On Sunday morning, I visited the second-grade classroom to say hello. The kids will soon be receiving new Bibles and had been practicing finding the book, chapter and verses of several passages.

The kids opened their stiff, colorful bibles and poked around to find Psalm 12:1-2. Once everyone had a finger on the verses, they began to read them out loud in unison.

    Help, O LORD, for there is no longer anyone who is godly;
    the faithful have disappeared from humankind.
    They utter lies to each other;
    with flattering lips and a double heart they speak.

“Yikes,” I said. Although that assessment seems timely with a ring of truth, it is an unlikely choice for second graders. Their teacher checked her notes to discover what was missing – Psalm 121 not Psalm 12!

The kids dove in again, flipping ahead to read the correct passage out loud. The whole psalm is one worth remembering and returning to again and again. As an unwanted war rages in faraway places, this psalm offers the comfort of a loving God who never strays from our side.

    I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come?
    My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
    He will not let your foot be moved; 

    he who keeps you will not slumber.
    He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.
    The LORD is your keeper; 

    the LORD is your shade at your right hand.
    The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.
    The LORD will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.
    The LORD will keep your going out and your coming in
    from this time on and forevermore.


God of all people and all places,
I don’t understand everything going in in the world. You do.
The world feels less safe and more broken than yesterday. You know.
My heart and head are weary. You listen.
Uncertainty grips me. You are steadfast.
War scares me. You pursue peace.
My faith falters. Your love is unwavering.
My prayers and actions seem feeble.
You gather them with the prayers and actions of others 

to change the world.
Please be with the people and leaders of Ukraine. You are there.
Help me to work for the world I long for. You promise.
Amen. You answer.

Whom do we call?

Some of the challenges of the neighborhood around our church are lived out loud for all to see - homelessness, human trafficking, opioid use - sometimes in deadly combination.

One Sunday afternoon, right before an organ concert, a person unknown to us entered the building and curled up on the landing to the office at the top of the stairs, barely responsive.

You couldn't get into the office without stepping over them.
You couldn't get to the concert without witnessing them.

Drug overdose? Intoxicated? Diabetic? Other medical emergency? Dangerous? Harmless? 

So often, driving away or crossing the street or avoiding a neighborhood is the first option. The need is complex and overwhelming. 

Not that day. This person literally blocks my path. 

What do we do? Call 911? Would that make things better or worse? If not, whom?

In the aftermath of the death of George Floyd, as our conversation has turned to public safety including the appropriate use and heavy-handed misuse of the police, I keep thinking about this single unexpected, unavoidable guest.

What would you do? We have routinely turned to our emergency responders as a one-size-fits-all solution, yet we know that policing is not applied equally to all. With tragic consequences.

Fortunately, we know people who know people. Organizations in our community like Street Angels, Inc., Inner Beauty and Sisters South respond with compassion to people who are pushed to the edges of our society and then often pushed over the edge when they can't get it together fast enough or well enough or often enough. Whenever possible, basic needs are met, connections are made, resources are found. They offer hope and, in some situations, would be a wise first call.

Within the unsettledness of this time, there are opportunities to participate in hard conversations about who we are called to be as the church, as communities, as a country, as neighbors, as human beings. The issues we face are complex and the solutions are not simple.

It's far easier to walk away or change the topic or point fingers or put down the mirror we've been forced to gaze into. Reshaping a future that is good for all begins with examining ourselves - listening, learning, confessing, growing, pruning, falling, getting up, lamenting, demanding, praying, forgiving, loving. 

Let's not turn away.

Holy God,

We call upon you. We need your help.

Help us to see our neighbor as your own beloved,
created in your image, worthy of love and compassion.

Help us to see ourselves as your own beloved,
created in your image, worthy of love and compassion.

You call upon us. You equip and send us. 

Give us courage and strength for the hard, holy work ahead.

Amen.

God's Big Love

All of the lessons in yesterday's worship service pointed to the enormity of God's love - for all nations and all people. This sounds amazing, right? However, when Jesus suggested that God's love is extended to outsiders, to foreigners, misfits and actual sinners, even his hometown crowd became enraged enough to throw him off a cliff. It's hard for us to wrap our minds around a love that big.

During the children's time, worshipers were invited to think of someone who is especially difficult to love and to write the name down on a piece of paper. I had two slips of paper, so I wrote down two names. Sadly, I think if I had more paper, I could have filled them all.

Could we imagine God's love enveloping the hard-to-love in our own lives?

