Belonging, Even When We Don't Know It.

The gentleman in the wheelchair looked suspicious when he asked, "What church are you from?"  When I responded that SpiritCare was non-denominational, he pressed further.  "No," he replied, " I want to know what church."  I told him I was ordained United Church of Christ.  

   

He refused communion.  "You are not of the The Church," which not surprising, turned out to be his denomination.  "There is only one church and you are not part of is not it."  He wheeled away.  

  

As I looked around at those gathered in wheel chairs and gurneys, I became acutely aware that I have been walking into that crowded multi-purpose room, turning off "The Price is Right," and jauntily saying, "Good morning, everyone!"  for close to five years.  Many of those gathered that morning I have known since the first day I walk in.  I look around to see that both Francisco and  Estelle have begun their personal rituals of standing to take communion, no easy feat for either of them.  They both slowly come in on walkers and immediately sit down, but in the moment of communion, they courageously leave their chairs and stand.  I noticed that the two activity assistants were taking a few quiet moments to simply sit and listen to the pianist.  Gentle Leona, who is over 90, was dozing, but I knew she would not be happy if I passed by without waking her.  David was patiently sitting and waiting with his mother, as he does every day.  Virgil was raising his hand, letting me know he wanted to take communion, and the sooner the better. The room was full with believers of various faiths, of no faith, of lost faith.  Of found hope, and of lost hope.  Of acceptance and frustration.  The heroic and the disheveled. Of all that we humans are, and all that we are not.  That is indeed church, whether you are in a cathedral, a chapel, a skilled nursing community, or in the park.  Wherever people are gathered,  there the living Christ can be found, and fortunately for all of us, the living Christ is neither arrogant nor squeamish.          

 

   

Afterwards we began to sing our song of thanksgiving which was Amazing Grace.  I was surprised to see that the gentleman was back in the room.  This time, however, the dark scowl was replaced by a radiance.  He seemed to be transported by the music.  He looked happy.   Then, he was gone again, and everything seemed uncommonly quiet. I thought of those in the home who had passed and felt their gentle presence.      

But then, I heard the very much alive Charlie ask his regular question, "How do I look?"  I tell him that he is looking just great.  He really is looking better and better as he slowly is able to set some of his personal demons aside.  The activity assistants get up to tend to others once again.  I hear announcements over the intercom, and the ever moving elevators begins to whir.   I hear the tv in the lobby and the ringing telephones.  I am handed the song sheets that a volunteer had graciously gathered.  I repack my bag, and my month of amazing grace was officially underway.

  

Dear friends, let's love one another, because love is from God...

                                                                                                          1 John 4:7

  

Navigation

Most of the city streets on which I run are pretty flat, but at least once a week I try to run up a nearby hill.  It is only recently that I have been successful in running all the way to the top.  No, it is not a particularly high hill, and if you saw it, you would probably laugh and wonder what the big deal is.  However, in order for me to make it to the top without pausing, there is some strategy involved.  I need to be hydrated and properly fueled.  If I have eaten too much, lethargy will probably take over.    If I do not eat enough, my stamina will be short lived.  I also need to be at a point of my run where I am warmed up, but not at the end of the run when my energy is waning.   Yes, it is a balancing act.  

 

I ran up this hill a few days ago, and arrived at the top rather breathless.  As I waited for calmness to return, I thought how easy it would be to think of this hill as some sort of enemy that needed to be conquered.  Often, we do put our struggles in this category.  Illness, addiction, or other concerns are often viewed as something that, with enough effort, can be beaten, or at least gotten through and left behind forever.  Worse, we don't think of them at all, but rather we try to just run away, trying desperately to believe there is somewhere else to go.   

 

Yet, even when one hill is run, there is always another, and my need to learn balance is on going, just as most struggles are. Perhaps we should view these struggles in another light.  Let us learn to see them not as enemy territory, but as sacred ground where we can learn more about ourselves, and about God.  It is often in our struggles where we find a deeper focus and more intense prayer life.  

 

The first time I sung Fanny Crosby's hymn, "Jesus, Keep me Near the Cross," I found myself wondering why on earth would I ever sing that?  Yet, over the years, I have come to think of Fanny Crosby as one of my spiritual mothers.  When I sing of wanting to be kept near the cross, I am singing of my struggles, and of asking for the courage to not turn and run away from them, but to stay close.  If we do not stay close to our struggles, we can never be transformed by them.   And that is the grand lesson of the cross.  Just as Jesus was never left there, neither are we.    

