Second Congregational Church

Lessons along the way

Wednesday, April 25, 2012–This past Sunday, April 22, was the 33^rd anniversary of my ordination. I was ordained at Emmanuel Congregational Church, UCC, in Massena, NY, where I was serving as Director of Christian Education at the time. I was 27 years old. When I look at the pictures from that day, I can hardly believe why they would have ordained someone who looked like she could have been in the Youth Group! So young!

I hope that somewhere along in those 33 years I have modeled or written or spoken something worth saying or doing, but I know that the people and communities with whom I’ve served have taught and given me infinitely more. Like the Roman Catholic nuns and sisters in Christ in Massena, who rejoiced in my ordination and taught me what it means to stand on behalf of others. Or Msgr. Floyd Brown, also in Massena, who, when I was almost due to give birth to Meredith, prayed over me the prayer to St. Gerard, the patron saint of laboring mothers. And of course the people of Emmanuel Congregational Church, who, though I was fresh out of seminary and full of feminist theology and opinions about what ministry was about, supported me in my quest for ordination. They graciously listened to my early sermons and forgave me.

The first churches I served as pastor were the United Methodist Church of Waddington, NY and the Congregational Church of Louisville, NY, about 13 miles apart along Route 37. I stood in the pulpit, but they were the real ministers, teaching me along the way what it meant to love and care for each other in a small community where there was no escape from one another’s foibles, quirks, annoying habits, and blessings.

Meredith’s birth was greeted and anticipated and celebrated by no less than 5 different church communities which Bruce and I served between us during the 5 years we lived outside of Massena, and she was even given a Mohawk name (as was Alex later on) by the grandmother of the tribe on the Akwesasne reservation. What a lesson in "family"!

Our children had their first friends and school experiences in Oswego, NY, where Bruce served Trinity United Methodist Church. It was there that I learned what it meant to be a mom– truly one of my deepest learnings!–as well as what it meant to be a mom who also works outside the home. As I supplied churches parttime, as well as a stint as campus minister at SUNY Oswego, I learned how invaluable quality childcare is and what a ministry little ones can have with elders and college students alike.

It wasn’t until I went to Fairmount Community Church in Syracuse that I remotely felt like I had any idea of what I was doing, but I had infinitely more to learn from PV George, the senior pastor there, and the good people of that congregation about what it means to be in ministry. PV was a man of such deep faith and years of experience, and it has really only been years later, serving on my own, that I’ve come to fully appreciate his wisdom and witness. Syracuse was also a classroom in urban ministry, with its particular challenges and possibilities. Some of the most compelling and life-changing experiences there involved the resettlement of refugee families–from Cambodia, Iraq, and the Balkans. I shall be ever grateful to the folks of FCC who affirmed my ministry and shared their lives with me.

And now I am well into my 17^th year at Second Congregational Church, with some of the best teachers I could ever hope for. Reflection on lessons learned here should probably wait for another time, but suffice it to say it is a humbling, wonderful, ever-growing privilege to serve here.

33 years. As Dag Hammersjold wrote, "For all that has been, thanks. For all that will be, yes."

"The Second Scripture" --Psalm 8, Luke 24:36-48 --April 22, 2012

Here we are on the Third Sunday of Easter, and the disciples are still startled and terrified every time Jesus shows up. We probably are too. "They thought they were seeing a ghost," Luke tells us, but Jesus says, again, "Peace be with you," and offers his hands and feet for them to touch. This time, though, he asks if they’ve got anything to eat. They offer him a piece of broiled fish, and you can imagine them holding their breath as he chews and swallows it. They watch to see whether, in a kind of first century-post-resurrection upper GI scan, they will be able to see the fish traveling down his esophagus and into his stomach. Apparently they didn’t.

I remember a Syrian Orthodox priest telling a group of us who had come to visit the church where he served, "The one thing that is absolutely essential to believe is the resurrection of the body." I was a little surprised and, I’ll admit, a little skeptical to hear him pin all of the Christian faith on the "resurrection of the body." You mean, if, by chance or by intention, somehow we found a skeleton that could be dated to somewhere around 33 A.D. (Or the Common Era), with holes in its wrists and ankles, and maybe even the name "Jeshua" carved nearby, that the whole basis of the Christian faith would crumble? Does it all depend on that piece of evidence?

This story in Luke of Jesus’ eating a piece of fish is meant to let us know that the presence the disciples experienced that evening was more than a ghost. Jesus was embodied, though not just a resurrected corpse. It was a "resurrection body," as Paul says, the only way he could describe it. UCC minister Elizabeth Goodman warns against "taking on the task of proving the Resurrection of ...Jesus in body as well as in spirit" and says such a sermon is "doomed to failure. We simply can’t prove Jesus’ Resurrection in body [she says]. But we can explore the implica-tions of its being so. Resurrection of the body answers the predominant, persistent dualism that claims material things are corrupt and spiritual things are pure and good, spirit rising at death as the body falls away. Christ’s and our resurrection mean body and spirit cannot be so neatly separated. We are matter animated, determined by body as much as by the cultivation of our minds. We can accept ourselves as we are, along with the joys of good food, good sex, the cool of rain on your face, the warmth of sun on your body, rejoicing in these blessings."

"But," she says, "Christians, especially in America, remain at best ambivalent about the body. Despite our confession that God intends blessing in our being embodied, Christians don’t seem widely to experience that blessing as lived reality." (Journal for Preachers, Easter 2012, p. 6) Many of us live with shame about our bodies–they don’t look or act or feel the way we think they should or have been taught they should. And shame is not about something we’ve done or haven’t done–that’s where we might feel guilt and hopefully can do something to change or make up for it. But shame is about who we are–a certain body type, a certain color skin, a gender, a sexual orientation, born in a certain place to certain people, having a body that makes funny sounds or has a certain shape or that ages and wears out. It’s about who we are.

Psychologist John Bradshaw writes that

In itself, shame is not bad. Shame is a normal human emotion. In fact, it is necessary to have the feeling of shame if one is to be truly human. Shame is the emotion which gives us permission to be human. Shame tells us of our limits. Shame keeps us in our human boundaries, letting us know we can and will make mistakes

[*all of us perfectionists, take note!], and that we need help. Our shame tells us we are not God [in and of ourselves]. Healthy shame is the psychological foundation of humility. (Healing the Shame That Binds You, p. vii.)

It may be hard to think of shame as healthy and necessary. But when we say to someone, "Have you no shame?" there is the sense that there are limits, boundaries beyond which we shouldn’t go. Remember the Greek myth of Daedalus and Icarus, who were imprisoned on the island of Crete? Daedalus, the master craftsman, fashioned wings from feathers and wax, and so father and son flew out of their prison. Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sun, but, thrilled with the freedom of flight and being an adolescent boy, Icarus couldn’t resist flying high, where the sun melted the wax and the wings dissolved, plunging the boy to his death in the ocean. To fly within certain limits, they were free. To exceed the limits meant death.

Ernest Kurtz says that "to be human is to know shame, for ‘to be human is to be caught in a contradictory tension between the pull to the unlimited, the more-than-human, and the drag of the merely limited, the less-than-human.’" (cited by Goodman, op cit.)

"When I look at your heavens, [the psalmist writes] 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? 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.." We are "caught between the pull to the unlimited, the more-than-human, and the drag of the merely limited, the less-than-human." And it is in that place that we find ourselves given the responsibility to care for the earth, the humus, of which the 2^nd creation story in Genesis says we are made. "The Lord God formed the earth creature (the adamah) from the dust of the ground," the humus, which is the same root as our word humility.

On this Earth Day, it is good to go back to our roots, to the humus from which we were made and to reclaim the humility with which we are to "have dominion" over the works of God. Cynthia Lano Linders writes that the Resurrection of Jesus’ body is "God’s affirmation that creation matters, that love and justice matter, that humanity, in all its ambiguity and complexity, is still fearfully and wonderfully God-made." (Cited by Kate Huey, in Weekly Seeds, 4/22/12) Creation, in fact, has been called the Second Scripture, revealing to us God’s Word and intention just as the first scripture, the Bible, does.