Later in the service, as people came forward for communion, they placed the names in a basket right before the body of Christ was placed in their hands. It wasn't intended as an exchange, but it felt like one - it's impossible to put a wafer into a hand that's clinging to something else. As I stood there proclaiming, "This is the body of Christ, given for you," I could feel those two names burning a hole in my alb pocket. I couldn't wait to add them to the basket. After the meal, we prayed for those people who have hurt us, disappointed us, betrayed us, enraged us, frightened us. We prayed for our own hard and broken hearts and gave thanks for God's enormous one.

This morning, I peeked at a few of those slips of paper before deciding what to do with them. I was not surprised to find the names of politicians, troublesome co-workers, pesky neighbors. I was heartbroken to see how many slips of paper hit much, much closer to home:

"Dad"
"Mother-in-law"
"My brothers"
"Me"

Loving others can be so hard. In the midst of all that is broken in our world and in our own lives, we pray for God's embrace of the unlovable, the unforgivable, the outsider, the broken and the broken-hearted, you and me.

What did she do?

I spent this week with a diverse group of children and high school youth, mostly from St. Paul. The high school youth did a wonderful job serving as counselors for our day camp - leading small groups of children through each day's activities, joining them in silly songs and games, and coming alongside them in afternoon service projects and fun.

This morning, I called the parents of the counselors to thank them and to share something I appreciated about their kids. I am new to the church and was coordinating the program for the first time, so I do not know the kids or the families well. But after a week together, I knew just enough about each young person to make the calls.  

Right away, I hit a snag. When I called the parent contact of the first young woman on my list, the person who answered was not her mother. After some conversation, I realized she was something like the mother of all children - so I asked, "Do you know her mom's name? Do you have her number?" 

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "What did she do?"

I explained that nothing was wrong. That this young woman had worked really hard and had done a great job. That I was so happy to work with her and hoped she would apply again next year.

Silence. 

Then I heard a squeal of joy on the other end of the phone, "You have got to call her momma. Her momma needs to hear this." After much scrambling, she found the number I needed and was about to hang up when I said, "Wait. Before I call her, I need to tell you about your two girls."

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "What did they do?"

"Well, both of your daughters are already extraordinary leaders. They see what needs to be done and they do it without being asked. They have great ideas and they are fun to have around. If I needed to get a job done, I would ask them."  I laid the truth on pretty thick which resulted in a lot more squealing on the other end of the line. 

After a dozen calls, I was able to reach all but a few of the parents. There was a great deal of squealing on the other end, but especially from those who were always anticipating bad news and were overjoyed to hear the good.

Changes

The transitions in our upcoming move are both predictable and unexpected.

My husband's gone off to a new job in a distant city. I've stayed temporarily with a house to sell, work to complete, a teenager to shuttle and a nearby college student.

Today I'm finishing off a second three-pound jar of chunky peanut butter. Now that I'm the only one in the house who doesn't like the smooth stuff, I know full well that I alone consumed nearly six pounds of peanut butter. 

Gross. 

Cheers!

When my dad was dying, he missed going to church, even though it was dreadful to be told how awful he looked by well-meaning fellow church-goers.

My farmer dad had always cleaned up nicely and in record time, whistling through his bathroom routine, hair grooming and wardrobe selection. He could go from kicking off his dirty boots by the back steps to backing out of the garage in less than ten minutes - from manure to aftershave. That summer he went from dapper to dying, also in record time.

His few remaining Sundays passed far too quickly. Unfortunately, he felt as awful as he looked which made attending worship unworkable. Between pastors at their beloved church, no one came calling on Mom and Dad, which made dying lonelier than it might have been.

"Mom, I could give Dad communion," I offered, not sure I actually could. Or should. I didn't have my home communion kit with me that trip, but we could improvise.

Two of my aunts stopped by that day - my mom's sisters, both nurses. Uncle Steve, too, nursing his own chronic aches and pains. A sacramental party quickly began to take shape. Mom pulled out the good wine glasses, once reserved for extended family gatherings at the dining room table, and filled them with wine and juice -- not just a sip, but all the way. My daughter fished hotdog buns from the freezer and left them on a plate to defrost. In lieu of a stole, Mom draped an embroidered table runner around my shoulders. My aunt plucked out almost-familiar hymn tunes on my lap harp. I solemnly offered the pastor-y part, impossible to separate from the daughter-whose-dad-is-dying part. Once everyone had received the body and blood of Christ, we clinked our still-full glasses, nibbled at the remaining hot dog buns, prayed and sang robustly and we laughed until we cried, celebrating life and cursing cancer. While our hearts were breaking, God was picking up the pieces and putting them back together again. And again.

My dad loved seeing us laugh.