 

Fanny Crosby was blinded at the age of six weeks, probably as a result of a quack doctor efforts.  It is reported that she wrote over 9,000 hymns and poems in her lifetime.  A friend of mine once told me that he learned to "see" music differently from a blind pianist.  I think that is what Fanny has done for me.  She has helped me to "see" some of my own blindness that happens when I try to run from that sacred ground of struggle.  I will never believe that we are called to suffer just for the sake of suffering, but so that we can learn to see, and thus live more fully into our sacred humanness.               

 

Blessings on your journey.  If you are struggling, please know you are not alone.   God is with you, and is always willing to give you some good traveling companions.   Come, let us go together.    We can even sing on the way.       

  

Jesus, keep me near the cross, 

there a precious fountain, 

free to all a healing stream, 

flows from Calvary's mountain.

                                       - Fanny Crosby 1869

The Truth About Wallpaper

My husband, bless his heart, has been removing the wallpaper in our bathroom.  Finally, after living in this house for well over a decade,  the tiny floral pattern got to us.  He finished most of the removal stage yesterday. The space is currently pretty much completely devoid of color, save a couple of towels.   We have both commented on how surprisingly stark the bathroom is at the moment.  This plain little bathroom has reminded me about how there is a certain amount of illusion in our homes.  We paint the walls, do some decorating, move in some rugs and some furniture, maybe get a cat or a dog.   Most of us really try to do our houses up right.  

However, the reality is, take away the "stuff" and most houses are really pretty simple.  If we are fortunate, we have walls, a roof, floors, plumbing, and electricity.  Yet rarely, as valuable as these are, do such conveniences make a home.  Nor does  comfort.   Not even new appliances.  No, only love can create a home.  What is true of our houses, is true of our lives.   Living in our skins, and living in our souls are not necessarily synonymous.  Just like going to church and living a life of faith are not either.  Love is what helps us to settle in.  Love is what allows us to experience the realness of God.  We can't understand God, no matter how hard we try.  We simply can't.  But, we can learn to live in love.  I don't think God asks much more of us than that - to give our lives over to the love already in us.

God is always here.  God is always.  God is.  God.  

 

Wallpaper, on the other hand, is not.  Although, it can be pretty stubborn.   

  

A case of contradictories, both of them true. 

There is a God. There is no God.

Where is the problem? I am quite sure that 

there is a God in the sense that I am sure 

my love is no illusion. I am quite sure 

there is no God, in the sense that I am sure 

there is nothing which resembles what 

I can conceive when I say that word.     

   

                                                   - Simone Weil (1909-1943)   

                                                       

   

God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them (1John 4:16).  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

Victory

I was  surprised to find a parking space in the small lot at the skilled nursing community this week.  I was even more surprised to discover that I did not have my song sheets with me.  However, I was not overly concerned, as I always keep a bag of spiral bound large print hymnals in my trunk for such musical emergencies.  As I pulled the bag out, I said a quiet prayer of thanks for the friend who gave me these few hymnals.  They do not have music, only the words, but I knew that the pianist who was joining me has a vast number of hymns memorized, and he is rather fearless about playing them.   I was confident that a good time would be had. 

  

This coming Sunday is Pentecost. I decided to not serve communion, but rather to give each person a blessing in celebration of the Spirit that calls us together.   The residents of this home are very frail, and many cannot take communion, but it is the rare person who is not moved by the offering of a blessing.   

   

Arnold surprised me by thanking me as I blessed him.  His is a voice that is seldom lifted, and I was glad to hear him.   After the service, I went back around to thank each person for joining us.  As I did so, the pianist then began to play, "Jesus Loves Me," and, out of habit, I began singing.  I paused by Arnold, and kept singing, not so much at him, but rather "with" him, as he really appeared to be engaged with the music.  Afterwards, he amazed me even more by lifting his fist, not in a combative way, but rather in  victory, and quietly exclaiming with tears in his eyes,  "Jesus loves me."       

 

As I have been thinking about that moment, the hymn "Victory in Jesus" keeps coming to mind.  It is a hymn not sung in the UCC churches that I know, probably because it sings of the blood.   Yet, I do serve people whose lives have been so difficult that they truly yearn to hear of the redeeming power of the blood.  I am reminded that Jesus did not just vaporize on the cross, he did indeed bleed.  We all do.  Let us remember that on Monday.  Maybe Memorial Day is not the best day to go shopping.         

  

Nonetheless, I will probably always find the redemptive power in the love rather than the blood, so I leave you with the beautiful second verse of this lively hymn.  My prayer for you is that you, too, know that you are loved with a Love that is beyond comprehension, a Love that is cheering you on because it has already won.  May everyone claim their  victory in love today.  Maybe then our wars can end, and all can find their way home.          

   

I heard about his healing, 

of his cleansing power revealing, 

how he made the lame to walk again 

and caused the blind to see; 

and then I cried, 

"Dear Jesus, 

come and heal my broken spirit,"

and somehow Jesus came 

and brought to me the victory.   