What can we learn when we study creation or nature, this Second Scripture? Certainly we can learn of beauty, of abundance, of complexity and diversity, of wonder. We can also learn of limits, of consequences, of life and death. We are learning how integrally connected we are with nature and the real dangers of disconnecting from it–as books like Last Child in the Woods warn us of the effects of removing children from nature and immersing them in strictly human-made environments. Brain research reveals that we are actually altering brain chemistry and structure with our digitally-controlled and -dominated toys, work environments and pasttimes. And of course, rising rates of cancers in toxic environments, in the air we breathe and the food we consume, are but the canary in the coal mine. Climate change impacts us all.

Creation matters. How we live together in this creation– with love and justice or without it–matters. "To insist on the reality of the resurrected body," writes Stephen Cooper, "is to demand that we accept our present reality as the place where transformations of ultimate significance take place." (Cited in Huey, op cit.) Luke’s story of Jesus’ resurrection appearance to the disciples, in which he shows them his wounded hands and feet and joins them in table fellowship sharing broiled fish, tells us that bodies matter–hunger and homelessness and illness–matter and are concerns of those who would follow in Jesus’ way. One in two or three Americans are now poor or near poverty, with all the physical implications that has. One in four families in Bennington get food from the Kitchen Cupboard. That should matter to us.

Table fellowship was still at the core of Jesus’ resurrection fellowship, as it was before his crucifixion. Sunday Suppers, potluck suppers, Sunday Social, and the Sacrament of Communion remain at the core of our fellowship. Study of the Scripture was at the core of Jesus’ resurrection appearances, both on the road to Emmaus and here in today’s reading. We continue to wrestle with the scriptures here on Sunday morning and in Bible conversations, and we must also be committed to studying and learning from the Second Scripture, from caring for and immersing ourselves in nature. And finally Jesus tells his disciples that repentance – turning back to God’s ways– and forgiveness of sins are to be proclaimed in the power and energy of God that is with them. "You are witnesses of these things," he tells them.

At our "Re-thinking Church" task force gathering last Thursday evening, we affirmed that "We are Jesus in this time and place. What, then, should we be doing?" We invite you to consider that as well, to join in conversation about that, invite your friends to offer their insights. "We are Jesus in this time and place. What, then, should we be doing?"

Christ is risen in resurrection power. I now think I understand better what my Orthodox colleague from St. Elias was talking about when he said the most important thing to believe is the resurrection of the body, with all its senses and needs and weaknesses and wonder. Embody me, Jesus says. Creation matters. Bodies matter. This is the place for transformation. Now is the time to be part of the New Creation. And, while we’re at it, have you got anything to eat?

Amen.

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

Harriette Leidich 100 years

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[fsg_link class="btn" ]Click here for slideshow[/fsg_link]

Harriette Leidich grew up in Griswold, Iowa, the daughter of a newspaper editor. She wrote her first column for her father's newspaper at age 14, beginning a long and varied career in publishing. Working with her father through high school until she graduated in 1929, she operated linotype machines, the industry standard for typesetting from the late-1800s into the 1970s, which involved melting long lead bars to set type.
[pullquote1 align="right" variation="mossgreen" cite="Rev. Mary Lee-Clark: "]"Harriette is an enkindled spirit who has set many of us on fire."[/pullquote1]
Harriette married her first husband, George Lerrigo in 1936. During the depression, they lived in Overbrook, Kansas, where they bought and published four weekly newspapers. Owning the papers led her to reporting on a great variety of town affairs, running the linotype, doing the bookkeeping and putting together ads.

Harriette remained involved in publishing even after her husband left the business and went into health care. She published several different newsletters for various organizations, eventually moving to North Adams, Mass., and then to North Bennington. Since 1995, she has been a regular contributor to the Bennington Banner with her column, "Senior Moments." She uses a typewriter to put her thoughts on paper, writing in a small room at the end of her home's main hallway.
[pullquote1 align="left" variation="mossgreen" cite="Daughter-in-law Janice Lerrigo"]"Harriette is a hat person."[/pullquote1]
Harriette has authored two books, a collection of writings and a memoir, and also co-authored a book with her two sons. She published her first book in her mid-80s. "Awful Green Stuff and the Nakedness of Trees" a collection of her writing, including some Banner columns. Her memoir, published in 2001, is "It's a Slower Waltz: Memorable Days from a Long Life." With her sons, she wrote "Our Family Miracle," about Charley's illness and George's bone marrow donation. She has also written profiles of more than 100 fellow parishioners for our church's Open Door newsletter.
[pullquote1 align="right" variation="mossgreen" cite="Son Charley Lerrigo, asking his mother to light a new candle for the birthday cake"]“We want to celebrate the beginning of 101 years."[/pullquote1]
Shortly before her 100th birthday on April 19, 2012, the National Association of Newspaper Columnists recognized Harriette as the oldest active newspaper columnist in America and the Vermont Legislature passed a resolution honoring her. She plans to keep writing and is hoping to write a fourth book.

Harriette Leidich 100 !!

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Harriette Leidich grew up in Griswold, Iowa, the daughter of a newspaper editor. She wrote her first column for her father's newspaper at age 14, beginning a long and varied career in publishing. Working with her father through high school until she graduated in 1929, she operated linotype machines, the industry standard for typesetting from the late-1800s into the 1970s, which involved melting long lead bars to set type.
[pullquote1 align="right" variation="mossgreen" cite="Rev. Mary Lee-Clark: "]"Harriette is an enkindled spirit who has set many of us on fire."[/pullquote1]
Harriette married her first husband, George Lerrigo in 1936. During the depression, they lived in Overbrook, Kansas, where they bought and published four weekly newspapers. Owning the papers led her to reporting on a great variety of town affairs, running the linotype, doing the bookkeeping and putting together ads.

Harriette remained involved in publishing even after her husband left the business and went into health care. She published several different newsletters for various organizations, eventually moving to North Adams, Mass., and then to North Bennington. Since 1995, she has been a regular contributor to the Bennington Banner with her column, "Senior Moments." She uses a typewriter to put her thoughts on paper, writing in a small room at the end of her home's main hallway.
[pullquote1 align="left" variation="mossgreen" cite="Daughter-in-law Janice Lerrigo"]"Harriette is a hat person."[/pullquote1]
Harriette has authored two books, a collection of writings and a memoir, and also co-authored a book with her two sons. She published her first book in her mid-80s. "Awful Green Stuff and the Nakedness of Trees" a collection of her writing, including some Banner columns. Her memoir, published in 2001, is "It's a Slower Waltz: Memorable Days from a Long Life." With her sons, she wrote "Our Family Miracle," about Charley' illness and George's bone marrow donation. She has also written profiles of more than 100 fellow parishioners for our church's Open Door newsletter.
[pullquote1 align="right" variation="mossgreen" cite="Son Charley Lerrigo, asking his mother to light a new candle for the birthday cake"]“We want to celebrate the beginning of 101 years."[/pullquote1]
Shortly before her 100th birthday on April 19, 2012, the National Association of Newspaper Columnists recognized Harriette as the oldest active newspaper columnist in America and the Vermont Legislature passed a resolution honoring her. She plans to keep writing and is hoping to write a fourth book.

Love Never Ends

Thursday, April 19, 2012-- I’m writing a day later than usual this week because Bruce and I were visiting his dad who is at home in hospice care in Potsdam, NY. Russ is getting weaker every day, but his spirit is as radiant as ever. "I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t feel loved," he told me. Wow! Alas, how many people can say that?

I read him my favorite blessing from Prayers for a House of Mourning, published by the Jewish Reconstructionist Press. After this past year, I have a hard time getting through it without crying–

We are loved by an unending love.

