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.