Ashes, ashes, we all fall down...

I found what I was frantically looking for - the two small packets of palm ashes purchased weeks ago for tomorrow's Ash Wednesday services. A pastor friend once shared a cautionary tale I've never forgotten: copier toner is not a safe substitute for ashes.

Not to worry. At least I've collected the basic supplies.

Over many years and in many settings I have had the privilege of applying ashen crosses to the foreheads of a wide range of folks -confirmation campers under the canopy of a redwood forest, an ecumenical collection of college students crowded into a university chapel, elderly shut-ins who needed no reminding that this life is beautiful, fragile and limited, infants who hadn't yet defied a parent, tasted strawberries, thrown a snowball.

I have at times been over-ambitious with the ash, dribbling a trail of soot onto eyelashes and noses. I have accidentally dislodged wigs and lifted up bangs crispy with hair gel to make way for the cross. I have traced giant ashen hearts onto pates bald from chemo and graced foreheads marred with acne. I have caught someone's eye and laughed at just the wrong/right moment, unleashing a ripple of the kind of giggles that are hard to stop on such a somber day, probably ruining it for some. I have been surprised by a tidal wave of love and grief and awe that snuck up on me, excusing myself until the floodgates could be closed. I have gone home too tired to wash the cross off my own forehead and awakened to its shadow with forty long days standing between me and the promised resurrection.

What will God do with us, in us, and through us in the next forty days?

What's that smell?

As a young girl, I dreaded being sent to the barn to do even the smallest task before school.  After just a few seconds, my long hair would reek of hog manure - a fragrant fact my classmates were quick to notice and ridicule. The smell of farm life clung to me all day.

In college, I spent a semester assembling and serving fast food at a popular chain restaurant. The long walk back to my apartment after my shift was never enough to separate me from the greasy aroma of hamburgers and fries - both delicious and repulsive.

I spent most of this busy day doing home visits and returned smelling like ... well.... like my parishioners! In the exchange of hugs and handshakes, communion and prayers, the smells of cologne and perfume and soap clung to me - along with the pain, grief, laughter, love and faith that were shared. (And, I confess, a very small slice of cherry pie.)

Peeling off my fragrant jacket, I am so grateful for the gift of relationship and for burdens and hope shared in our faith community.

What does love smell like for you?

Between the times

This morning I spent some time in our dark, chilly sanctuary packing up the many nativity sets used to celebrate the Christmas season. I don't have room to display them all at home, so I bring my collection over - even the tacky ones. Because the holiday came and went too quickly, I treasured Mary and Joseph as I wrapped them, their newborn, and an odd assortment of angels, magi and a stray plastic firefighter in wads of paper towel, newspaper and bubble wrap.

The twelve days of Christmas are drawing to a close while Epiphany waits in the wings, impatient for its moment to shine before Lent barrels in. I'd like to linger near the manger, wondering about God's preposterous arrival in human flesh, but- alas- the feeding trough with its loose board and fleecy swaddling cloths needs to be packed away. Trees, chrismons, candles, wreaths and glittery angel wings - everything goes. The poinsettias that still need to be delivered to homebound members seem disappointed to be kept waiting, their glory as short-lived as the star of Bethlehem now propped up in a corner.

Few folks see what happens behind the scenes - between the Sundays, between the seasons, between the manger and the cross. I'm guessing that most, like me, prefer decorating to un-decorating, prefer the manger to the crucifixion. But physically packing away one season and unwrapping the next helps me to reflect and rejoice, to mourn and lament, to prepare and anticipate.

Besides, it has never been possible to put Jesus in a box or tuck him away until we are ready to put him on display. His mission of love and justice continues through you and me in every season.

What do you do between the times to reflect and to prepare? And what's your solution for removing candle wax?

All is calm. Too bad.

For nearly nine years, we've kept an eye on a creative neighbor who had been forever embellishing his front yard in dramatic ways with unusual materials. Large, flat slabs of stone standing upright like thin grave markers. Narrow paths of rock and wood chips with pumpkin vines trailing into the street. Seasonal inflatables - the big, garish ones. Tall totem poles of pumpkins and piles of gourds accented by purple flowers. A dozen plaster pillars topped with silver Christmas trees glowing with eerie green light. 