We are embraced by arms that find us

even when we are hidden from ourselves.

We are touched by fingers that soothe us

even when we are too proud for soothing.

We are counseled by voices that guide us

even when we are too embittered to hear.

We are loved by an unending love.

We are supported by hands that uplift us

even in the midst of a fall.

We are urged on by eyes that meet us

even when we are too weak for meeting.

We are loved by an unending love.

Embraced, touched, soothed, and counseled...

Ours are the arms, the fingers, the voices;

ours are the hands, the eyes, the smiles;

We are loved by an unending love.

Blessed are you, Beloved One, who loves your people Israel.

–

Rami M. Shapiro

"Love never ends"is the way Paul puts it in his letter to the Corinthians. In life, in death, in life beyond death, God is with us. We are not alone. Thanks be to God!

“Doubting the Crucifixion” John 20:19-31 4/15/12

The Sunday after Easter is, as one commentator puts it, "time for our annual shaming of Thomas, ‘doubting Thomas’ as we call him." (Elizabeth R. Goodman, Journal for Preachers, Easter 2012, p. 4) It could be said that all of the other disciples, with the possible exception of John, doubted the news of Jesus’ resurrection as well, as most of the gospels say that they didn’t believe the women who were the first witnesses.

But Thomas happened to be out that evening while the others were locked in that upper room, "for fear of the Jews," John tells us. Who knows where Thomas was? Maybe out in the streets, looking for confirmation of the rumors, or letting loved ones know that they were ok, or maybe just needing to get out and move and try to clear his head, think through his next steps. The fear in that upper room was getting to him. Thomas was not one to sit around and mope, and in fact, had been the one disciple earlier in John’s gospel to acknowledge that Jesus would indeed be killed. When word came to them that their friend Lazarus was ill, the disciples urged Jesus not to return to Judea, where he had recently been threatened with stoning. But when Jesus persisted, it was Thomas who said, "Let us go and die with him."

But Thomas had not been there on that first Easter evening when Jesus appeared to the rest of the disciples in that locked, upper room, and when they told him that they had seen the Lord, Thomas said, "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe." When Jesus came a week later and offered his hands and side to Thomas for him to touch, he said to Thomas, "Do not doubt but believe." And Thomas, whether or not he actually put his hands in the wounds, cried that great confession of faith, "My Lord and my God!"

Thomas seems to have taken on all our collective doubts and been labeled "Doubting Thomas" for this one, understandable response to the incredible. It hardly seems fair, as a cartoon by Joshua Harris suggests. Thomas is crying out, "All I’m saying is we don’t call Peter ‘Denying Peter!’" (Lisa Hickman, Odyssey Network, 4/10/12)

Elizabeth Goodman observes that in saying, "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the marks of the nails and in his side, I will not believe," Thomas wasn’t demanding proof of the Resurrection, but , rather, "proof of the Crucifixion.

I don’t think Thomas doubted the Resurrection; I think he doubted the Resurrection of one crucified. I think he doubted the Resurrection of one so thoroughly abandoned–abandoned even, it would seem, by God. It was the Resurrection of the one beaten and abused and at last abandoned...that Thomas found incredible, unbelievable. How could this one be the Messiah? How could this suffering, bleeding, dying one be the one the world most needs?"

(Goodman, op cit., p. 5)

We still doubt this too, don’t we? We are still hoping for a Super Hero to fly in on the clouds, one who will finally put all the Bad Guys in their place, bring justice to a world sorely in need of it, wipe out evil and tears and suffering , not just enter into it. I think this is why the idea of the Rapture and the "Left Behind" books and movement are so appealing–it’s an incredibly violent end to the "unbelievers," but somehow that seems right and much more satisfying than a messiah who allows himself to be killed and only three days later be seen and experienced again and become part of his followers. That’s it? That’s the plan for saving the world? Is there a Plan B, we hope?

"Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the marks of the nails and in his side, I will not believe." But Thomas is given the opportunity to see the marks of the nails and his side, and so confesses, "My Lord and my God!" God’s plan is to be undeterred by crucifixion and betrayal, by pain and abandonment, by all the worst that can happen to us in life, which actually is good news for all those who feel themselves in the midst of dealing with the worst.

"You don’t have to knock very hard on any door in your parish to find some sort of agony behind that door," says Gordon Lathrop, a Lutheran liturgical scholar. (Cited in Alyce McKenzie in Edgy Exegesis, on Patheos, 4/9/12)

In this month of Domestic Violence Awareness, Alyce McKenzie writes, "Knock on one in four doors and you’ll find a woman who is being or has been abused, most often by an intimate partner. And you’ll find little boys with big eyes watching what daddy’s doing to mommy. They are being home schooled as future abusers. Boys who observe their mothers being abused are twice as likely to grow up to abuse their partners. I know young adults locked in low self-esteem [she says–I know I do too, and not just "young" adults]. I know couples locked in miserable relationships [Don’t you?]. Most of us are locked in prisons of fear of one thing or another." (McKenzie, ibid.)

But "there are no walls thick enough to block the Risen Christ" (McKenzie) from entering into all those places of fear and suffering. And when he does, he doesn’t bring condemnation or disdain. What he offers is peace. "Peace be with you," he tells the frightened disciples. And he breathed on them the Holy Spirit, empowering them to forgive and be forgiven.

Jesus appeared to Thomas and the disciples on the 8^th day after Easter. The eighth day, in Hebrew Scripture, is the day of dedication of first-born children, the day of fulfillment of priestly dedication, the day of circumcision for male babies, a day of gratitude and offering. It is said to be the Eighth Day of Creation, the New Creation, when we are to take up the ongoing work of creation by using our gifts. What tradition tells us of Thomas is that he became the apostle to India. He took that energy and courage and trust in the Healing, Forgiving, Suffering, Dying, and Risen One and created churches in India, who established hospitals for healing that are still in evidence today in the Kerala region in southern India.

The story of Thomas and his confession, "My Lord and my God!" is not a call to "believe" a certain set of statements about Jesus. It is a call to lean into faith and trust in the midst of doubt and uncertainty and a very complicated world.

New York times columnist David Brooks wrote a response to Jeff Bethke’s YouTube video "Why I Hate Religion and Love Jesus." For all its power and appeal, Brooks observed that the message lacked vision beyond its lament. "Rebellion without a rigorous alternative vision is just a feeble spasm," he wrote [in NYT, "How to fight the Man"]. Brooks challenged Bethke to move beyond rebellion and turn his "passion into change."

Thomas is a model for moving beyond doubt and rebellion. "Unless I see the marks of crucifixion," he said, "I will not believe." Christ offered him what he needed, and he did indeed move on. This story in John’s gospel is for all of us who have come after Thomas, who were not given the opportunity to see the actual marks of crucifixion but can see them in so many hands and sides throughout our world. With Thomas, who, when Jesus told the disciples that they knew how to follow him, even though he was going to leave them, we may ask, "Lord, how can we know the way?" Jesus’ response, though too often used to exclude others, invites us to lean forward and be part of the new creation"–"I am [–the name of God--] the way, and the truth, and the life." Follow that way.

Nobody said it would be easy. "The reality of Easter [as one commentator has written] is the complexity of living anew in a broken creation." (Lisa Hickman, ibid.) As David Brooks said to Jeff Bethke (and to all of us looking to a new incarnation of the church), "Take the next step beyond the easy word to a broken world." "On the eighth day after Easter, the world looks to you and me to take the first steps to turn the passion of Christ into compassionate change." (Hickman) Jesus and Thomas go before us, calling us out of our locked rooms of fear and into the world where Love and Compassion, Justice and Mercy, despite all the news stories and rumors to the contrary, are still alive and at work. On this Eighth Day of Creation, may we too be part of the New Creation, believing, i.e. trusting in the great "I Am" who promises us life in that name.

Amen, and amen.

