Skinny Legs and All

When I was a child my mother would say, “I love you, skinny legs and all.”  Or she would say I had “Kemper legs” which are “ropes with knots tied in the middle of them.”  You see, I am named after my mom’s cousin, Kemper, and I suppose she too was loved skinny legs and all. 

I remember sometimes I would have what we might call “growing pains” in my legs in the middle of the night. You’d think with the frequency in which this occurred I’d be taller by now.  Anyway,  I would wake up with one of my legs aching and I would descend the ladder of my bunkbed as if I were in need of medical attention.  I would go into mom and dad’s room, wallowing in between them to complain of my plight.  If nothing else, having an only child can be terribly dramatic. 

One of my parents would get out of bed, stumble into their adjoining bathroom and take out the huge jar of Vaseline they kept in the cabinet.  They would return to bed and rub the miracle ointment on my aching muscles until I was comforted enough to fall asleep.  How in the world did petroleum jelly ease my aching muscles? Furthermore, how did my parents devise the idea that Vaseline, meant for skin care, would be the cure to my aching muscles? Genius.  Truly, I could have been the poster child for Vaseline well into my twenties thanks to its healing properties. 

Surely, this was the placebo effect.  I believed with my whole seven-year-old heart that the cure for my scrawny aching legs was that salve applied by my parents’ hands.  Was it only that I believed that it worked? Or was there something, also, in the tender care of my loving parents who administered it?  Was it not, also, that I believed in my parents’ and trusted them to be right, always? Again, how did they manage that? 

I wonder, was the situation of the man born blind similar to my own?  He could no more explain how Jesus’ saliva and dirt reversed his blindness than I can explain how the aches were eased in my legs.  But, what the man could say was, “I had an ailment, this man touched me and sent me to the pools.  I listened to him and now I am cured.”  Maybe it was the saliva of Jesus that healed him.  Maybe it was the tender administrations of Jesus.  Maybe it was the simple fact that someone stopped and took notice of his plight. Maybe his faith made him well.  Whatever the mechanics of that miracle, we can take away the power of his words: “Lord, I believe.” 

God is Love

We all need a reminder sometimes. The word “love” appears 57 times in the gospel of John alone. Foundational to our faith is a relationship with the Triune God. And God is Love (1 John 4:8). If preaching ‘love of God, neighbor, and self’ is wrong, I don’t want to be right. 

Deuteronomy 7:9

Know therefore that the Lord your God is God, the faithful God who maintains covenant loyalty with those who love him and keep his commandments, to a thousand generations,

Jeremiah 31:3

   the Lord appeared to him from far away.
I have loved you with an everlasting love;
   therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you.

Micah 6:8

He has told you, O mortal, what is good;
   and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
   and to walk humbly with your God?

Matthew 22:37-38

He said to him, ‘ “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.” This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.’

John 3:16

‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

John 15:12

‘This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.

John 21:16

A second time he said to him, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Tend my sheep.’

1 Corinthians 13:4-8

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end.

1 Corinthians 13:13

And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

1 Corinthians 16:14

Let all that you do be done in love.

Ephesians 4:1-3

I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.

1 John 4:7-8

Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love.

Ash and dust

A s h e s

D u s t       TO       D u s  t

A s h e s

We all fall down

Spin around

Sit stop motion

God is there

Beneath the commotion

LTM 2/27/23

The Uniform

A special part of ordination as a Minister of Word and Sacrament in the Presbyterian tradition is wearing a robe and stole.  My robe was a gift from my in-laws upon my graduation from seminary.  Each time I put it on I think of them and their constant support of my call, and of the lessons I’ve learned from my father-in-law, who is ordained in the Methodist church.  The robe is beautifully cut and feminine with embroidered crosses at the hem and sleeves.  Over the years, I’ve gathered quite a collection of stoles to be worn with my robe and each one has a special place in my heart. 

My husband gave me three stoles and I wear them the most often.  They match the robe’s cross pattern and are embroidered and beaded; green for ordinary time, purple for lent and advent, and white for the sacraments.  Years ago, at an outdoor Easter service I somehow got a stain on this white one. I sent it to the cleaners but they couldn’t get it out.  For ten years I kept it in the closet, not able to let it go!  Last year, I handed it over to Valerie and Jane and they fixed it for me with their excellent seamstress skills. What a gift.

My parents gifted me the original stole for my ordination & installation services.  It is red and white with ornate gold stitching and was purchased from Ten Thousand Villages which is a store that supports handcrafted goods from third world countries.  I only get to wear this once a year, at Pentecost, or for the occasional participation in an ordination or installation service. 

I was given an additional white one at my ordination service, handmade by a member of my home church and gifted to me on behalf of that congregation.  It is beautifully crafted with a gold cross surrounded by wheat stalks, perfect for communion. 

