. While those voices are lost in part because of external factors, there are also very good reasons why we may choose not to share our stories publicly, or within the context of the Church tradition from which we've walked away. Nobody owes their story to anyone. 

I honour the faithfulness of those who have stayed, who are continuing to share their stories and to work for change--even as I admit that sometimes their stories make me feel inadequate for having to choose the faithfulness of those who leave.

And yet, there has been such life for me in the leaving. I now find a home in a church where I'm able to lead and use my gifts with more freedom than I ever imagined possible. Since my earliest days in Mennonite Church Canada, it has felt like after years of struggle, my skin fits--and I'm profoundly grateful! Without a doubt, I do not regret choosing the faithfulness of those who leave. It was the right decision for me, and the path of faithfulness to which I was called.

Most of my writing is in fact selfish--a way of processing my thoughts and feelings, and an act of reclaiming the voice that I was denied for so long.

But I also write today in case there are others whose stories are those of leaving, who feel that their voices may have been lost in the process, whether in this context or another. 

You matter too. Your story is also one of courage, of strength, of faithfulness. It, too, is holy ground.

On Honouring Stories, and Loving Your Neighbour.

I'm well aware that as far as support for vaccination and public health measures, I will consistently choose to err on the side of caution. More often than not, over the past 2 years, I've chosen to exceed the level of restrictions put in place by the Manitoba government. And, for the most part, the people closest to including my family and friends, have also chosen the cautious path.

But I have noticed far more frequently than before, in casual conversation, that people have been asking me if I or family members would be considered to be higher risk. I'm sure it's not meant to, but it tends to feel like a judgment.

At the same time, in Canada, public discourse has seemed to become more and more polarized in the past weeks and months in terms of COVID restrictions and vaccination mandates. 

And while I've already disclosed where my own views fit on this subject (fully vaxxed and boosted; I was so relieved to get the booster in December that afterward I sat in my car fighting back tears of gratitude), I'm not here to argue my position. 

I am becoming more and more concerned about the "us and them" tone in my social media feeds, in the media, and in general conversation, especially with the suspicion and sometimes unkindness with which "we" tend to look at anyone who might be categorized as "them."

Disheartening doesn't even begin to capture it.

Besides, I've been reminded that all of us have a story, and that when the stories we hear, or the viewpoints we seek out, support our own positions, we're only getting part of the picture.

And that stories go a long way to helping us learn to love our neighbours better.

Before I started working at House Blend, I must confess that I had no personal experience, and lots of biased thoughts and feelings around homelessness. I mostly admired people who tried to do good in this realm of the world, but would have told you that I was called to other things.

But then I was persuaded to go to one potluck, and suddenly what had only been an issue to me had faces, and stories--and a few months later, everything had changed for me. Because of the power of stories.

So, here's part of my story, for what it's worth--not because I think I owe anyone an explanation or because I have to justify my pandemic way of life, but because I'm convinced that stories still matter, and that if we would take the time to hear one another's stories, it could help us to love one another better even in the midst of disagreement.

A year ago this past December, my friend Anita* died of COVID. (I don't know anyone named Anita. The story is true, but I've decided to change my friend's name for the purposes of this blog post.)

It's still hard to say, and because nothing has been normal for the last year, it still doesn't really seem real some days.

She texted me sometime in November saying that she wasn't feeling well, but I didn't give it a whole lot of thought to be honest. Life was very busy, as we figured out how to do all the things at church in the midst of increasing restrictions, and Anita was young--just a couple years older than me--and relatively healthy. A few days later, she texted again--she had tested positive for COVID. I sympathized, wished her a speedy recovery and lots of rest, and carried on with my life. Then another text--she had been admitted to the hospital. And again--this time a selfie, sent from her ICU bed. Still, it never crossed my mind that she wouldn't make a full recovery. She was young, and relatively healthy.

But in mid-December the phone rang. It was Anita's sister. They had done everything they could, all heroic measures had been attempted, but it wasn't enough. Anita would be taken off life support that afternoon. 

Time stopped. I couldn't think of any words to say. I must have said something, but I couldn't tell you what it was. 

I remember crying in the car as I drove to and from work that week, as the loss slowly sunk in. My beautiful friend, deeply loyal to her people, with a great sense of humour, a generous heart, who gave the best hugs, was gone. It was surreal to read of the death of "a Winnipeg woman in her 40s" in the public health update, and to know it was her.

COVID has never been the same for me, since Anita died. I just want to do everything I can so to prevent someone else from having to live through that kind of painful loss. Wearing a mask, limiting my contacts-- they seem like small sacrifices, almost negligible, in comparison. I haven't given a thought to erring on the side of caution. 

Like I said, my goal in sharing my story isn't to justify my own position, or to try to change anyone's mind. It's simply to make the point that we all have stories. 

As much I as I have mine, so do other people--stories of how they've been negatively impacted by restrictions, stories of their reasons for not getting vaccinated.

And somehow, when we know those stories, even if we still don't agree with one another, we humanize the conversation, have a reason to practice compassion and empathy instead of judgement and frustration. 

More than that, some stories are deeply personal and not the kind of thing that we are willing to share in casual conversation. Even here, there are details of Anita's story (including her name) that I'm choosing to keep private.

I've been trying to remind myself that everyone has a story, even if I don't know it. I don't need to know what your story is to know that you have one. So I've been trying to choose compassion and empathy instead of judgment. Sometimes I do better than other times.

But as a follower of Jesus, "love your neighbour" is a command that I take pretty seriously, even if I don't always succeed. And it's easier to love your neighbour when you see them as a storied person, beloved by God, than as a nameless face on the "wrong" side of an issue.

I wonder if we might be well-served by taking on a stance of curiosity as a discipline of sorts in these times--curiosity to wonder what another person's story might be--all while fully knowing that we are not owed the answer to that question. I wonder if curiosity alone might not help us to be more loving--and if even small acts in the direction of love, added up, might not make a significant difference. 

O Divine master grant that I may
Not so much seek to be consoled as to console
To be understood, as to understand.
To be loved. as to love.

He Was Wrong. (A Follow Up Post)

Four years ago today marks my last official day as Community Pastor at House Blend Ministries--work I'd loved deeply, work that ended fairly abruptly and painfully with the decision to close the organization.

And just over four years ago, I wrote this post describing a conversation I had on that same day with a respected church leader who chose that moment, fully aware of what he was doing, to tell me that I had neither the gifts nor the interests to be a pastor, and that I should look for other kinds of work.

I tried to be kind in the post I wrote as I reflected on that experience, suggesting that if I could go back I wish I would have responded to him, "I didn't ask for your opinion."

Four years later, I want to take another crack at responding. 

No pastor or church leader should ever take someone who is experiencing loss and grief, and choose in that moment to compound or take advantage of their emotional pain. That is WRONG. Full stop.

There are plenty of appropriate responses: To sit with someone in their pain, a reminder that they are not alone. To name the hurt. To ask if you might pray for the person. To defer the hard conversation that needs to happen for another day. 

Not to do harm. NEVER to do harm.