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

"Practicing Resurrection"

Wed., April 11, 2012 –On Wednesday mornings, after taking the dog for her morning walk, I head to the Rec Center and swim for about half an hour. This morning’s swim was especially nice, as I had a lane all to myself–no worries about having to swim around someone or be "swum around," just the sounds of my breathing and the water sloshing and whatever thoughts came to mind. I often try to "sing" a chant or a hymn(silently), a sort of watery meditation to focus upon.

Then, at lunchtime, I take the dog for another, longer walk. I love how she is totally in the present–this intriguing smell here, ooh, listen to that bird, and, oh my, wouldn’t that squirrel be fun to play with?! I, of course, am often processing what’s happened during the morning or thinking about what I need to do this afternoon, but she just keeps trotting along, nose to the air, ears perked, tail curled and swishing. Don’t take yourself so seriously, she says, and don’t miss all this great stuff.

Then, after whatever else I’ve got going on Wednesday afternoons, whenever possible I go to a yoga class from 5:45-7:15. It’s a class that stretches me in lots of ways–not only my joints and muscles, but also, often, the limits of what I think I have the energy to do. Donna, our teacher, always says to listen to your body–if it needs a rest, rest. If you want to go further, take the next step. Pay attention to your body, to this moment, and don’t judge. It just is. That’s a stretch for me, having honed the art of "judging" over a lifetime.

By the time I fall into bed most Wednesday nights, my body whispers to me that I’m not getting any younger. (OK, sometimes it screams that to me.) But it is a good tired. This is the one body I’ve got for this journey, this time around. It feels good to fully inhabit it (usually). When it doesn’t feel good, I am not a happy camper, and I’m not particularly pleasant to be around. So, I actually view all of this physical activity, as well as what and how I eat, as part of ministry–taking care of the gifts entrusted to me.

Last Sunday on the radio show "On Being" with Krista Tippett (7-8 a.m. on VPR–check it out, or the website www.onbeing.org), Armenian Orthodox theologian Vigen Gurioan said that the Orthodox liturgy, which involves all the senses–smell, sight, sound, touch, taste– "engages the whole human being...and that is consistent with the Christian belief in the bodily resurrection, the whole self, not just some disincarnate soul." I love that, and often regret that our worship doesn’t engage our senses very much at all–no "smells and bells," a little carefully controlled standing and sitting, a few (beautiful) paraments, music that’s neither too loud or too raucous. That’s ok – don’t judge, remember?

I’m just glad for other reminders that Resurrection involves our bodies, including what we do with them, how we take care of them, how we treat others’ bodies, how we live in and take care of the Earth’s body--Creation. It’s not just about some disembodied after-life. This is where we "practice resurrection."

"Endings and Beginnings" -- Mark 16:1-8 Late Easter 2012

There have been a number of movies, the most recent one being The Hunger Games, which come in multiple parts. The 7-part Harry Potter series comes to mind, and before that Star Wars, The Matrix, Lord of the Rings, and many more which you can probably name more readily than I. Many of these are based on books, of course, which provide those of us who love them long hours of reading pleasure and escape, savoring the clues and details, getting to know the characters better than many of the people we encounter everyday.

Though each of these books or movies has to stand on its own, I find that often the second one in the series-- once we are totally committed to following these characters and seeing how all the loose ends get tied up– the ending of the second installment, I find, is utterly unsatisfying. What?! You’re ending it there?! When does the next one come out? What do you mean, next Christmas? How can I possibly wait that long?!

It’s brilliant, really, ending it like that, with all sorts of clues left dangling, some of our favorite characters in mortal danger, missing perhaps, and everything left in the least likely, most incompetent hands of characters whose abilities we sorely doubt. There’s no way we’re not going to go to that next movie when it comes out, or buy the next book when it is published.

The writer of the Gospel of Mark was an early prototype for this kind of story. In fact, he ends his gospel with a line that sounds a lot like Master Yoda in the Star Wars series– The Greek says,"To no one nothing they said, they were afraid for..." What?! They said nothing? It ends with a preposition? It’s almost as though Mark had been snatched away from his writing desk, pen in hand, and carried off, which is actually not so unlikely a scenario, given the situation in Palestine in the 60's (the original 60's).

But the earliest readers of Mark’s manuscript couldn’t believe it ended there either, so they took a couple of shots at finishing it, neither of which sound like Mark. Still, those alternative endings have stayed attached to the gospel because the original ending is so unsatisfying–"So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid."

What were the women afraid of? Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome are the women Mark names, but these are the three, he also says, who traveled with Jesus and who stood by throughout the crucifixion, watched Joseph take the body off the cross, and lay it in the tomb. These were not women who were easily scared off by the authorities or even by what other people thought.

They weren’t even afraid to go into the tomb, which had obviously been opened, but when they saw the young man inside, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side, "they were alarmed," Mark says. "But he said to them, ‘Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.’"

That’s when "they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid."

"Do not be alarmed," the young man in the white robe said. "Don’t be afraid," almost every messenger from the Holy says. It is a fearful thing to come into the presence of the truly Sacred, not because we fear being harmed or punished but rather exposed. Our raw edges, all that isn’t the absolute truth about us gets exposed, along with what is the absolute truth about ourselves, that in us that recognizes and connects to that revealing Light, all of that gets exposed, and that can knock us speechless.

"You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here...he is going ahead of you to Galilee and there you will see him, just as he told you." He did say he would be killed, and then after three days be raised, the women remembered. Now that it’s happened, we realize that we hadn’t really believed him. We didn’t think it was possible. We thought for sure the alphabet ended at "Z for zebra."

What the women were threatened by was resurrection. ( cf. Mitzi L. Minor, The Power of Mark’s Story, p. 105) If he is not here, if he has gone ahead to Galilee, where he first began toteach about the reign of God having drawn near and already begun, if that is all true, then it’s not all over but the crying. The world is still a mess– the powers that be – Rome, or the empires of various names, including our own, or the financial markets, or multinational corporations or bankers or the "globalized, technologized economy" (Elizabeth Goodman, Journal for Preachers, Easter 2012, p. 4) –the powers that be are still on their thrones, the earth’s climate is in upheaval, our lives may be in upheaval, we may even be dying, but, oh my God it’s true–the reign of God has drawn near and has already begun, and Christ is loose in the world, and we are part of this resurrection process now. Scary? You bet. But also joyful.

Psychologist Rollo May writes,

"Happiness is related to security, to being reassured, to doing things as one is used to and as our parents did them. Joy is a revelation of what was unknown before. Happiness often ends

up...on the edge of boredom. Happiness is success. But joy is stimulating; it is the discovery of new continents emerging within oneself. Happiness is the absence of discord; joy is the welcoming of discord as the basis of higher harmonies. Happiness is finding a system of rules which solves our problems; joy is taking the risk that is necessary to break new frontiers... The good life, obviously, includes both joy and happiness at different times. What I am emphasizing is the joy that follows rightly confronted despair. Joy is the experience of possibility, the consciousness of one’s freedom as one confronts one’s destiny. In this sense, despair, when it is directly faced, can lead to joy. After despair, the one thing left is possibility. (Freedom and Destiny, cited in An Almanac for the Soul, by Marv and Nancy Hiles, for Feb. 22)

The women had known despair. Now they were faced with possibility.

Maybe Mark actually knew what he was doing, ending his gospel the way he did. He didn’t spend much time on the beginning of his gospel either–no birth story, no genealogy, no setting down intentions–just, "The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God." That’s it? Just, "the beginning," like some stories end with, "the end"?

Actually, when you get to the end of Mark’s gospel, with the women just running away afraid and not saying anything, you know that isn’t the end because somehow you’ve heard this story. Somebody must have said something sometime. So you go back to the beginning and read it again, go back over all those clues and secrets and things that now, looking back, start to make sense. And you realize, O my God, I’m the next part of the story, we are the next part of the story. It continues in us. The reign of God has drawn near and in fact has begun. Love is loose in the world. The story is far from ended, so let us be on the Way!