There had been and would be time for weeping. But as we shared that holy meal, we laughed, loosening death's fearful grip on us. Bread and wine, life and death, song and curse, laughing and weeping, mourning and dancing. Yes. To all of it. Yes.

Here, kitty, kitty!

This is an excerpt from a sermon I wrote for a pet blessing service after my dear dad died three summers ago. 

Growing up on a busy cattle farm, animals fell into several different categories. There were animals we raised to make a living and for food – cattle and pigs. There were the animals we loved – the cats and dogs. And the ones that were a nuisance – the mice in the walls of our old farm house, raccoons that ate the sweet corn before it ripened, the moles that created lumpy paths through my mom’s garden, coyotes that howled at night, an unwelcome romantic tomcat wandering through, and for a short time a horse named Ginger that would intentionally saunter under the apple tree to casually knock off anyone brave enough to hop onto her saddle.

Today we remember and bless the animals we love. Each year on the farm, it was fun to discover and tame the litters of kittens that were born– some in the barn, some in the shed, once in a bucket of nails in my dad’s shop. Farm life could get boring and lonely and those cats provided us with hours of fun and companionship. As my own children and their cousins have grown, they have also enjoyed finding, taming and naming each one. They never met a kitten they couldn’t love. Though there were often several that looked so alike I had trouble telling them apart, the kids knew without a doubt which one was Mittens and which one was Scruffy, which one was Midnight and which one was Hombre. 

There weren’t many kittens this year at the farm and some were too wild to catch. And it also appears the gene pool has been totally depleted. Every single kitten was gray. No pretty calico kitties, no sleek black ones, no classic brown striped cats. They were all gray. 

In June, as my dad was growing sicker and the doctors narrowed down a diagnosis for him, there was one friendly gray kitten abandoned near the house. It hid in the downspout by the garage. He ran along the length of the porch and tried to get in the house whenever the door opened. My nieces made a special concoction of yogurt and milk that its small tummy could tolerate and they were determined to keep that kitten alive. About the same time, up in the barn was another gray kitten whose mother went missing. This one had long, fluffy hair and was so frightened, he hid behind whatever he could find and had to be coaxed out. My nieces brought both kittens down to dad’s shop, found a litter box they vowed to empty every day, and promised it would only be for a little while until they were big enough to fend for themselves outside with the rest of the cats. 

My dad had good days and bad days, nearly all of them filled with naseau and pain. Those two kittens became his companions. Very early one morning, I went down to have coffee with him in his shop and found one kitten playing with the pencils on his desk in the office while the other one hid behind a file cabinet. “I was never going to have cats in my shop,” he lamented. “Never.” 

On the farm, pets belonged outside – not in the house, not in dad’s shop. But here were these two kittens, wrestling at his feet. The more aggressive kitten pounced on the other and they rolled across the floor and dad laughed at their antics. “Is this on your list of things that don’t matter anymore?” I asked him. He was dying. “Yes it is,” he said as he coaxed the fluffy kitten out from behind the cabinet and onto his lap. 

As the summer progressed, they hid in the drawers of his work bench, jumping out to surprise him. They stretched out onto his lap while he did his breathing treatments and poked their heads into his coffee cup. On the days that nausea won and he didn’t want any company, he could still tolerate those kittens. 

One hot afternoon, I stopped down to check on him and one kitten was sprawled on his lap, chewing on his shirt. “Look,” Dad said, “He thinks I’m his mother.” This became a weird, wonderful pattern – dad would sit in his usual spot to use the nebulizer or drink his coffee and the cat would hop out from one of his drawers to chew on his shirt. The dog, Kate, never straying too far from her place by dad’s feet.

An old dog and two playful kittens. This probably was not exactly what the psalmist had in mind when he said that God places all things under our feet. A dog and two kittens – this also wasn’t exactly the medicine the doctors prescribed when dad decided not to seek treatment for his cancer. But they were as effective as any comfort measures the doctor recommended. 

Today as we talk about blessing animals, we also share our stories about how God can use animals and all of creation to bless us. Regardless of your relationships with these creatures - and I plan to keep my distance from that lizard over there - I hope that we can all find a place in our hearts to recognize and celebrate the blessings that pets can bring into our lives and the lives of those around us. We give thanks to God for all the ways that love, companionship, and grace enter into our lives. 

Psalm 8:3-9

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars that you have established;
what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them?

Yet you have made them a little lower than God,
and crowned them with glory and honor.
You have given them dominion over the works of your hands;
you have put all things under their feet,
all sheep and oxen, and also the beasts of the field,
the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea,
whatever passes along the paths of the seas.

O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!