I wish that I could go back and empower younger me to name his abuse of power firmly and clearly. I wish that I could tell her that it's okay not to prioritize polite and kind and gentle when someone is doing you harm. I wish I could tell her that it's okay to say no, and to get up and leave the situation. 

Four years later, I want to go back and wrap younger me in a hug, and tell her this:

He is wrong. 

He is wrong to choose this moment for this conversation.

But more than that, he is wrong about you. 

This says more about his capacity for healthy ministry than it does about yours.

The hurt you're feeling today is an indication that you did the hard thing as best as you could--you loved the people God called you to love right to the end, and didn't try to shirk this hard work. Well done!

Now is the time to rest. To heal. To care for your own soul.

And when the time comes, hear this, because it's what is really true:

You are called to this work of pastoral ministry. You are absolutely gifted to do this. 

Trust your own soul. It knows what it knows what it knows.

 

Three Years.

 Can you believe it? As of July 1, I have been in full-time pastoral ministry for three years.

There was a time, not so very long ago, when I thought that was something that would never be possible for me, a time when I was actively looking for employment as an occupational therapist that would be a "good enough" alternative for the work that I truly felt called to. 

A time when I thought I might never be able to be called a pastor again. 

And now I have been at my current congregation for three full years--three years of growing to love these people, three years of never wondering when I might ever get the chance to stand behind a pulpit again, three years of finding my voice and growing in confidence in who I am and who God has called me to be.

Three years of my congregation wholeheartedly embracing me as their pastor, and patiently waiting for me to catch up in my own self-understanding with what they already know to be true.

Because these three years were preceded by many, many years of believing that I was not good enough, that I was wrong about my calling to be a pastor, that I was the reason that I was not finding a place to exercise my gifts in ministry. Of being told that if I had the gifts, the church would embrace me in spite of my gender, my marital status, my genealogy.

I am still unlearning what I was taught to believe about myself for so long.

l am grateful for the people who have extended grace and patience to me as this slow, inner work takes place.

I'm sharing this in case there is someone else out there who can relate to this story. Who maybe believes that there is something about them that might not be good enough.

Who might read this and wonder if maybe they just need a space that will believe in them so that they can learn to believe in themselves.

A space that will reflect God's expansive love for all of who they were created to be, not just the aspects that fit well.

Look, we all know that there will be times in life when we try something and it turns out that it isn't really the fit that we thought it might be. No matter how hard I tried, how hard my poor family tried, golf really just wasn't in the cards for me. I'm a great caddy, but hitting that little ball with that long stick is just not a great option for my life.

There's nothing wrong with that.

But sometimes, we need people who wholeheartedly believe in us, who see in us what God sees in us. Who see us as fearfully and wonderfully made, so that we might learn to embrace ourselves in the same way.

Gender, sexuality, ethnicity--who you are is not a mistake.

I'm learning to believe that's true. It's a journey that takes a surprising amount of time, because the other stories I was told are deeply rooted.

If that's you, too, just know that I'm sending all of my love today, and you are not alone.

Three years.

What a gift!

Seeking Serenity

 Manitoba's COVID case count hit an all-time high today.

We are heading into the May long week-end with a new set of restrictions.

I am so tired. I know I'm not alone in this. But the weight of trying to provide support to others while having my own support systems tested for the better part of a year is taking its toll.

And I don't know how to feel anymore, really.

This afternoon, holding all of the complexity of the pandemic in my heart, I remembered the familiar prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference.

Today, these words seem a bit like the whisper of the Holy Spirit, reminding me of something important.

So, I'm trying to start here. 

I am frustrated, but I cannot control other people's willingness to follow public health advice and to comply with restrictions. I cannot control the speed with which vaccinations proceed. I cannot control public health policy decisions. I cannot control the ability of the health system to respond to this crisis. I cannot wish COVID away.

But I can light a candle tonight, and pray for my friends and former colleagues who are working in our hospitals under so much pressure. I can continue to do my part to limit my contacts, wear my mask diligently, and get my second dose of vaccine once I'm eligible to do so. I can let go of what has not been done at work for a few days, and accept that using this week-end to care for myself will mean I'm better able to be productive by the time the new week starts. I can choose curbside grocery pick up again this week-end, instead of going into the store, to further limit my contacts. I can practice self-care as best as I know how. I can use Zoom, the phone, and social media to connect with friends a little while longer, instead of meeting in person. I can remember that this will not last forever.

Friends, please be gentle with yourselves. We're in such a hard spot, and it's all the more difficult because we are in this spot after more than a year of challenging circumstances.

It's okay to release what you cannot control, and focus on what you can.

It's okay to treat yourself with the compassion with which God treats you--with the most self-love you can muster.

And it's okay to phone a friend, or a pastor, or a family member, or a crisis line, if you need support right now. Please don't feel like you have to go this alone. Please let someone know if you need us to hold the light for you tonight, or in the days to come.

We are not alone. We are here for one another. 

And this is not forever. 

Love you, friends!

Choose Joy

 I'll be honest, I don't think of myself as a naturally joyful person.

When I think about my better qualities, things like reliable, dependable, steadfast, and thoughtful come to mind, but joyful doesn't crack the top of the list.

And I've struggled with theologies that promote joy without also affirming the value of lament, or without acknowledging that positivity can become toxic, too.

But lately, as we have approached the 1 year mark of the pandemic's arrival in Manitoba, and as we approach a year of various degrees of lockdown, two words have been echoing in my mind and in my heart with alarming regularity: "Choose joy."

Choosing joy, for me, isn't a denial that this is hard. I'm tired of being alone. I miss my family and friends desperately. I want to give my mom and dad a very, very long hug and have a long, in-person visit. I want to be free to hang out with friends, to have face-to-face conversations.

As a pastor, it is desperately hard not to be able to visit people who are in hospitals or personal care homes, not to be able to hold the hand of someone at end of life while I pray with them, not to be able to plan and lead funeral services when people die. Phone calls and live streamed worship services and Zoom meetings are tools that function in a pinch, but there's no replacement for looking someone in the eyes, taking their hand, or chatting over coffee across a kitchen table.

But, hard things notwithstanding, I've felt prompted by the Spirit lately to "choose joy" as a spiritual discipline of sorts. It's easy to get stuck in the loneliness of these days, or to get weighed down with the relentless demands of my work.

Choosing joy has become an important counterpoint.

Most often, this takes very simple forms. I've been watching the Scotties Tournament of Hearts curling this week, mindful of the simple joy of being able to appreciate this normal part of winter, even as it's been adapted to pandemic restrictions. I've been taking the time to get lost in a 1000 piece puzzle without feeling guilty about not doing something more productive. I've been lighting the good candles, and appreciating the light and warmth they add to our winter evenings. I've been savouring my morning coffee with extra appreciation. I've tried to give myself extra grace to assign the day's priorities based on what sparks joy, if you will, instead of what a responsible person would do or what will be most productive. 

I don't expect this to transform me into a bubbly optimist. But it is helping me to approach my own pandemic fatigue with more gentleness--the kind of loving compassion with which God has consistently met me over the years. And I think it's helping.

How are you choosing joy in these days? 