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

Colors

Table 1: Reddish Tints Toward Purple Tints
#FF4848	#FF68DD	#FF62B0	#FE67EB	#E469FE	#D568FD	#9669FE
#FF7575	#FF79E1	#FF73B9	#FE67EB	#E77AFE	#D97BFD	#A27AFE
#FF8A8A	#FF86E3	#FF86C2	#FE8BF0	#EA8DFE	#DD88FD	#AD8BFE
#FF9797	#FF97E8	#FF97CB	#FE98F1	#ED9EFE	#E29BFD	#B89AFE
#FFA8A8	#FFACEC	#FFA8D3	#FEA9F3	#EFA9FE	#E7A9FE	#C4ABFE
#FFBBBB	#FFACEC	#FFBBDD	#FFBBF7	#F2BCFE	#EDBEFE	#D0BCFE
#FFCECE	#FFC8F2	#FFC8E3	#FFCAF9	#F5CAFF	#F0CBFE	#DDCEFF
#FFDFDF	#FFDFF8	#FFDFEF	#FFDBFB	#F9D9FF	#F4DCFE	#E6DBFF
#FFECEC	#FFEEFB	#FFECF5	#FFEEFD	#FDF2FF	#FAECFF	#F1ECFF
#FFF2F2	#FFFEFB	#FFF9FC	#FFF9FE	#FFFDFF	#FDF9FF	#FBF9FF

Table 2: Purple Toward Blue & Beyond (Some Tones)
"#800080"	"#872187"	"#9A03FE"	"#892EE4"	"#3923D6"	"#2966B8"	"#23819C"
"#BF00BF"	"#BC2EBC"	"#A827FE"	"#9B4EE9"	"#6755E3"	"#2F74D0"	"#2897B7"
"#DB00DB"	"#D54FD5"	"#B445FE"	"#A55FEB"	"#8678E9"	"#4985D6"	"#2FAACE"
"#F900F9"	"#DD75DD"	"#BD5CFE"	"#AE70ED"	"#9588EC"	"#6094DB"	"#44B4D5"
"#FF4AFF"	"#DD75DD"	"#C269FE"	"#AE70ED"	"#A095EE"	"#7BA7E1"	"#57BCD9"
"#FF86FF"	"#E697E6"	"#CD85FE"	"#C79BF2"	"#B0A7F1"	"#8EB4E6"	"#7BCAE1"
"#FFA4FF"	"#EAA6EA"	"#D698FE"	"#CEA8F4"	"#BCB4F3"	"#A9C5EB"	"#8CD1E6"
"#FFBBFF"	"#EEBBEE"	"#DFB0FF"	"#DBBFF7"	"#CBC5F5"	"#BAD0EF"	"#A5DBEB"
"#FFCEFF"	"#F0C4F0"	"#E8C6FF"	"#E1CAF9"	"#D7D1F8"	"#CEDEF4"	"#B8E2EF"
"#FFDFFF"	"#F4D2F4"	"#EFD7FF"	"#EDDFFB"	"#E3E0FA"	"#E0EAF8"	"#C9EAF3"
"#FFECFF"	"#F4D2F4"	"#F9EEFF"	"#F5EEFD"	"#EFEDFC"	"#EAF1FB"	"#DBF0F7"
"#FFF9FF"	"#FDF9FD"	"#FEFDFF"	"#FEFDFF"	"#F7F5FE"	"#F8FBFE"	"#EAF7FB"

Table 3: Blue Tints Toward Greenish Tints
"#5757FF"	"#62A9FF"	"#62D0FF"	"#06DCFB"	"#01FCEF"	"#03EBA6"	"#01F33E"
"#6A6AFF"	"#75B4FF"	"#75D6FF"	"#24E0FB"	"#1FFEF3"	"#03F3AB"	"#0AFE47"
"#7979FF"	"#86BCFF"	"#8ADCFF"	"#3DE4FC"	"#5FFEF7"	"#33FDC0"	"#4BFE78"
"#8C8CFF"	"#99C7FF"	"#99E0FF"	"#63E9FC"	"#74FEF8"	"#62FDCE"	"#72FE95"
"#9999FF"	"#99C7FF"	"#A8E4FF"	"#75ECFD"	"#92FEF9"	"#7DFDD7"	"#8BFEA8"
"#AAAAFF"	"#A8CFFF"	"#BBEBFF"	"#8CEFFD"	"#A5FEFA"	"#8FFEDD"	"#A3FEBA"
"#BBBBFF"	"#BBDAFF"	"#CEF0FF"	"#ACF3FD"	"#B5FFFC"	"#A5FEE3"	"#B5FFC8"
"#CACAFF"	"#D0E6FF"	"#D9F3FF"	"#C0F7FE"	"#CEFFFD"	"#BEFEEB"	"#CAFFD8"
"#E1E1FF"	"#DBEBFF"	"#ECFAFF"	"#C0F7FE"	"#E1FFFE"	"#BDFFEA"	"#EAFFEF"
"#EEEEFF"	"#ECF4FF"	"#F9FDFF"	"#E6FCFF"	"#F2FFFE"	"#CFFEF0"	"#EAFFEF"
"#F9F9FF"	"#F9FCFF"	"#FDFEFF"	"#F9FEFF"	"#FDFFFF"	"#F7FFFD"	"#F9FFFB"

Table 4:
"#1FCB4A"	"#59955C"	"#48FB0D"	"#2DC800"	"#59DF00"	"#9D9D00"	"#B6BA18"
"#27DE55"	"#6CA870"	"#79FC4E"	"#32DF00"	"#61F200"	"#C8C800"	"#CDD11B"
"#4AE371"	"#80B584"	"#89FC63"	"#36F200"	"#66FF00"	"#DFDF00"	"#DFE32D"
"#7CEB98"	"#93BF96"	"#99FD77"	"#52FF20"	"#95FF4F"	"#FFFFAA"	"#EDEF85"
"#93EEAA"	"#A6CAA9"	"#AAFD8E"	"#6FFF44"	"#ABFF73"	"#FFFF84"	"#EEF093"
"#A4F0B7"	"#B4D1B6"	"#BAFEA3"	"#8FFF6F"	"#C0FF97"	"#FFFF99"	"#F2F4B3"
"#BDF4CB"	"#C9DECB"	"#CAFEB8"	"#A5FF8A"	"#D1FFB3"	"#FFFFB5"	"#F5F7C4"
"#D6F8DE"	"#DBEADC"	"#DDFED1"	"#B3FF99"	"#DFFFCA"	"#FFFFC8"	"#F7F9D0"
"#E3FBE9"	"#E9F1EA"	"#EAFEE2"	"#D2FFC4"	"#E8FFD9"	"#FFFFD7"	"#FAFBDF"
"#E3FBE9"	"#F3F8F4"	"#F1FEED"	"#E7FFDF"	"#F2FFEA"	"#FFFFE3"	"#FCFCE9"
"#FAFEFB"	"#FBFDFB"	"#FDFFFD"	"#F5FFF2"	"#FAFFF7"	"#FFFFFD"	"#FDFDF0"