Last fall he created a tremendous mountain of dirt, covered it with black tarp, put an enormous spider at the peak and peppered the whole thing with scarecrows and carved pumpkins. I anticipated his Christmas display with growing impatience and then disappointment. The scarecrows and past-their-prime pumpkins were buried under the snow but the trees and lights of his (un)usual holiday display never appeared. 

One week this summer, a “for sale” sign popped up amid the visual clutter. I expected to see a dozen more sale signs - perhaps a statement on our sagging economy, but the house was really for sale and sold quickly. The mountain of dirt and corresponding hole in the back yard remain untouched, but the artist has gone. 


Some folks are probably relieved - the house is curiously dark and quiet with not even a single blinking Christmas light.  But I miss that guy. Every neighborhood can use a quirky neighbor.  I'm thinking about applying for the job.   

Sick day ... or Advent?

I'm working from home while the one with a high fever takes a rare daytime nap on the couch. When my husband went off to his meeting this morning, I grumpily rearranged my schedule, called in favors and complained about drawing the short straw. Since then I've cuddled in front of the television, made and eaten the chicken noodle soup that didn't appeal to my patient, cleaned a toilet, canceled piano lessons and swept up the tumbleweed of dog hair I spotted from our perch on the couch. I've briefly considered rearranging the furniture to make way for a Christmas tree and read through the scripture lessons for Sunday hoping to get a head start on a sermon. Because unloading the dishwasher would be too noisy, I am pondering the quirky John the Baptist while my sick child snoozes on.

Guess it wasn't the short straw - this unexpected time of waiting and preparation. In the whirlwind that engulfs the holidays, I hope you too will surprised by moments of peace.

Taking Turns

I'm normally squeamish about posting my sermons, but since several folks asked, here's an excerpt from All Saints' Sunday. Thus concludes my little run of blogs on death and dying.

The congregation I serve is one of sixty congregations from our synod that partner with Lutheran churches in the Iringa area of Tanzania. Along with a few folks from Salem, I had the privilege of visiting our partners in the village of Magome in 2010 and hope to go again in the summer of 2012.

This weekend I attended a festival celebrating these life-giving global partnerships that included worship, workshops, and updates shared by two pastors visiting from Tanzania. One of the workshops highlighted some of the cultural differences between Americans and Tanzanians – helpful information to have when traveling to a part of the world that is very different from our own. It was led by Pastor Gaville, a pastor of the large Lutheran Cathedral in Iringa.

Pastor Gaville talked about why women and men sit separately in church, how villagers might respond to seeing a person with light skin for the first time, and why it’s important to close the door of a bathroom when the room is not occupied. We chuckled at some of our mutual missteps and misunderstandings.

But everyone in the room really laughed when Pastor Gaville talked about our very different understandings of time. Those who had visited Tanzania had likely experienced the difference between Tanzania time and American time. For example, 10 o’clock worship might actually begin more than an hour later.

Pastor Gaville looked at his watch and shook his head, “American time moves more quickly than Tanzania time,” he lamented. Although our friends in faraway places may have watches and cell phones, he explained, they refuse to let these gadgets control them.

When traveling by foot from one town to another for an appointment, Pastor Gaville said that he might leave his home fully intending to be on time. However, if he runs into friends or relatives on the way, it would be wrong to rush a conversation with them because of an appointment elsewhere. In Tanzania, a higher value is placed on relationships than punctuality - it is better to be late than rude to a friend or neighbor.

On the way to an appointment, intending to be on time, he explained that it would not be uncommon to be interrupted by a funeral procession. Slow-moving mourners carrying a casket could block the road for hours. It would be disrespectful to hurry them along or to rush past in order to be on time.