The Single Pandemic Life

Tonight, I am venturing pretty far afield from my usual subject matter, but I wanted to reflect a bit on the impacts of the last 2 + months of the pandemic and the associated physical distancing on me as a single person.

This is not something that I'm hearing people talking about--the impact of the pandemic on single people, especially the never-married variety of singles. Unless it's about the impact of the pandemic on dating--which, contrary to what the news media might lead me to believe, is not the only thing on our minds right now!

But as a single person who is neither in the "university, living with roommates" stage of life or in the "senior years" stage of life, I have come to a point where I'm in a minority among peers by virtue of my "not in a relationship, no children" status. So I have come to expect that my life situation is generally going to be underrepresented in the world around me. But I don't think that makes my experiences any less valid, and perhaps they're worth preserving if only for my future self to look back upon.

I am just about as introverted as they come, and I've been one of the lucky ones who has been able to keep going to work on a regular schedule throughout most of the past 2 months--stable job, work that I love, regular interaction with coworkers, and more Zoom meetings than a girl could ever wish for.

And friends, this pandemic and the need to stay at home has been lonely for singles of all ages, not only for those in the older age demographics. Except, based on things I hear, I think that people underestimate how hard it has been for singles who are not of retirement age.

When I got my hair cut not long ago, I went home feeling almost euphoric and couldn't immediately identify what that was all about--until I realized that the haircut had been the first time in weeks that I had experienced any significant human touch for weeks. And while I would never have identified that as a problem or something I was craving, it wasn't until after the fact that I realized how deeply that touch met a need that I hadn't even recognized that I had.

And I'm generally a pretty independent person, but I keep running up against tasks that require another human being to accomplish--simple things, from getting a signature on a form witnessed to cleaning my apartment and realizing that I have some furniture that I'd like to move, but that's complicated by the fact that I need another person to help carry it and that would require being allowed to be within 6 feet of another person--not recommended. I don't like to bother anyone at the best of times, and especially now when I know many of my friends are juggling parenting and teaching school lessons and keeping kids busy at home and working. So, the list of "I can'ts" grows longer.

I find myself moved to tears more than anything by any mention that there are people in my life who love me and care about me--because my world has been largely limited to my professional life and my quiet apartment, and the Netflix shows and podcasts that have been keeping me company in these last weeks simply aren't filling the void. It's just plain old getting lonely over here.

And the hardest part is, there's no really clear guidelines about when things might shift. Yes, restrictions here in Manitoba are starting to be lifted, and I'm so grateful. But there is still a lot of uncertainty about what the future holds, and what's okay and what's not.

I am a content single, and I love my life, my friends, my family, my work. And I really do empathize with the busyness that I know my friends who are juggling family and work responsibilities are experiencing right now. And I know that I will be okay, whatever the coming weeks hold.

But I'm also coming to understand how much I need other people, too--real, embodied people; people who know me and do life with me--a community to belong to--safe places where I can just be my authentic self--a healthy level of interdependency on others.

Healthy life lessons for me, things that I want to hold onto in life after the pandemic, whatever that looks like.

Grief, Interrupted

It is an unusual Easter this year for many of us. And in recognition of the fact that many of our normal Easter routines have been interrupted, I thought that I would share this sermon that I preached via live stream to my own congregation this morning. Sermons are really meant to be spoken, not read in print, but since this is a blog, written it shall be :) Christ is risen, friends. Even today. Christ is risen. Alleluia!

“Grief, Interrupted”

A Sermon Preached at Bethel Mennonite Church

Easter Sunday, April 12, 2020

Text: Luke 24: 1-12

Can I begin with a moment of personal honesty?

I struggled with writing the sermon for this morning’s worship service. This year, I have struggled to feel ready for joyful resurrection. The world is still too hard, the lurking danger of the pandemic that we are fighting still feels too real.

Before the sobering realities of COVID-19 really sunk in, I already had a good idea of the shape that I hoped these Holy Week services might take this year. As time has gone by, and our daily lives have shifted so dramatically, it has become very apparent that I would have to let go of these plans, these hopes, these dreams for what could have been. I would have to adjust my expectations, to know that I couldn’t look you in the eyes and see you looking back at me as I spoke these words, the way that I desperately wish I could.

All of which is to say that there was a very real grieving process that I had to go through in order to work my way back around to the good news of Easter.

I know I’m not alone in this. I know that many of you carry griefs of your own right now. Grief about family members who live in personal care homes or assisted living facilities where you can no longer visit them. Grief about family gatherings that won’t be able to happen this Easter, at least not in person. Grief about trips canceled, about jobs lost, about people you love who are sick, about deaths that have occurred for which funeral services or memorial services have had to be postponed or have looked dramatically different than you expected. Griefs about missing friends and classmates, and saying goodbyes in the midst of classes being moved home as schools have been closed. Reluctantly releasing hopes about how graduations and other life milestones might be celebrated. Profound loneliness. So much grief!

Grief that can feel oh, so heavy!

Grief that surely weighed upon the women early that Sunday morning as they set out at dawn to return to the tomb.  The same tomb where, just days ago, they had followed to see how his body was laid there. The tomb they had hurried home from in order to prepare the spices and ointments before the Sabbath started, before even this would have to wait until the appointed time of rest had finished.

Never has it struck me so clearly that the women left at the break of dawn that morning to go prepare a body. A real body, the body of a friend whose death they had witnessed with their own eyes, whose last words they had heard with their own ears. The body of a friend whom they had loved, and whom they dearly missed.

I wonder if part of the reason for their very early morning outing that day was that their collective sleep had not been good the night before, as grief can do to us. I wonder if they were glad for this concrete task, taking the spices and ointments to prepare the body, which at last gave them something familiar to do, as hard as it might be.

The good news of Easter doesn’t begin with loud hallelujahs, although that will certainly come. It begins at a tomb—a tomb in which a body had been laid, a tomb that by all accounts should still have held a body awaiting preparation for burial, a tomb which inexplicably lay empty.

Grief, interrupted.

The women swing from perplexed to terrified as two men in dazzling clothes appear at their sides from out of nowhere. Somehow, when I imagine myself among those women, I think that terrified is putting gently how I would have felt after the roller coaster of fear, grief, and confusion that culminated in this supernatural encounter on that first Easter Sunday. Really, there are no words!

They are already ducking and hiding their faces by the time these ‘men’ open their mouths to speak—and while I normally associate divine messengers with loud, booming proclamations--goodness, I hope they spoke the words gently, with voices filled with love and compassion! “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.”

And because the women had followed Jesus from Galilee, had been among those in his wider circle of disciples, had been listening intently to his teaching along the journey toward Jerusalem—they did remember what Jesus had told them.

So they pulled themselves together and regrouped. Which is something that I’ve hardly ever paid attention to in the past, but which I now imagine to be no small feat. There was no body to anoint. The thing that they thought they had set out to do, no longer needed doing. They had to figure out what to do with the unthinkably good, the unfathomably hopeful, with this interruption for which there were no instructions, no road map to follow, no prescribed next steps.

I imagine spilled spices lying discarded on the grass outside the tomb’s opening, a marker of the place where the encounter with God’s messengers that morning upended everything and sent them off on an entirely new mission.