Table 5:
"#BABA21"	"#C8B400"	"#DFA800"	"#DB9900"	"#FFB428"	"#FF9331"	"#FF800D"
"#E0E04E"	"#D9C400"	"#F9BB00"	"#EAA400"	"#FFBF48"	"#FFA04A"	"#FF9C42"
"#E6E671"	"#E6CE00"	"#FFCB2F"	"#FFB60B"	"#FFC65B"	"#FFAB60"	"#FFAC62"
"#EAEA8A"	"#F7DE00"	"#FFD34F"	"#FFBE28"	"#FFCE73"	"#FFBB7D"	"#FFBD82"
"#EEEEA2"	"#FFE920"	"#FFDD75"	"#FFC848"	"#FFD586"	"#FFC48E"	"#FFC895"
"#F1F1B1"	"#FFF06A"	"#FFE699"	"#FFD062"	"#FFDEA2"	"#FFCFA4"	"#FFCEA2"
"#F4F4BF"	"#FFF284"	"#FFECB0"	"#FFE099"	"#FFE6B5"	"#FFD9B7"	"#FFD7B3"
"#F7F7CE"	"#FFF7B7"	"#FFF1C6"	"#FFEAB7"	"#FFEAC4"	"#FFE1C6"	"#FFE2C8"
"#F9F9DD"	"#FFF9CE"	"#FFF5D7"	"#FFF2D2"	"#FFF2D9"	"#FFEBD9"	"#FFE6D0"
"#FBFBE8"	"#FFFBDF"	"#FFFAEA"	"#FFF9EA"	"#FFF7E6"	"#FFF4EA"	"#FFF1E6"
"#FEFEFA"	"#FFFEF7"	"#FFFDF7"	"#FFFDF9"	"#FFFDF9"	"#FFFEFD"	"#FFF9F4"

Table 6:
"#D1D17A"	"#C0A545"	"#C27E3A"	"#C47557"	"#B05F3C"	"#C17753"	"#B96F6F"
"#D7D78A"	"#CEB86C"	"#C98A4B"	"#CB876D"	"#C06A45"	"#C98767"	"#C48484"
"#DBDB97"	"#D6C485"	"#D19C67"	"#D29680"	"#C87C5B"	"#D0977B"	"#C88E8E"
"#E1E1A8"	"#DECF9C"	"#DAAF85"	"#DAA794"	"#CF8D72"	"#DAAC96"	"#D1A0A0"
"#E9E9BE"	"#E3D6AA"	"#DDB791"	"#DFB4A4"	"#D69E87"	"#E0BBA9"	"#D7ACAC"
"#EEEECE"	"#EADFBF"	"#E4C6A7"	"#E6C5B9"	"#DEB19E"	"#E8CCBF"	"#DDB9B9"
"#E9E9C0"	"#EDE4C9"	"#E9D0B6"	"#EBD0C7"	"#E4C0B1"	"#ECD5CA"	"#E6CCCC"
"#EEEECE"	"#EFE7CF"	"#EEDCC8"	"#F0DCD5"	"#EACDC1"	"#F0DDD5"	"#ECD9D9"
"#F1F1D6"	"#F5EFE0"	"#F2E4D5"	"#F5E7E2"	"#F0DDD5"	"#F5E8E2"	"#F3E7E7"
"#F5F5E2"	"#F9F5EC"	"#F9F3EC"	"#F9EFEC"	"#F5E8E2"	"#FAF2EF"	"#F8F1F1"
"#FDFDF9"	"#FDFCF9"	"#FCF9F5"	"#FDFAF9"	"#FDFAF9"	"#FCF7F5"	"#FDFBFB"

Table 7:
"#F70000"	"#B9264F"	"#990099"	"#74138C"	"#0000CE"	"#1F88A7"	"#4A9586"
"#FF2626"	"#D73E68"	"#B300B3"	"#8D18AB"	"#5B5BFF"	"#25A0C5"	"#5EAE9E"
"#FF5353"	"#DD597D"	"#CA00CA"	"#A41CC6"	"#7373FF"	"#29AFD6"	"#74BAAC"
"#FF7373"	"#E37795"	"#D900D9"	"#BA21E0"	"#8282FF"	"#4FBDDD"	"#8DC7BB"
"#FF8E8E"	"#E994AB"	"#FF2DFF"	"#CB59E8"	"#9191FF"	"#67C7E2"	"#A5D3CA"
"#FFA4A4"	"#EDA9BC"	"#F206FF"	"#CB59E8"	"#A8A8FF"	"#8ED6EA"	"#C0E0DA"
"#FFB5B5"	"#F0B9C8"	"#FF7DFF"	"#D881ED"	"#B7B7FF"	"#A6DEEE"	"#CFE7E2"
"#FFC8C8"	"#F4CAD6"	"#FFA8FF"	"#EFCDF8"	"#C6C6FF"	"#C0E7F3"	"#DCEDEA"
"#FFEAEA"	"#F8DAE2"	"#FFC4FF"	"#EFCDF8"	"#DBDBFF"	"#D8F0F8"	"#E7F3F1"
"#FFEAEA"	"#FAE7EC"	"#FFE3FF"	"#F8E9FC"	"#EEEEFF"	"#EFF9FC"	"#F2F9F8"
"#FFFDFD"	"#FEFAFB"	"#FFFDFF"	"#FFFFFF"	"#FDFDFF"	"#FAFDFE"	"#F7FBFA"

"Holy Wednesday"

Wed., April 4, 2012--Wednesday of Holy Week. In Mark’s gospel, it’s the day that Jesus is in Bethany, having dinner at Simon the leper’s house, when a woman comes in "with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment of nard, and she broke open the jar and poured the ointment on his head."

"The fragrance filled the whole house," another gospel says, and I have no doubt. Apparently nard is an incredibly volatile oil, and if it’s used for anointing dead bodies, its odor has to be strong, to compete with the smell of the body.

That’s what she was doing, Jesus says, "anointing my body beforehand for its burial."

I love this story and it challenges me. First of all, it’s important to read this story from Mark on its own terms. Luke says the woman was "a sinful woman," aka a prostitute. John’s version names her as Mary, Martha and Lazarus’ sister, whose house is where the dinner took place. Tradition has combined all these versions and says that it was Mary Magdalene, the sinner, who poured the ointment over Jesus. More recent research on Mary Magdalene (entirely apart from The DaVinci Code) reveals a much more complex and challenging picture of her. (I recommend Cynthia Bourgeault’s The Meaning of Mary Magdalene as just one of several very good studies.)

At any rate, here in Mark, the woman is unnamed, and yet Jesus says, "Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her." What a radically different view of "fame" than our culture has!

I love that this woman doesn’t care what other people think (and wish I had a little more of that!). She just knows she loves Jesus. The men who were there at the dinner groused about the waste, how the ointment should have been sold and given to the poor, and they "scolded her." Thanks, guys. They are used to making decisions about what to do with resources from a place of fullness, carefully, frugally meting and measuring out in piles–this one’s for food, this one’s for taxes, this one’s for the church, this one’s for the poor, ...

My guess is this woman didn’t usually have much choice. If she had anything, it got spent on the most urgent need. I don’t know how or where she got this alabaster jar of nard, but I get the feeling it was all she had to give. But she didn’t give it from a place of scarcity. She gave it from a place so full of love and light and abundance and generosity that, of course, the fragrance filled the whole house. Her gift filled the whole house.

And then Jesus gave all he had. And the fragrance filled the whole world.

It’s only Wednesday. I need to pace myself, make sure I get everything done, for Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter. This pile of energy is for this, this one’s for this, .... I keep this unnamed sister in my heart, drawing upon her courage, her generosity, her love, and think I can catch a whiff of that fragrance...

"Outside In" -- Mark 11:1-11, Mark 15:1-47, Palm/Passion Sunday 2012

The light is different in Holy Week. And I’m not just talking about the light during this spring equinox time which is a kind of border light–on the border of the sun’s journey in our sky between the equator and the northern pole, though there is something to that. I’m talking about the atmosphere in these stories of the last week of Jesus’ life, from the entrance into Jerusalem, to the cleansing of the temple, to a dinner in Simon the Leper’s home where the unnamed woman pours perfume on Jesus’ head to anoint him for his death, to that upper room where the supper took place, to the dark garden and the torchlight of soldiers and betrayal. The light is different, harsh as the council meets, and then again in the governor’s palace, where Pilate interrogates this intrusive prisoner and then releases him to the soldiers’ early morning abuse and torture. By the time we get to the 9 a.m. crucifixion, it’s as though the sun will never shine in the same way again, as the adrenaline and horror pounds through our heads and distorts our vision. We can hardly begin to imagine what it must have been like for him. Then of course there’s that darkness from noon until 3; and only after that do a few rays of twilight dare to return while they bury him.

