Thank you very much.

At lunchtime today, I hoped to do a quick errand at a local bank but the line was long and slow moving. I should have connected the dots-- lunch hour... bank ... errand ... Monday -- and anticipated a long wait.  As I was reconsidering the errand, a bank employee noticed the delays, grabbed his clip board, and worked the line in a way I had to admire. He introduced himself to each person, checked to see if they had the right forms filled out correctly, switched flawlessly between English and Spanish as needed, thanked us by name for our patience, and pulled people out of line when he could complete the simpler transactions himself.

As I watched, I was reminded of a gentleman who works at the information desk of an area hospital. Arturo embodies hospitality - something so valuable in a setting where people are very often anxious, overwhelmed and disoriented.  He greets me like an old friend, thanks me profusely for visiting "our" guests, and makes me feel like I am the most important person to visit the hospital's most important patient. Overhearing him answer the phone and respond to questions, I realize, of course, it's not actually all about me. He has a real gift for greeting each person with genuine warmth and delight.

I learn something from these folks about how together we can create and sustain a faith community that welcomes, that notices and responds to needs, that celebrates and utilizes the gifts of all.

Do you have any Arturos in your life?

Say Cheese!

Our congregation is putting together a new picture directory. It's been fun to hang out downstairs talking to people as they arrive for their portraits. Some families or couples choose to be photographed in color-coordinated apparel.  One member rushed in from work and may not have taken off his coat for the camera. Others look far fancier than I've ever encountered them on a Sunday morning. Then in comes those who have lost or divorced a spouse since the last directory several years ago. Being photographed alone isn't something they ever imagined doing. For some members, it might be a first family photo. For others, it will likely be the last. There are even some folks I've never seen in church, yet for some reason they still value the connection. Perhaps one day I will learn why.

Though we sometimes think of church as a stable place where change comes slowly, where people and attitudes can be stuck in the past, I find that our community is a fluid one, with people and mission coming and going at a pace that is sometimes unsettling in a lifetime that seems all too fleeting.

I will treasure this directory - a snapshot of people who have planted seeds of ministry and faith, of those who will water and weed, of those who will reap the harvest and turn over the soil. And between the pictures I will remember with gratitude those who are missing -  the ones who have died and those who have, I hope, found other communities in which to thrive. With anticipation I will also imagine those who are yet to come, praying that this community's heart is big enough to welcome, embrace, equip, and send back into the world everyone God sends our way.

The wind blows where it will...

I am thinking about Nicodemus for Sunday's sermon as I read about the aftermath of the earthquake and tsunami in Japan and the resulting crises with the affected nuclear power plants. Nicodemus, a prominent Pharisee, approached Jesus at night with his curiosity and questions. As part of his response, Jesus talks about the untamed gift of the Spirit: "The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." (John 3:8)

Worrying about which way the wind blows has taken on new urgency as we consider the possible effects of radiation that cannot be fully contained. People are urged to move many miles away from the damaged plants - perhaps leaving behind hope of finding missing loved ones from within the rubble. I watch and wonder about those brave people who--when others are wisely moving away--they instead move in, risking their own health and even their own lives to rescue, recover and repair.

Many years ago, I visited the nuclear power plant about an hour from our home - a mandatory field trip for middle schoolers. I remember being awed in the fullest sense of the word - filled with wonder, curiosity, unanswerable questions and fear. That combination of wonder and fear led to some restless nights, then and now, about what the future holds in the wake of natural disasters, economic uncertainties, and serious tensions locally and around the world. I pray that the Spirit blows where it will, carrying with it compassion, generosity, wisdom, and courage.

We don't know what the future holds but we know who holds the future - a God who loves and redeems us. Jesus offers Nicodemus - and us- this promise: "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him." While clinging to the hope given to us in Christ, we do what we can to love and serve our neighbor in difficult times and in all times - however the wind may blow.