When they return to tell the rest of the apostles of all that had happened at the tomb that morning, heart-wrenchingly, the men thought their words nothing more than an idle tale. It was only Peter who believed them enough to check things out for himself—and it was only when he saw the linen cloths, the remnants of the shroud, lying in the empty tomb that he truly believed.

Spilled spices and an abandoned linen shroud—perhaps these are the true markers of the first Easter. Signs of what is not, before there is yet any evidence of what is.

Resurrection begins with grief interrupted. And initially, that might look like puzzlement, fear, amazement, and cautious hope more than it does like overflowing, overwhelming joy and praise.

Because resurrection is disorientation, if ever there was such a thing! The body is missing—and bodies do not just go missing from tombs sealed shut with large stones. Bodies do not get up and leave because they’re tired of waiting for someone to come with the burial spices. Bodies do not stand up, carefully remove the shroud that has been wrapped around them, and carry on being, well, living bodies.

Except that it happened.

Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, Peter—they saw it with their own eyes. They heard it with their own ears. And they believed it in the depths of their very souls.

And because they did, because they dared to speak of the unspeakable, to share their idle tales even with those who would not believe—because they dared to allow grief to be transformed into audacious hope—so can we. So can I. So can you.

Today, on Easter morning, we stand looking in amazement at the spilled spices and the abandoned linen wrappings, and we are also invited to put our hope in the impossible.

We dare to proclaim it in the face of a news cycle that can feel impossibly heavy as we count presumptive positive cases and watch to see if the curve is indeed flattening; as we hear of the agony being experienced by those in areas where the death toll continues to climb exponentially; as we corporately speculate about how this will impact us in weeks and months and years to come—we dare to proclaim that in Jesus death does not have the last word, that the light shines in the darkness and that even now, the darkness has not overcome it.

And we pay attention to the things around us that might seem innocent enough at face value, but as we take a closer look seem to point to a higher truth. That aromatic dust was actually supposed to be the preparation for a burial that was not necessary. Those abandoned cloths littered thoughtlessly on the ground were in fact unwrapped from a corpse that is now eating and talking and whole among us.

While we gather for worship this morning via screens and phones from the safety of our own homes, staying apart for the sake of the common good, it is a profound act of love and care for our neighbours—an act of solidarity that is literally sustaining life in these days.

While I wish I could look each of you in the eyes this morning and wish you a happy Easter, in these last four weeks I have experienced so many examples of people reaching out in love by phone or email; I have seen Care Groups going to extraordinary lengths to support one another during these unusual times; I have witnessed people working hard to adapt our technology to allow us to continue to connect as much as possible as a church family until we can once again meet face to face; I have seen young adults step up to staff our food bank every other Monday, both meeting the needs of our neighbours and caring for people in higher risk demographics in our congregation by allowing them to stay home. All of these, and so many more, have been for me the spilled spices and abandoned linens that have served as powerful and tangible reminders to me that there’s another story at play here, one that is more powerful than the story that the world is offering me. A story of grief interrupted, a story of light and life and hope, a story of resurrection. Our story.

Friends, we are resurrection people.

I suspect that has never been a more powerful statement for us than it is this Easter, as we find ourselves nose-to-nose with the very reality of death in a way that my generation certainly has never before experienced.

We are resurrection people. And so, with some amazement, puzzlement, and even with some fear, we are called to embody Life even in the midst of death, in myriad different ways. We are called to be good news, even if it is scorned by some as idle tales. We are called to love with abandon, to spread hope as if it were contagious, to embrace the possibility of a good that is greater than any force in the world can offer.

We are resurrection people, now more than ever.

And so this morning, together we proclaim from all of the corners of the places where we are, the good news that we allow to shape our lives and change our paths; the good news that leads us to turn our eyes from the business of death to witness the miracle of capital-L life.

            Leader: Christ is Risen!

            All: He is Risen Indeed!  Alleluia!

            Leader: Christ is Risen!

            All: He is Risen Indeed! Alleluia!

Thanks be to God! Amen.

Ending the silence

News recently broke about Jean Vanier's sexual abuse of at least six women who came to him for spiritual direction.

I have no words for this yet. I've long admired his work and have spoken publicly about how his thinking about the nature of Christian community has been formational for me personally. To say that I'm deeply disappointed by this news really doesn't cut it, but I haven't yet found a better way to express the impact that these recent revelations have had on me. Like many others, I'm struggling to know how to hold onto deep admiration for the ongoing work of L'Arche, the community Vanier founded, and for his work as a theologian, while wholeheartedly stating that his actions toward these women were appalling.

This and a few other recent conversations have got me thinking about power dynamics in the Church, and about how they relate to my own experiences.

I cannot imagine the courage that it took for these women to speak out about the abuse they'd experienced at the hands of someone who was revered by so many.

Speaking out is hard, and many of us know all too well that speaking out doesn't always mean that we will be believed, that speaking out sometimes feels like it makes things worse, not better.

I thought about how power is used, and abused, in the Church. About how real the power afforded to clergy and others in church leadership is, and about how it can allow them to get away with much that should never be allowed.

I thought about the fact that I'm now a pastor, and about how much I want to believe that something like this could never happen in my congregation, on my watch. About how if someone ever came to me reporting misconduct, I hope I would believe them and act quickly and appropriately to help.

I thought about my own experiences, having grown up in and remained within the Church in one form or another throughout my life.

The truth is, I had no trouble quickly identifying three men in positions of power in the Church, in three different contexts in my life, who abused that power in different ways toward me in significant and intentional ways, in words and actions that hurt deeply.

Let me add quickly and firmly that none come from my current congregation or my current church context in any way.

And the truth is that I don't think I've ever spoken publicly about these situations before. I've shared the stories with close, trusted friends or family members, but even at the time when the #metoo conversation was at its height a few years ago, none of my experiences seemed "bad enough" to count.

Until a recent conversation made me realize that my silence on these things is not helping anyone, and that while I've told myself that none of these experiences was "really that bad," I'd be horrified if someone came to me and told me that one of these same experiences had happened to them. Until I realized that my silence might have allowed these individuals to continue to hold the power vested in them in a way that was at the expense of someone more vulnerable. Until I wondered about how prevalent experiences like mine really are.

All were wrong. None constituted sexual abuse, but all of them constituted a misuse of power to oppress or manipulate another person for their own gain.

That is not the way that I want my Church to operate.

But until we are willing to have hard conversations about how ministry leadership and power are connected--until we are ready to have hard and honest conversations about the fact that sometimes our very theology gives men a power over others that creates an environment conducive to such misuses of power and that makes it so hard for victims to bring such misuses of power to light, I fear that we aren't really getting to the heart of the issue.

I'm not sure yet how I want to speak about my own experiences, or to use my voice to advocate for changes that might make our congregations and faith communities safer and healthier for all people. I just know that I want to end my silence, in some small way--to take courage from the courage of others, to urge all of us to work for the safety of every person among us, to hope that I might in some way contribute to a safer Church for the little ones among us, to pray that they might grow up having a very different experience of church leaders than what some of mine has been.