As we listen to these stories, not only is the light different, but it’s almost as if our attention is drawn into focus and then out again. There is a circling around the center, a going out and a coming in, a contrast between inside and outside, until at last everything is gathered in, like a great stone sinking in a pond.

We start outside the city, in Bethany and Bethphage, where Jesus finds the colt he is to ride. Then the great, riotous procession into Jerusalem, with that odd figure somehow out of place, riding on a donkey. He comes into the city and enters the Temple, where he looks around, Mark tells us, but, "as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with twelve."

You see, Jesus and the twelve were outsiders, not residents of Jerusalem, so they had to be out of the city before dark, when the gates were closed. They had a place to go in Bethany, to Mary and Martha’s house, but all the others, the poor, the powerless, those who worked in Jerusalem but couldn’t afford a house there, those who begged or set up stalls at the gates, all these "others" had to go outside the protection of the city walls at night. They were called "the daughters of Zion," the unprotected, the vulnerable.

The next day, according to Mark’s account, Jesus and the twelve came back into the city, into the Temple, which was supposed to be the seat of God, and Jesus threw out the money-changers and animal sellers. "And when evening came, Jesus and his disciples went out of the city."

At the dinner at Simon the Leper’s (that phrase in itself blurs our focus a little), the quintessential outsider–a woman of questionable reputation–enters into the house and anoints Jesus’ head with costly perfume. Everyone else wants to throw her out, condemn her for wasting the ointment that could have been sold for the poor, they said, but Jesus says that this outsider, this woman whose name we are not even told, will be remembered –by name–whenever the gospel, the good news, is told.

The circle gathers around Jesus and the table for the Passover dinner, and one within the circle goes out to betray him. After dinner they go out to the Mount of Olives, to the dark garden there, and Jesus goes apart from the sleepy circle of disciples, to pray, to plead that a different path might open up, another circle might swallow him in.

Then as the soldiers come, and the betrayer walks into the middle of the circle to identify Jesus with a kiss, the circle disperses and Jesus is taken into the inner Council circle. This place is a false center, Jesus knows, and so he does not really engage with them, centered as he is in a true-er, deeper Reality, and even as he is taken into an even more inner circle, he knows that this is not the true center. Pilate thought he was the center of power; Jesus knew he wasn’t even in the same circle.

We know what happens next. Jesus is nailed to the center of a cross, at the intersection between heaven and earth, and tradition says, his is the cross in the middle of two thieves. More likely, there were hundreds of crosses up along that hill, billboards for the Empire as warnings. And finally, Jesus enters into the Heart of Darkness, into death, placed into the tomb of one who had finally recognized which circle was the true center.

The challenge for us this week is to discover where this story–the whole story-- lies in our lives. Is it at the center, or will we keep it at a distance? Do we only dabble in it for an hour or so on Sunday mornings and then step out of it as we "re-enter" our lives? Or is it a story that we know "by heart," in our core, so that our eyes can adjust to its focal length, the center of its circle radiating out from our center? Will we let this One whose wave length, energetic signature, and harmonic vibration comes from the very heart of Reality, will we let this One in? The door only opens from the inside. It’s up to us to let him in.

So come to the table. Come take this One in. Let the story and its power become part of you. Let us keep the feast. Amen, and amen.

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

So it begins

Wednesday, March 28, 2012–

It’s the week before Holy Week, so probably not the ideal time for a pastor to start a blog, but–hey!–perhaps it will help me organize my thoughts. You can probably be the judge of that!

In December, people always comment about how busy I must be with all the services and the special events; but Advent is a walk in the park compared to Lent and Holy Week. I confess that I’ve fallen into the trap of taking on what I hope are wise and useful practices during Lent instead of giving something up. After all, who needs more struggle and gloom in a world that’s too full of it anyway?

However, I’m re-thinking that. I know how to add things on, how to power through the weeks with added obligations, knowing that once Easter’s here, I can let go of those "extras" and get back to a more sane schedule. Ha! Who am I kidding? The discipline I–and maybe you–really need is the discipline to pare down, to stop stuffing things into my schedule (or my mouth), to leave a little space for the Holy to have some breathing room in me. I’m not sure that giving up ice cream is the way to do that, but it’s at least a reminder to be a little empty.

I love the reminder that trees give us during February and March (usually), which is that without the distraction of leaves and blossoms and such, you can really see the structure–the trunk and branches–that stands underneath. What is it that the paring away in Lent might reveal about us?

If you’ve given something up for Lent, the end is in sight! I hope whatever discipline you may have taken on has indeed "taught" you something (that’s what the word means) about yourself or about God. That learning is worth taking with you through Easter and beyond, as we "begin again." Every day, every moment, every breath, is an opportunity to begin again, but Easter-- for those of us who find meaning and power and grace in the story of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection– Easter is the "mother" of all beginnings!

May you be blessed on the journey.

"What do you know by Heart?" Jeremiah 31:31-34, John 12:20-33 3/25/12

Christians sometimes say that the God of the Old Testament is a God of wrath and the God of the New Testament is a God of compassion. But the passage from Jeremiah which Tom read for us this morning should make us think twice before making such a simplistic statement--

"The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. It will not be like the covenant that I made with their ancestors when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt–a covenant that they broke, though I was their husband. But this is the covenant that I will make [with them]. ..I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, "know the Lord," for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more."

It is a promise of deep compassion and of incredible grace and hope for a people broken-hearted and in exile. We Christians have the custom of tracing the history of the covenant God has made with God’s people as starting with the promise to Abraham and Sarah, then the covenant God made with Noah after the flood, symbolized by the rainbow, not to destroy the earth by flood again, then through this passage in Jeremiah, where God promises to write the covenant on our hearts, and finally through Jesus, the "new covenant." These various renewals of the covenant were necessary, of course, because the people broke it, as God puts it so bluntly here in this passage in Jeremiah. And, I must confess, I often wonder if we Christians have not also broken the covenant God made with us through Jesus. Have we been faithful covenant partners?

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this week about what it means to know something by heart, to live from the heart. My friend Joe Schaaf has a long and distinguished career teaching at various progressive schools and institutions. At one of our Sunday evening Bible conversations, he told us that "the rule" at at least one of those institutions was, "There are no rules. You’ll only know what the rules are when you break one." My husband Bruce uses a similar philosophy in his classes at the Career Development Center. On that first day of class when you’re supposed to talk about classroom rules, he says, "There are no rules until you break them. You’ll know what the rules are when you break one." The new students protest, thinking it’s not fair or just a trap, but the students who have had him as a teacher before nod knowingly. "You’ll figure it out," they say.

Such a no-rules "rule" is based on the belief that there is a fundamental, innate wisdom within each of us, that, if lived within a community that encourages and nurtures that innate wisdom, will emerge and order the life of that community. Indeed, in a recent daily devotional I received from the Church of the Savior in Washington, DC, I read this from author Elizabeth Canham–

True education consists in the drawing out and validation of the wisdom deep within each person...When we allow for the innate capacity to make connections, when we share insight instead of locating wisdom in a few experts to whom we give power and authority, then community building can begin and we will hear the liberating gospel in our time and place."

(Inward/outward, 3/19/12)

Jesus says in the Gospel of Thomas–When you give rise to that which is within you, what you have will save you. If you do not give rise to it, what you do not have will destroy you. (70) (Trans. Stevan Davies) "I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts," God says through Jeremiah.

On the other hand, I happened to be visiting one of our members this week in the care facility where she is currently living, and the aide who was caring for her had the television on to one of the daytime shows on MTV. While I only watched maybe 10 minutes of the show, it was clear to me that the organ governing the action of the young people in the show was considerably south of their hearts, though they would have thought it was a show about "love." No rules, really? Is that a good idea?