Lenten surprise

During our Lenten service this evening, I spent the majority of the service sitting with my family - something I am rarely able to do.  Though my kids may no longer acknowledge me at school or welcome my sense of humor and they often discourage my substitution of lyrics to popular songs or any hint of dancing - they got as close as they could, crawling under my arm, sharing the service book, singing together. The smell of my daughter's clean hair and the sound of my teenage son's changing voice stole my attention from the service. It was an unexpected gift of peace in the midst of chaotic and frightening news from Japan and elsewhere.  In this first week of Lent, I hope you are finding people and places of peace and new life. I'd love to hear about them.

Joyful Generosity

Today I had the privilege of leading a group of family and friends as they celebrated the life of a loved one who passed away recently.

What I loved most about this man's story was what he grew into. His own father was a hard man who struggled with alcoholism and showed little affection for his family. As a father of five himself, his children described him as "stern" when they were growing up.  But, oh, he learned to love!

One grandchild, now an adult, treasures the tape of bedtime stories his grandfather recorded for him years ago. What a gift to be able to, even now, hear his grandpa telling him how much he is loved and valued.  The deceased developed many friendships over the years and treasured each one.  More than that, he actually told them "Thank you so much for your friendship" each time they'd meet. Despite a challenging start in life, he grew into a joyful and generous and grateful giver. His legacy is one of tremendous love and hospitality.

"Where'd he learn to love like that?" I asked his wife.  "I trained him," she said simply as her children all nodded.

Where did you learn to love and to give?

Ashes to Ashes

There's something profound about Ash Wednesday.  Maybe it's making the sign of the cross upon the heads of those who have struggled with serious illness and won or those who have somehow summoned the courage to come to worship after a long absence. Marking with ash the smooth skin of a toddler whose head was anointed with an oily cross just months ago or being startled by the glaring marks on the foreheads of my own children.  The community that forms on Wednesday evenings is more porous than a usual Sunday morning - more visitors, old friends, folks testing the waters after loss or disappointment, early and later service folks together, neighbors who stop by, regular worshipers sitting in unexpected places. I love serving these folks, whatever shape they take, and look forward to our Wednesday evenings together.

Lent Eve

At our house, there's always pressure on the eve of Lent to decide on some kind of discipline to carry us through the season. Each year, my hope is that the discipline will turn into a habit and the habit will lead to welcome or needed transformation. Normally, I fail miserably. This year, my husband, who excels at disciplines of all sorts, intends to give up aspartame. Yesterday he came home loaded down with Diet Coke - he is good at snagging the aspartame-laden beverages while they are on sale and is apparently better able to withstand temptation than his spouse. Once he gave up nuts for Lent and - I'm not kidding - lost 30 pounds. Sigh. I don't even care about almonds until I'm trying to avoid them.

For me, this winter has been a long season heavy and holy with death and dying. As we turn toward Lent and the cross, my plan is to be on the lookout for signs of life and hope even in the midst of death. In addition, my daughter and I signed up to run in a 2K race at the end of April and a 5K race in May. This forces us to get outside and move. Even if it still means moving through the snow that just keeps coming. Even if it means more walking than running at first. Even if it means wet socks and a muddy dog as we plow through the puddles. 

Looking forward to what we might discover.

New This Morning

Because the congregation I serve is about to launch its new website, some have asked whether sermons or videos of our services could be posted on the site. Although this makes perfectly good sense and is commonly done, I quake and balk and drag my feet. It is one thing to stand before a gathering of folks that I have come to mostly know and deeply love and proclaim something to them on God's behalf within the context of worship. It seems like something else entirely to have those words or images available to ... whomever. whenever.

So while I wrestle with questions about the website, I thought I would challenge myself to explore something else during the season of Lent - an occasional blog. My hope would be to raise questions, to reflect on how faith, relationships and ordinary life are intertwined, and to point out how God is at work in and through the faithful people and lively ministries of Salem Lutheran Church.

"New every morning" is from Lamentations 3:22-24 - one of my favorite passages from scripture:

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul,
'therefore I will hope in him.’