I pray that someday stories like the news about Jean Vanier this week might be shocking to me, rather than disappointing.

Coming Home

Yesterday, the caregiving committee at our church hosted a session on "self-care for caregivers." The irony of the fact that I can tell others all about the importance of such a topic, while doing an abysmal job of practicing it myself, is not entirely lost on me.

At the break during the session, a congregation member asked me how I was doing at self-care these days. I had to admit that I could be doing better.

"Don't I remember you talking about how you have a chair?" he asked me.

Of course, I have multiple chairs--but I knew the one he was reminding me of. I have a particular chair, a comfortable one, where I only sit when I'm seeking out quiet time in God's presence.

It's been sitting vacant for longer than I care to admit right now.

I have struggled, to be honest, to find my own rhythm of staying spiritually connected with God and with my own deepest self, in the midst of learning the rhythms and demands of full-time ministry.

And at the same time, I've moved from one faith tradition rooted in a particular stream of Christian spirituality to another which has different gifts and finds its home in an entirely different stream of Christian spirituality. One which is rooted more firmly in an action-oriented, social justice stream of spirituality. It's a beautiful thing to witness--but it is simply not one of the streams of spirituality that I most naturally gravitate toward.

I've also come to realize that, for years spent trying to navigate a call to ministry in an often hostile environment, I learned to rely on the gift of God's inner voice to carry me through some pretty difficult seasons. I wonder now if God's voice wasn't exactly the gift that I needed for that season of my life--a grace given for the journey.

Now, I'm learning the beauty of hearing God's voice in the midst of the faith community in new and holy ways. But I do confess that I sometimes long for the clarity of encounter that I had so often experienced during those wilderness years.

Anyway, for a variety of reasons, I've struggled to give myself permission to find my way back to the practices and streams of Christian spirituality that restore my soul and that allow me to drink of the living water of God's presence, that nurture me and give me what I need in order to be able to offer the best of me to those I am called to walk alongside.

If I don't find a way to do that, as we were reminded yesterday, I'm not doing anyone else any favours by simply working harder and continuing to ignore my own self-care needs for sabbath and renewal.

So this morning I found my way back to my chair, without any easy answers but with a renewed sense of conviction that I need to find the patterns and practices that will allow me to serve as one "like a tree planted by streams of water, which bears its fruit in season" instead of as one who is trying desperately hard to manage of her own strength.

So thank you for the reminder. I've found my chair again, and today I showed up, and sometimes showing up is enough.

Christ Has Come. Christ is Coming. Christ Will Come Again.

A reflection for the first Sunday of Advent.

I have said it before, and it continues to hold true in my own experience, that more often than not it seems that the sermon that I preach is every bit as much a word from God that speaks into my own life as it is for the life of the congregation.

The process of sitting with Scripture and prayerfully considering how it wants to speak into the life of the church is a sacred one that I experience as holy space and as one of the parts of my vocation that I most look forward to because it's inevitably a space of encounter with God. And although I work very hard to separate my own needs from the needs of the congregation, still God seems to meet me in this place even as I hope that the sermon will also create a space that invites the congregation into a similar place of encounter.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent, and I had the opportunity to speak this morning at Bethel Place, the seniors' apartment complex adjacent to the church where I work. And the Gospel text for the first Sunday of Advent is a challenging one (Matthew 24:36-44), featuring Jesus speaking about the end of days that will come without warning, like the Great Flood or like a thief in the night.

It's not exactly the kind of warm fuzzy that you'd hope for as we enter into this season of expectation and anticipation, as we begin counting down the days until we can celebrate the birth of Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us.

But Advent is not only one extended baby shower. It also anticipates the time when Jesus will come again and all things will be restored to their intended goodness, when we will see justice fulfilled and experience true peace on earth.

And I don't know why it had never occurred to me before, because it seems obvious to me now, but as I was studying this week it struck me that Advent is also a season in which we remember that Jesus' coming continues even now--that the Son of Man continues to come at the times and in the places when we least expect it.

Maybe that explains why I've been feeling an undeniable sense of longing as I started listening to some of my favourite Christmas albums this afternoon for the first time this season.

There is just something about the promise of God-with-us, Emmanuel, that awakens a deep longing within me. I've been doing the best I can this fall, but it's not always been easy, and I've gotten stuck in a pattern of getting done what needs to be done without ever truly making space to nourish my own soul. It's easy to do, and I suspect that I'm not the only one who gets caught in this pattern.

And the story of a God who enters into the thick of it; who humbles themself to the messy process of human birth; who makes themself vulnerable as a baby boy dependent upon a young, first-time mother for his every need; who enters into the world in the least likely of places, in the glorious monotony of the everyday, is truly good news to me.

Because God has come, and God is still coming, and God will come again.

This is the good news of the Christian faith. It's good news that feeds my thirsty soul today--God is still coming. God is still in the habit of showing up in the least likely places. There has never, ever been a point at which God has abandoned the world that they created, that they love--and they won't start now.

It's good news that I can hold to tightly in the days ahead, good news that in this season invites me to simply be still and trust that God is still among us, good news that invites me to let go and breathe every once in a while, good news that for this moment I can rest from my doing and just be, good news that I belong to a story that is far bigger than me.

God has come. God is still coming. God will come again.

Thanks be to God!

You are Mine

But now, this is what the Lord says--

he who created you, Jacob,

he who formed you, Israel:

"Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

I have summoned you by name; you are mine.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.

When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned;

the flames will not set you ablaze."

(Isaiah 43:1-2)

I spent the day yesterday at a Leadership Day thinking and talking about baptism with other leaders and pastors in the Mennonite Church. On the whole, it was a good day. It was also a hard day for me.

Because the truth is that the practice of baptism in the Mennonite Church is very different than in the Mennonite Brethren Church. While to an outsider the two seem very similar, the reality is that each has its own distinct way of practicing baptism, and its own questions and challenges around the practice of baptism.

And I was unprepared for how much it would seem like immersion in a new culture to spend the day thinking and talking about a way of understanding and practicing baptism that's very new to me.

Immersion. What a funny choice of words.

Because I was baptized by immersion--I waded into the tank filled with water thoughtfully and lovingly prepared so that it would be comfortably warm by the time the baptisms occurred, affirmed my desire to follow Jesus, and was completely submerged beneath its surface--an imagery of dying to one way of life, and rising to a new one. 

It was deeply meaningful to me, and is a milestone in my faith journey that I cherish. I had the opportunity as a pastor to baptize a couple of people, too--and although it didn't happen often, those were moments I loved and have such special memories of.

Now, I belong to a church tradition where immersion is not the primary imagery associated with baptism. It has its own practice and theology around baptism, and it is beautiful in its own way. In no way am I saying otherwise. I am deeply appreciative for this place that has embraced me and welcomed me as one of its own.

But yesterday, I was overwhelmed with grief as I found myself realizing how much it hurts to feel rejected by the very church that offered me the initiation of baptism in the first place. Having to leave because the place where I found welcome no longer welcomed me is hard. Having the community that welcomed me to join them through the rite of baptism tell me that there was no longer a place for me still causes deep pain. 