My cousins from Texas were also a great support to me in my calling, they gave me my “children of the world stole” which looks much like a tapestry from far away but up close reveals faces of all ethnicities.  Sometimes I wear this for ordinary time, or on a special emphasis Sunday. 

For my first ordained birthday, the congregation of my first call gifted me a Presbyterian stole.  It is white, with the presbyterian seal stitched on in blue, red, and gold.  I love it!

For my installation service at my second call in Roanoke, I was working a lot with the children’s ministry.  I requested that the children put their handprints on a stole for me to wear at my installation.  A special, colorful treasure. 

I was also given a white stole with the presbyterian seal at the bottom of it, embroidered red and gold.  I don’t wear this one too often, it seems too pristine to get dirty!

Finally, I have two stoles from a former colleague who served as an interim minister with me.  He was a wonderful friend and guide when I needed it most.  At the end of his time in the church, it was the season of lent and we had just finished a Maundy Thursday service.  He was wearing a gorgeously patterned piece that was black and white.  I told him how much I liked it and he took it off and gave it to me.  He then gave me the green one to match it.  He was moving into work at the presbytery level and told me he wouldn’t need them anymore. 

So, this is my uniform.  As with most things in my possession, each part of it is special to me, holding great significance of the family and friends who have nurtured me in the faith and lift me in my calling to ministry.  It takes a village to raise pastors too. 

Her Name Means ‘Beloved’

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”—Matthew 5:4

A few weeks ago as I was working on a sermon about the beatitudes, a commentator pointed out that these words from Matthew 5:4 were not in reference particularly to a individual’s personal grief at the loss of a loved one, but rather the mourning of a whole community (Matthew’s community) as they lamented over the fact that the world as they knew it, was so far removed from the kingdom of God. The promise that they would be comforted was ensured by the fact that because they recognized the difference between what was and what was hoped to be—they would be comforted in the fact that the Kingdom would indeed come, hopefully ushered in by their own faithful hands.

Its been ten years since we lost Aimee.  Rev. Aimee Buchanan was one of the most amazing people I have ever known.  She was the walking, talking, laughing embodiment of the Holy Spirit.  Jesus’ love shown through her eyes and her smile like no other before or after her.  She was my pastor, my mentor, my friend, my family.  Ten years ago, the thought of being blessed in our mourning was more than a stretch.  The idea that we would know comfort was impossible to swallow. 

Of that same passage, Ronald Allen wrote, ” “To be ‘blessed’ is not simply to be happy, but to know that one is included in the coming realm.”  Now that I think on it, I may not have ever known that I was included in the coming realm of God if not for Aimee and her husband Bill.  I am so fortunate to have had them as a driving presence in my young life.  I know there are many others who would say the same—to know her for five minutes or a lifetime was to be altered somehow, pivoted on one’s path to better greet the coming of Christ and kingdom.  

Through the arts, preaching, and teaching, she drew so many alongside of her.  She painted the world with God’s pallet.   She co-founded Asheville Youth Mission with her husband Bill and today Youth Mission Co now has five other locations through which teens and young adults grow in faith as they practice the directive of Micah 6:8 through mission and service.

While I will never understand why Aimee’s time on earth was cut short…and I do believe she had so much more to teach us…I have come to see that she was one who was blessed in her mourning!  She saw the world’s pain and heartache.  But rather than run from it, she ran toward it—a wave of streamers behind her as she delivered the kingdom just a little bit closer to every person she encountered.  She brought comfort to others because she revealed to them (and to me) that God’s grace was for us, no matter our brokenness, no matter our differences, no matter. There is a place for us in the kingdom of God.  So, these days, when I mourn for her, I remember to turn my eye to that which she always pointed; our hands, feet, and voices are to be for the kingdom…that we might make the world look a bit more like the Lord intended.

The Gifts of Travel

In the spring of 2005 I studied abroad for three months with my best friends, our home base in London, England, specifically the beautiful neighborhood of Muswell Hill.  Almost every weekend we had the opportunity to travel to a different European country and explore.  I am indebted to my parents for this opportunity, because they gave me a credit card with what seemed like an endless limit (it was not) and told me to explore and learn.  One of the most memorable trips was to Italy with my friend Katherine.  Katherine had a family friend who lived in Florence and invited us to stay with her there. I cannot tell you how excited I was to see the Duomo and the Ponte Vecchio bridge that I had studied in art history.  One day, we took the train to Rome.  We had just one day to explore the city.  I will tell you it wasn’t built in a day but you can hit the highlights….if you move quickly.