  

                                         - Eugene M. Bartlett, 1939       

Crossings

When people hear that I serve SpiritCare Ministry to Seniors, often the first assumption seems to be that I am a hospice chaplain.  Truthfully, I make too much noise to enter that exalted realm.  However, as I did yesterday, I sometimes sit at the the bedside of those whose physical bodies are in the last stages of wear. As I write this morning, I believe Anne probably has passed, but, of course, I have no crystal ball.  I do know that yesterday she had moved very close to that threshold.  I do not think God called her to back away, but to go ahead and cross.  

 

I began my ministry with SpiritCare four and a half years ago, and Anne was already living in skilled nursing when I arrived on the scene. She would sometimes come to worship (when she did, she would don a straw hat with colorful plastic flowers on the brim), but I usually visited her in her room.  In all this time, I really found out very little about her.   Last month when I arrived at the home, one of the long-time volunteers for the home told me that Anne was in hospice.  When I asked if she knew it, he replied that he was not sure.  When I broached the subject with Anne, she replied, "Well, that kind of makes sense.  I knew I was somewhere."       

  

Skilled nursing communities are noisy.  When I walked into Anne's room yesterday, her roommate's tv was on, but her roommate was not there.  I turned it off, but there was not much I could do about the construction noises coming from the work being done outside.  There were no family members present.   I thanked God for Anne's friendship, and I thanked God for carrying her safely.  I kissed her crepe paper thin forehead and stroked her fine grey hair.   Despite the noise, what I remember most was the silence.  The gentle silence that I often experience at the bedside ofsomeone passing.  A silence that one can take refuge in, and know that God has not forgotten.  Indeed, God is all there is. The real dilemma,however, is that not enough of us are.   

  

Last night I as I listened to Tierney Sutton sing "The Water Is Wide," I found myself reflecting on the day, and thinking, yes, the gulf is wide, but not impossible - as long as we have the courage to not turn back, but to keep moving with, and towards one another.  Last week, I watched Geraldine, her body swollen with illness and medication, fold her hands on her chest, lean her head back, and sing every hymn at the top of her frail voice.  When I served her communion, she took the wafer in her mouth, and then held my hand firmly  for several seconds.  I had the sense she was at the dock, just about to set sail.  On Tuesday, Charlie reached out to me with his arthritic hands. Lois, gave me her warm hug, though it takes her awhile to maneuver her body because of her stroke.  Stella, who I really thought was completely blind, joined the chorus of waves and good-byes as I prepared to leave after worship.  I am convinced she saw me from across the room.           

  

Our elders are our pioneers.  The only dependable map for their journey, and ours, is love.  I always try to remember that Jesus got into the boat.  He has never asked me to walk on water, but he always asks me to get in.  Yes, even when I can't readily see an oar.                  

The water is wide, I cannot get o'er 

Neither have I wings to fly, 

Give me a boat that can carry two, 

and both shall row, my love and I    

                                              - anonymous?  

   

He saw his disciples struggling. They were trying to row forward, but the wind was blowing against them. Very early in the morning, he came to them, walking on the lake...He got into the boat, and the wind settled down.  (Mark 6:48, 51)   

 

Blessings on the journey, Anne. Thank you.  I shall always remember your funny hat, and the fact that you always offered me a cup of coffee, even when there was never a coffee pot in sight.  Because of you, this morning I understand a little more about love.         

Ancient Blessing, Ever Anew

Morning in a New Land by Mary Oliver came to me this morning through the World Community for Christian Meditation.  While she writes of Adam, we could easily insert the name Jesus, or Christ, or the names of those who have passed, or those just being born.  Yes, even our own. 

Today is Holy Saturday. Easter season is close at hand. Let us rise early and sing.      

  

In trees still dripping night some nameless birds
Woke, shook out their arrowy wings, and sang,
Slowly, like finches sifting through a dream.
The pink sun fell, like glass, into the fields.
Two chestnuts, and a dapple gray,
Their shoulders wet with light, their dark hair streaming,
Climbed the hill. The last mist fell away,

And under the trees, beyond time’s brittle drift,
I stood like Adam in his lonely garden
On that first morning, shaken out of sleep,
Rubbing his eyes, listening, parting the leaves,
Like tissue on some vast, incredible gift.

Lightly

I find this poem very humbling.  I think of Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. I think of Lao Tzu sitting on a water buffalo.  I think perhaps there are no words for this, so I light candles and remember a dream I recently had about my father who passed more than a decade ago.  In the dream he is very, very old.  He smiles and tells me, "I think I can let go of this house now."  He seems so happy.  I am glad.   

 The Moment

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round. 

Margaret Atwood