It feels like a covenant that has been broken in some way, and once broken, it can never be the same.

And yet, today those words from Isaiah 43 came to mind as I continued to wrestle: "Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you..."

The truth is that nothing can undo the hurt--that damage has been done. 

But I also believe that God was with me when I passed through the waters of baptism--the same God who redeemed me, summoned me by name, and calls me God's own. I believe that same God is with me still, and was instrumental in leading me through a season that sometimes felt like walking through flames into a place that is good and spacious and inviting, a place I've come to love a great deal, a place whose practices will grow in me and add their own cherished memories and deep sense of meaning as I live with them and allow them to live with me. 

I wholeheartedly disagree with the recent meme that says, "If being hurt by the church causes you to lose faith in God, then your faith was in people not God." Sorry, church--this is a total cop out and we need to stop blaming the victim!

I saw another meme, though, that I think works much better. In it, the words "then your faith was in people not God" are crossed out with a big red "x." Instead, it reads: "If being hurt by the church causes you to lose faith, your hurt is valid. God sees you."

So, for all of you who know this particular kind of pain, let me say this: You are God's beloved child. With you, God is well pleased.

They were God's words to Jesus at his baptism. And they are God's words to you at yours as well. And nothing, absolutely nothing, can take that away.

You Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone

I have Joni Mitchell and "Big Yellow Taxi" to thank for the earworm that's running through my head right now: "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone."

Isn't it the truth, though?

Except that in my particular case, in this moment, it's sort of the opposite. I can recognize the gift of what I've been given precisely because it's been absent for so long leading up to this point.

If I hadn't come from the background that I do, if I hadn't come to ministry from this particular perspective, if I shared that call story that I've heard so very often from my male colleagues in ministry over the years ("I didn't want to go into ministry, but they tapped me on the shoulder and told me that I should be a pastor, and eventually I gave in to their encouragements"), I'm not sure that I would have such a distinct sense of the gift of this moment.

This Sunday, at the end of our worship service, I will be licensed toward ordination.

It's a process in the Mennonite Church with a title that doesn't exactly make one's heart beat faster in excitement and anticipation.

But it's such a tremendous gift for me.

And here's why:

It was nineteen years ago that I first sensed that God might be calling me to a leadership role within the church. Nineteen years. That is just barely less than half my lifetime at this point. I still remember the moment, the exact words I heard God speak, the disbelief of it all. I well remember the process of making sense of the moment that unfolded from there over a period of years, the ups and downs along the way.

But, as a woman in a church conference that is still struggling with the question of women in ministry leadership, for most of the past nineteen years I've had to do the lion's share of that processing and discernment on my own.

The age old wisdom of the church says that there are two aspects to discerning a call to ministry: the "inner call" that is sensed by the individual being called to ministry, and the "outer call" of the community of faith who together with that individual discern their gifts and characters and suitability for leadership in the church.

But, in a tradition where my gender made my suitability for ministry fundamentally questionable regardless of my story or the particulars of who I am, I have been left largely to my own devices to struggle with the inner call that I was discerning, and how to reconcile that with the mixed messages that I received from the larger church.

Even when I went through the ministry credentialing process in the past, the memory that rises up of that experience is of one of the men on the committee that interviewed me asking whether I might consider going into the world of academics. My sense is that had less to do with my story or my particular gifts, and more to do with the fact that the church has just never quite been sure what to do with me. It wasn't exactly overwhelming affirmation of what I understood of the kind of work that God was calling me to.

But now... this act of "licensing of a minister toward ordination" is my first taste of the truth of what I've always believed in my heart to be true, that I'd never fully feel like my discernment of God's leading would be complete without the church actively entering into this discernment process with me.

It's a process that was initiated by the church, not by me.

And the period of licensing is a period in which the congregation is invited to actively participate in the process of discerning my suitability for ongoing pastoral ministry along with me.

The church has never given me the gift of taking my sense of call to ministry seriously like this before. They are not brushing me off, or nudging me to consider other directions. They have already interviewed me, listened carefully to my story, taken my sense of call seriously, and offered accountability to me as a leader.

And the licensing on Sunday will signal once again that they are taking this discernment process seriously.

That is not something that I have the luxury of taking for granted. Because I know what it's like when it's gone, and so I have a profound sense of the gift of what I've got now that I probably would not have otherwise.

All of which is to say, there are many of you who have so faithfully been companions on this journey over the past nineteen years leading up to this moment, and many of you who continue to walk with me going forward. Who have encouraged, prayed, cried with me, held me while I cried, celebrated the milestones, listened to the struggles. Who have been my community and have carried me to this point. I'm so grateful for all of you.

And to the church family who are giving me the gift of their companionship in the journey in this season, I want you to know the value of the gift that you're giving, and the significance of this process that can seem like a formality or a series of hoops to be jumped through. It's not.

It's a passing milestone, in many ways, but in my heart it's the fulfillment of a longing nineteen years in the making. And I just wanted you all to know that.

Because sometimes if we just see what's on the surface, we can miss the gift that lies beneath.

And that would be a shame!

The Healing Power of Nightmares

Fun fact: In grade 12, I wrote a research essay on nightmares, as a follow-up to our reading of The Lord of the Flies in English class. My grade was 99%. I remember this vividly, because my class earned a stern lecture for our overall lacklustre performance on our research essays, resulting in me tearfully confessing to my mother later that evening that we'd not handed in work that lived up to our teacher's expectations of us. My mom had to explain to me that the teacher probably wasn't speaking to me so much as to some of my classmates.

I've always had a tender heart...

Regardless, nightmares. What I remember of that paper was that one theory on why people have nightmares is that bad dreams serve as a way for our subconscious minds to process hard feelings that might be too uncomfortable for us to process during our waking hours, and that they therefore have healing potential.

It was a grade 12 research essay in the days before the internet, in a small high school with an even smaller library upon which to base this research, so take that for what it's worth.

I had a nightmare this week-end.

All I recall is that in my dream some men from "the church" decided that I should be removed from my job immediately.

Even worse, they had exercised their power somehow in order to ensure that I would never be allowed to serve in a pastoral role again. Anywhere. Ever.

In my dream, it was awful, and I couldn't imagine what I should do next--but I wasn't shocked.

It has since served as a reminder to me that, however happy I am in my current pastoral role, however satisfying I find my work and however generous and warm my congregation, some wounds just take time to heal.

So, for all of you reading this who are healing, in whatever way:

May you be patient with the slow and steady work of healing. May you find companions for the journey who are aware of their own woundings, and who are not frightened by yours. May you find joy in the moment, which doesn't negate the hard stuff but which comes alongside it and coexists with it.

And may you find yourself held by Love, who sees your wounds and honours them with her oh, so tender touch.

Always and Forever

What do you do when your world falls apart?

There have been many times--too many--when I've had to wrestle with that question over the past several years. I've lost communities that were deeply part of my identity, dreams that I wasn't ready to give up, and relationships that were caught in the crossfire. 

And the pain is real.

Maybe that's why I connected with the story of John 21 so deeply this week-end while away on a retreat, with time and space to tend to my own spirit and my own relationship with God.