You've probably had this experience as well. As you make your way to home or work or an appointment, a slow-moving procession of cars making its way to the cemetery stops your progress. You wait as the hearse and the following cars pass, sometimes curious about the person who has died and the family and friends that trickle past. Sometimes, you wait, impatient to be on your way, inconvenienced by death.

In Tanzania, when your travels are interrupted by a funeral procession, Pastor Gaville told us that there was only one thing to do. You take your turn carrying the casket. Whether you knew the person or not, you share the burden of that death upon your shoulders, walking alongside the mourners as if they were your own family. You take your turn carrying the casket.

This is what we do this morning on All Saints’ Sunday as we remember those who have died this past year. We come alongside those who mourn and we help to carry the casket of those who have died because these saints are members of own family. We are fellow members of the body of Christ.

Some of you may remember LouCille Newcomb. She’d be the last to admit it but she was an extraordinary woman. At the beginning of January, we celebrated Lou’s life with a funeral here at Salem. The next day we traveled an hour away to Rush City where she was to be buried. I thought there might be a few friends and family from Rush City at the cemetery – folks who hadn’t been able to get down here for the funeral because of the snowy weather– but it was just LouCille’s two surviving children, a granddaughter, the funeral director and me. The funeral director backed the hearse as close as he could to the gravesite but there was still a lot of icy, uneven ground between the two. “Okay,” he said, pointing from the hearse to the open grave, “we just have to move the casket over there.” I looked around to see who he meant by “we,” thinking there must be a few strong cemetery workers behind me ready to help. Or even one strong cemetery worker. But by “we”, the funeral director meant the five of us. By “we”, he meant me. So I grabbed tight to a handle on that casket and helped to carry it and its precious contents to their final resting place.

I did this not because I was the pastor, not because LouCille was a close personal friend or relative, but I did it because it needed to be done – and because LouCille was a saint, a saint I was lucky to encounter on life’s road.

We slow down to give thanks for LouCille and an unbearably long list of others this morning -- the ones we knew well and the ones whose names are unfamiliar, those from this congregation and those whose names and memories you carry in your hearts.

Our text this morning from the Revelation to John indicates that, at the end of time, we will be gathered together with all the saints, those who have gone before us, those who stand next to us, those who have come after us, from every tribe and every nation. (I know now that our brothers and sisters from Tanzanian might be a little late.) Most of these saints gathered around the throne of the Lamb will be unknown to us. But they will all be known and precious to God.

Today we have an opportunity carry the casket of our saints. To bear one another’s grief as if it were our own. To laugh and to celebrate and to mourn. As we read the names of those who have died in the past year, we anticipate that great day when we will be reunited with them -- for just as surely as we are joined with Christ in death, we are joined with Christ in resurrection and new life. Thanks be to God!

I was here! (God was too.)

A new bridge is being constructed alongside the old one we travel daily - connecting us to work and school on the other side of the Mississippi River. For months the slow-moving, single lane of traffic has given us a good view of the construction being done both on and below the bridge.

Unfortunately, just as soon as the mammoth section of the new bridge was completed on the north end, the top third was covered with a giant swath of bright yellow graffiti. Someone was willing to risk life and limb, a misdemeanor and hefty fine to leave an impression on those headed toward downtown.

At the Bible camp where I worked years ago, the frames of the bunk beds were sanded down and repainted every fall. Over the course of each summer, campers would use whatever they could find to carve their names into the wood - letting the world know they had been there, had hiked those trails, worshiped at that campfire, slept in that bed. Our caretaker hated this chore, grumbling about the life of crime he imagined each child would no doubt lead. I secretly cherished each name and every story.

The desire to be noticed and known, to be remembered, to leave some kind of mark on this world is something we all share. It's one of the things we celebrate tomorrow on All Saints' Sunday. Memories, hymns, prayers, the small flame of a candle, a taste of bread and sip of wine - these things connect us to those who have gone before us, those who stand beside us, and those yet to come. A great cloud of witnesses, experiencing and sharing God's love and grace.

Though our names are not carved into the pews (I hope), we remember and honor one another's stories and give thanks to God for loving us from birth to death and beyond.

Who are you remembering this year?