"No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, ‘Know the Lord,’" [says God through Jeremiah], "for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord..." The thought occurred to me that perhaps, maybe, could it be, that this is what God is doing through the growing number of people who describe themselves as "spiritual but not religious" ? That the sense of knowing God is indeed written on our hearts, which means, of course, not the organ that pumps blood through our bodies, but is the center of will and intention, the core of who we are, our "selves," if you will? It is indeed innate, but religious institutions have too often merely become external, rule-enforcing agents, and that clearly doesn’t work.

But institutions–especially living ones, do serve a purpose. I read a baby boomer dad’s reflection on what he assumed his children knew–in this particular case, it was the words to a Beatles’ song–but when they asked who was singing, he realized that they didn’t know it and he wondered what else in their education, what other things that were important to him, that he knew by heart, he had failed to pass along. He thought of the Christian story. "One does not learn the story by osmosis," he said. "It has to be told. After all, the Christian faith is always just one generation away from extinction." (Martin Copenhaver, StillSpeaking Daily Devotional, 3/21/12)

What do you know by heart? The law or Torah which God promised to write upon the hearts of the people of Israel and Judah was not simply a list of do’s and don’ts, "not a laborious burden to be borne," as one commentator puts it, "but [it] creates delight and joy." (Texts for Preaching, Year B, p. 230) What is the deep, innate wisdom that is at the core of your being? Most of us don’t take the time to find out. Most of us, as one wise woman said, are just phoning our lives in. What do you know by heart? It may not be a list of statements you "believe in." It may be a deep trust, an intimacy with a Wisdom and Love that you simply know you are part of, which is more like "knowing" in the biblical sense. It may be a melody or an image.

"Connection is why we’re here," says University of Houston Professor of Sociology Brene Brown. In a TED Talk a couple years ago, she told about her research into the nature of connection–why it’s easier for some of us and almost impossible for others. Dr. Brown is, by her own admission, a researcher story-teller. "If it can’t be measured, it doesn’t exist," her dissertation advisor told her at the beginning of her doctorate, and she felt that she had come home. She’s a hard-nosed, data-seeking, don’t-bother-me-with-fuzzy-ideas kind of woman, but her research necessarily involves people’s stories.

She found that when she asked people about their experiences with connection, that along with the heart-warming, inspiring stories of connection were others that told of the most excruciating experiences of disconnection. When she asked about love, at least some of the stories were of heartbreak. When she asked about belonging, she’d also hear of painful experiences of not belonging. And what ran through all these other stories–these other stories of disconnection and heartbreak and disconnection-- was a sense of shame, which she defines as the fear of disconnection–Is there something about me that makes me unable to be connected? We all experience shame, she says, and if you don’t think you do, you’re lying to yourself or you’re incapable of human connection. What came with this sense of shame, she found, was an excruciating feeling of vulnerability. So, she set out to research it, find it out, deconstruct it, and outsmart it. [Bear with me, now, because this actually does connect with both our scriptures this morning!]

In thousands of pieces of data collected over 6 years of research, Dr. Brown found that the difference between those who felt connected and those who struggled with connection was a sense of worthiness. Those who felt connected thought they were worthy of connection, worthy of love and belonging. So she decided just to look at those who felt worthy. She gave the file of those people the title, "Whole-hearted people." She went into intensive data analysis mode for 4 days ("My husband took the kids and left the house, she said, because I get into this Jackson Pollock frenzy and just spread out all over.") And what she found these "whole-hearted" people had in common was a sense of courage–courage, as distinct from bravery. Courage comes from the Latin word cor which originally meant To tell the story of who you are with your whole heart. These people had the courage to be who they were; they had compassion toward themselves. They experienced connection because of their authenticity, they let go of who they thought they should be and embraced who they actually were. And the surprising, amazing thing she discovered is that these whole-hearted people embraced their vulnerability. "They believed that what made them vulnerable made them beautiful." They saw vulnerability not as comfortable, but as necessary. They were willing to breathe through their vulnerability– while waiting for their mammogram results, or after their pink slip had arrived, or in telling someone that they loved them–and that willingness to breathe through their vulnerability was fundamental, as opposed to clinging to control or predictability.

Dr. Brown says that this finding blew her out of the water. Her usual modes of controlling and predicting were useless. It caused a breakdown, she said, which her therapist renamed as "a spiritual awakening." She did go into therapy for a year, researching herself, if you will, but really doing battle with this vulnerability, this vulnerability that’s involved with our fear and shame, but which is also the birthplace of connection and creativity. It was a year-long street fight, a slugfest, she said, "which I lost, but I won my life."

"Why do we struggle so much with vulnerability? Here’s what I learned," says Dr. Brown. "We numb vulnerability. But the thing is, we can’t selectively numb an emotion. We end up numbing everything. What’s the evidence for this? We are the most addicted, most in debt, most obese, most medicated adult cohort in U.S. history. When we try to numb our vulnerability, we also end up numbing joy, gratitude, happiness. So we’re miserable, and we try to numb that. It’s a vicious cycle.

In this battle against vulnerability, she concludes, we try to make every uncertainty certain. Look at religion these days. Not much room for mystery or uncertainty there. What does the billboard on Rt. 7 in Hoosick, NY say now? "The Holy Bible–Inspired. Absolute. Final."(in contrast to the signboard out in front of the Unitarian church in Burlington I read this week, which said, "Unanswered questions are much less dangerous than unquestioned answers.") Make every uncertainty certain. Look at politics. Absolutes. Unchanging. Fundamental. We also strive for perfection, Dr. Brown says, in our bodies, our houses, our children (Hear all those tiger mothers roar!) "Our children are hard-wired for struggle when they come to us," Dr. Brown says, not for perfection. We shouldn’t comment about how perfect they are or should be, but how worthy of love and belonging they are. And finally, we pretend, she says, we pretend that what we do doesn’t affect others, either as individuals or as corporations or as nations.

What we need to do, Dr. Brown urges us, is to "let ourselves be seen, love with our whole hearts and with no guarantees, practice gratitude and joy in the midst of our vulnerability, and believe we are enough." (TED x Houston, June 2010, youtube)

OK. What does this have to do with Jeremiah’s covenant written on our hearts by God or Jesus’ saying that his hour has finally come, when he is to be lifted up, that is, crucified? Can you think of a more powerful image for vulnerability than crucifixion? the ultimate experience of heartbreak? It turns out that the key to our connectedness with others is our willingness to be vulnerable and to have the courage, the whole-heartedness, to live that way. It is written on our hearts, if you will, hearts that we know are too easily broken.

"Who needs a heart, when a heart can be broken?" Tina Turner sang. You might even remember the King, Elvis Presley, singing about Heartbreak Hotel, "at the end of lonely street." We all know what it’s like to have a broken heart.

If and when you find yourself on the road from heartache and loss to who knows where,

[asks John Bennison], what do you do and where do you go? Where is that place to experience, acknowledge, and accept things for what they are? Where’s that place one might come to truly know, with the assurance that we’re not alone in our heartbreak? A place with a sense of some abiding presence and caring fellowship, that can even carve out of heartache and heartbreak a hallowed space to dwell, if only for a while? (Words and Ways, 3/25/12)

I hope Second Congregational Church is such a place and will continue to be even more of a place for us and for all the whole-hearted and broken-hearted. God is still speaking, still writing on hearts and creating new ways to connect with the people and world God loved and loves through vulnerability and self-giving power. "The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will put the law within them and write it on their hears; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people." "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, [Jesus said] it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit." Let us "let ourselves be seen, love with our whole hearts and with no guarantees, practice gratitude and joy in the midst of our vulnerability, and believe we are enough." May it be so.

Rev. Mary H. Lee-Clark

Second Congregational Church

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