I've lived through the horrific events of Good Friday, seen death where it seemed unfathomable that it should be found, wondered how on earth to pick up and move on.

And, like the disciples, I've found myself back in my fishing boat, returning to what I know, more than once along the way--the magical lustre gone from the fishing, because we can never truly go back once we've walked in step with this man--returning to doing the only thing we know how to do, mechanically going through the motions. One foot in front of the other, step by painful step.

I also know Jesus well enough to recognize that even today, in the midst of the pain and the anguish of doubt and hard questions and numb disbelief, Jesus is given to showing up right in the very midst of the mess. Sometimes, as with the disciples, we don't realize who it is right away. Until, through the fog, we recognize a familiar shimmer, a certain aura, as if we're in the middle of a dream.

The One we thought was gone forever is not quite so fragile as we might want to believe.

In John 21, Peter is thrilled to see Jesus--throwing on some clothes, he dives into the water, in his haste to reach Jesus as soon as humanly possible. They eat breakfast, in what seems to be stunned awe and disbelief that Jesus, who had died, has appeared to them, broke bread for them, shared a meal with them.

After the meal, Jesus and Peter have an awkward little conversation. Jesus asks Peter three times, "Do you love me?" And Peter, the rock upon which Jesus has promised he will build his church, the one who denied Jesus three times just days earlier, responds, "Yes, Lord, you know that I love you." 

But in a little Greek twist that isn't at all obvious in most English translations, Jesus and Peter are using two different forms of the word 'love' in their conversation. Jesus asks Peter, "Do you agape me?" Agape, some scholars argue, is the highest form of sacrificial love among the Greek words that we translate as the English word love.

Peter, however, responds not in kind but rather with, "Yes, Lord, you know that I philia you"--I love you as a brother would is the implication.

Not quite the same thing, some scholars argue.

A second time, a very similar exchange takes place.

But the third time, Jesus changes the question to ask Peter, "Simon, son of John, do you philia me?" (This is all really poor Greek grammar here, but you get the point...)

Peter is hurt, but tries to assure Jesus: "Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you."

Some will argue that in this third repetition of the question, Jesus is willing to meet Peter where he's at.

Maybe that's true.

But it strikes me that Jesus follows this question immediately by telling Peter that "when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go." He says this, the passage tells us to make sure we catch Jesus' point, to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God.

A kind of death which sounds very much like agape love in action to me.

It's powerful to me that after Peter's denial of Jesus, through the fog of confusion and pain and uncertainty, Jesus gives Peter his calling back. "Feed my sheep."

To have your vocation restored when you thought for sure you had lost it truly is a gift beyond measure.

But more than that, I think that Jesus knew the bond of love that Peter shared with Jesus even before Peter himself understood it. The lengths that Peter would go with and for Jesus. What if Jesus knew all along that Peter already did agape love him? What if even when his language changed to that of philia love he knew that Peter's love would indeed go the distance, that Peter's love for Jesus would stay loyal to the very end, that Peter would indeed lay down his life for the sheep Jesus called him to feed?

What if Jesus' love is always so great that we don't have the capacity to hold it for ourselves, to give it adequate language, or to understand what we're feeling and where it will lead us?

And what if that doesn't bother Jesus. Maybe, as with Peter, Jesus is happy to hold the magnitude of that love, offering us little glimpses of what will continue to grow in us.

Maybe Jesus holds the love that we can't yet hold, the belovedness that we're not yet able to absorb. Maybe Jesus carries all of that for us, until bit by bit we're able to hold more and more of it for ourselves.

Maybe, as with Peter, all we need to do is what Jesus invited us to in the first place: "Follow me!"

So, what do you do when your world falls apart?

You slowly pick out a way forward, one step at a time--knowing only that you love this man, and that he loves you
even more.

You are loved. Always and forever loved.

Queer Eye and the Church

There is a new season of Queer Eye on Netflix. And this show, it just gets me in the feels every single time. It's so not about the makeover, friends. It's about the compassion and love shown in every last episode. It's about these five human beings who model humility, compassion, grace, dignity, and forgiveness. It's about their ability to be fully present to someone else's story, to see past all of the externals, and to shed light on the beautiful human being that has been right there all along.

I'm watching an episode this morning about a young, African American, lesbian woman whose religious adoptive parents kicked her out of the house when she came out. It is heartbreaking. She talks about how her whole life she has been told that she is not black enough, not white enough, not straight enough, not gay enough.

Meanwhile, it's been a rough week.

In large part, it's because of a few things that have come up this week that have brought to the surface for me the deep pain that comes from being told, overtly or subtly, that you are not enough. My church experience, the predominant message that I've heard from this church family that told me that they were here for me, that baptized me and welcomed me as one of their own, was that I'm not enough. Not male enough. Not married enough. Not gifted enough. Not humble enough. Too gifted. Too female. Too single. Too outspoken.

I have tried really hard to be gracious. But the truth is, it hurts.

Until eventually I had to walk away, into what felt like the wilderness.

And, as always, it turns out that God meets us so very often in the wilderness.

I am in a very good place now. A place of welcome. A place where the encouragement is freely and frequently offered. A place where nobody is telling me that who I am is not enough.

I'm grateful.

But you don't learn to love yourself in five days, as they say on Queer Eye. And this week, the "not enough"s keep rearing up their ugly little heads.

What strikes me is how deeply painful it is to be told that you're not enough, and how many people hear that message on a daily basis, for so very many different reasons.

And how often we try to hide, to push down those parts of us that we think, that we've been told are not enough.

And how that kind of masking doesn't address the deep pain that's also hiding deep down.

And how much genuine beauty and goodness is hiding out there in this big, beautiful world as a result.

Then, I see the Fab Five do what I pray that I will learn to do better, what I pray that our faith communities can learn to do better: just listen. Their ability to be present to pain and to create space for someone to share their story--all of their story--is inspiring to me. They have an incredible capacity to be present to pain, and not to try to shush it or pamper it away too quickly.

In the process, healing happens.

Beneath all of the labels that we apply to people, beneath all of the stereotypes and fears and boundaries that we erect, is the beautiful, glorious image of God in every created person. I believe this with all of my heart.

I also know how deeply wounding it is when people tell us that who we are is not enough.

And, to my friends in the Church, can I tell you that it's extra damaging when we are the voices telling someone that who God made them is not enough? That speaking as the body of Christ has tremendous power for good, but also for harm?

May we be people who listen deeply.

May we be people who have the capacity to hold the hard as well as the beautiful, and who don't try to quiet either one too quickly.

May we learn to apologize well when we need to, and to forgive when it's appropriate.

May we create space to celebrate difference, to see the beauty in the unexpected, to open ourselves with love.

May we be kind to ourselves, and kind to others.

And may we know that, in God's eyes, we are always, always enough.

You. Are. Enough.

A Body in Pain

Disclaimer: This post is pretty raw. It's my own story, and the "you" should be read as a plural "you" not necessarily directed toward any individual or particular community of people. It's a corporate "you" not meant to point fingers, purposely left generic. 

This is my story. Or at least, part of it. But I wonder if it's not the story of other injuries present in the midst of the body of Christ, longing for meaningful journeys toward reconciliation. And I wonder whether perhaps many of those journeys might begin with simply listening to one another's pain, without defensiveness or judgment. Shared pain, which can then be healed, because ultimately all of our health depends upon it. 

I don't know how to start this post, so I'm just going to say it: I want to talk about pain.

At least, now that I have named this topic, if that's not something you're up for reading about, you can click away to something more palatable right away.

As it is so often with pain, this is raw and it has the potential to get messy. Sorry about that. Sort of.

I want to start by saying this as clearly as possible: You have hurt me. More than you can know. More than you will probably ever understand.

You have spent years, with your words and your actions, convincing me that the person that God has created me to be is not acceptable within the body of Christ. You have made it clear that I am not good enough, that I'm too female or too single or too intelligent or too opinionated or too pushy or too emotional--that bodies such as mine are sure to lead men in the congregation into sin if they stand in the pulpit and speak the words that I've so carefully prepared and prayed over. You've made it clear that I make you uncomfortable, just by my very presence among you. You've made me believe that there is something wrong with me. That I don't quite belong.

And, more often than not, I've absorbed all of those things--the things you've said, the things that you've left unsaid, the glances, the careful theological statements designed to depersonalize the deeply personal. I've sat there, I've taken it, and I've tried to stuff it somewhere deep within, promising myself that I'd try harder to be something acceptable in your sight, so that I might belong in this body--because as painful as it is, it's more painful to imagine not belonging to the body at all. So, I stayed.

Then the time finally came when the pain was too great, and it was time to find a way to leave. To take my pain with me, and go, and hope that somewhere on the other side of the wilderness would be a place of welcome and belonging and community again--that God would see me faithfully through the wilderness journey, that God is present in the wilderness too, as Sarah Bessey has so beautifully put it.

And, thanks be to God, the wilderness was a sacred space of encounter with God in ways I would never have imagined, of belonging and healing and hope. And, on the other side, there was community and welcome and belonging that has been more than I ever believed that I could hope for.

But the pain that I've taken within myself all these many years still lingers.

And sometimes we cross paths again, because although most of the time now we dwell among different tribes, we're not so far apart as we might like to think.

And sometimes, I find myself in situations where you stand behind the pulpit, or hold out the bread and the cup, or speak a prayer of blessing.

And I let you do that, because I subscribe to the age-old wisdom: "Don't create a scene."

But as I do so, I take another bite of pain, swallow, and place it somewhere deep within me along with the rest. 

My body, bearing the cost, so that you won't feel the discomfort of a scene.

Is it right of me, I wonder, to hold all this pain within--not making the sort of scene that would make you own your part in all of this?

Because we are, after all, part of one Body, and if one part of the Body hurts, all is impacted, isn't it?

So, am I honouring you as part of the one Body by hiding the pain from your sight?

And can we ever truly be part of the one Body when the hand is oblivious to the ache in the knee? 

You might think the wound is gone, but it's not. I've just shielded you from its presence, because it's the right thing to do. Or so I've thought.

Is there a way to let the pain into the light, to make it known, so that real healing might take place? Is there a way to do that which will not merely result in more pain? 

Is there an alternative to this being a cross that I bear quietly, by myself, so as not to make anyone else unduly uncomfortable?

I hesitate to even voice it, but let me say--If I am to be healed, it cannot be my work alone. We are part of one Body, and just as the pain isn't really mine but ours, so the healing cannot be my work alone. I suspect it is also ours.

What does that mean? What does it mean to share the pain that I've made my own? What does it mean to shift the dynamics of power and privilege in meaningful ways? Will the cure be worse that the disease?

These are the things I wonder, as the pain surfaces once again. 

Soon it will recede. It usually does. At least for a while, it will lie dormant, until the next time it surfaces again.

Until, maybe one day, we can find that healing together.

Making Peace with the Pruning Shears

I am the Real Vine and my Father is the Farmer. He cuts off every branch

of me that doesn't bear grapes. And every branch that is grape-bearing 

he prunes back so it will bear even more.          

I have a beef with this particular passage of Scripture from the beginning verses of John 15, taken here from Eugene Peterson's paraphrase, The Message.

It leads me to imagine God as a flint-eyed gardener gleefully sharpening his cold steel pruning shears. Not exactly an image that gives me the warm fuzzies.

What ever happened to 'the Lord is my shepherd'? And why is it so hard to reconcile the image of the One who leads me beside still waters and restores my soul with the same God who is just waiting to prune the struggling bits off the vine? 

I'm sure this is harsh, but boy I don't like this metaphor for God. In my experience, being cut hurts, whether it's a slip of the knife while making supper, or the harsh reality of job cuts, or not making the cut for the team. 

Couldn't we all just put those scissors down and talk about this for a while? Or, I hear that playing music for plants and talking nicely to them can do absolute wonders... Maybe we could try that!

I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Pruned.

I've seen firsthand the effects of hands that were too eager to lay the axe to a program or ministry that they felt wasn't producing enough fruit, when perhaps there was still plenty of life left in it after all. And it didn't feel good at all.

But, on the other hand, I have been really struggling to manage my time and juggle priorities lately. I am desperately thirsty for more time for prayer, for reflection, for meaningful conversations with other people--all good and necessary and healthy components of pastoral ministry, and of life more broadly. And the only way that is going to happen is if something else can be trimmed--if the places that are taking up too much energy without producing good fruit can either be pruned or grafted onto another vine where they will be able to thrive.

So I find myself caught in the middle, gazing fearfully at God and his steel shears, wondering if I can trust that they will be wielded for my good and not to harm me--like a good surgeon can wield a scalpel for healing instead of harm--while at the same time starving for permission to take my own set of shears to my responsibilities in a way that I'm convinced will lead to better health not only for me, but in the long run also for everyone around me. (If only cleaning the bathroom or taking out the garbage could be the first thing cut from the list!)

It reminds me of the lengthy conversation I had with the oral surgeon at the consultation appointment prior to having my wisdom teeth removed. Having just enough medical knowledge to be dangerous, I engaged her in a detailed discussion about the pros and cons of anesthesia, leading ultimately to a discussion about anxiety medication as an option should I feel that would be helpful. (In my own defence, I just really like to have all the information before making a decision...)

Even as I sat in the chair and the oral surgeon talked aloud to herself about the correct dose of the anesthetic, I was nervous about the sedation process and its possible risks. And counting out loud backward from ten when I didn't feel tired in the least seemed like a foolish process--until one minute I was counting and the next I was wide awake in the recovery room, with no recollection whatsoever of how I got from one room to the next, or of what happened in the interim.

Which is to say--maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe there is a time for pruning, just as there is a time for gentle shepherding.

And maybe I, of all people, need to have more empathy for those who resist changes to the familiar patterns of doing things, even if I suspect that it's for the greater health in the long run.

Maybe I should know that it's hard to trust the One who wields the shears.

Until you take a closer look at the gardener, see those familiar eyes looking at you with such love, and realize that it's the Teacher, and he knows your name, as Mary Magdalene also found out so very long ago (John 20:15-16).