Pope John Paul II had recently died, and Pope Benedict XVI had recently been chosen as the new pope.  As fate would have it, our trip coincided with the first weekend the Vatican was open to visitors once again.  Katherine and I headed toward the Vatican upon disembarking from our train, insistent upon visiting the St. Peter’s.  When we got to St. Peter’s Square I was surprised there were not too many tourists milling about there.  We headed to the outer wall of the compound where we saw a line forming to enter the Vatican for a tour.  I was desperate to see the Sistine Chapel.  We wondered where the entrance was and how long we could expect to wait, not knowing if we could buy tickets in advance, etc.  We walked along, passing at least 100 people.  We turned the corner.  The queue extended beyond our line of sight.  Hundreds of people were already waiting early in the morning to enter the building.  I could feel my heart sinking.  There was so much more of the city to see…we didn’t want to miss out on other opportunities by waiting in this line all day.  Determined to find out how long we would wait we began walking up the row of people.  About halfway up what was at least two city blocks, we saw two middle aged women who were clearly American.  We knew they were American before we spoke to them, they were wearing windbreakers and sporting Vera Bradley purses which were all the rage at the time.  We stopped to speak to them, maybe they knew how long the process would take. 

As it turns out these two women were from the Midwest, they were Catholic and visiting Rome on a church trip.  They invited us to get into the queue with them!  They told us they had two teenage daughters who were back at home and they were missing the girls’ prom night.  I think perhaps Katherine and I were a balm to their mother hearts.  When I told them that I was planning to go to seminary after graduation from Hollins they said, “Oh our priest is here with us, you must let him bless you!”  We took the whole tour through the hallways filled with tapestries and ornate artwork with these ladies.  We walked into the Sistine Chapel, hours ahead of when we would have entered otherwise, and just stood in awe.  I was in a room filled with people, but for once my short stature didn’t prevent me from viewing the main event, all I had to do was look up. 

I stood for some time studying the image of God and Adam reaching for each other and someone tapped me on the shoulder.  It was one of our new friends, she had found her priest and wanted to introduce me.  I will never forget it, standing in that historical place, hands placed upon my head, and a Catholic Priest blessing me in the name of our Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  It was as if the room grew quiet and movement stopped.  Our encounter was perhaps only a minute long, but I will never forget it.  How wonderfully sacred…and ecumenical.  To be given such care from a stranger and yet a companion from home, also on a pilgrimage.  I was blessed in the place where St. Peter’s legacy dwells.  The rock on whom the church was built…where I was also now able to stand and witness the power of thousands of years of Christian faith and thought. 

Later in the afternoon we arrived at the Roman Colosseum; another place I never thought I’d see in person.  As we walked through the arches I called my mother and told her about the amazing events of the day.  “Mom, I am standing IN the Colosseum right now!”  As I hung up the phone and turned back to the incredibly large pit, I remembered how many Christians were likely tortured and killed in that space as criminals, martyred for their faith while crowds jeered and cheered as if it were sport.

To say that the day was humbling for me is an understatement.  In the span of one day, I witnessed both the amazing feats of human ingenuity as well as the cost of power and enormous wealth. But in the center of all of that history swirling, I also experienced human kindness and generosity.  You truly never know what you will find when you travel outside of your comfort zone… but I think, perhaps, God sends little winks to you, or perhaps a few midwestern angels to give you courage. 

On Courage

One of my mantras in 2023 is “Choose Courage over Comfort.”  This notion is borne out of the work of Brené Brown who has studied the human condition for many years and writes extensively on vulnerability.  To choose courage over comfort means to wrestle against the desire to remain guarded or protected somehow, and instead to face vulnerability head on, knowing that in doing so, one will live a more authentic life. 

For my morning devotions I am reading a book by David Whyte: “Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment, and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words.”  I was delighted to see that the word for today was courage.  Whyte talks about how we often link the word courage to some act of valor in the public sphere: running into a burning building, putting your body between gunman and students,  landing a plane on the Hudson, —where one receives medals and accolades (all of which are deserved). Moreover, according to Whyte, “ to look at its linguistic origins (of courage) is to look in a more interior direction and toward its original template, the old Norman French, Coeur, or heart.”

He goes on to say, “Courage is the measure of our heartfelt participation with life, with another, with a community, a work; a future.  To be courageous is not necessarily to go anywhere or do anything except to make conscious those things we already feel deeply and then to live through the unending vulnerabilities of those consequences. To be courageous is to stay close to the way we are made.” [1]

Stay close to the way we are made.

 Made in God’s image. 

Set to life with the breath of God.

Given the Spirit.

Created for partnership.

Created for relationship.

Created for stewardship.

Molded through hardship.

Molded through worship.  

Molded through discipleship.

In heartfelt participation. 

Stay close. 

-LTM 1/23/23

[1] David Whyte, “Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words.”  (Washington: Many Rivers Press, 2015) p. 39.

Lavender Lydia

Acts 16:11-15

The Conversion of Lydia

We set sail from Troas and took a straight course to Samothrace, the following day to Neapolis, and from there to Philippi, which is a leading city of the district of Macedonia and a Roman colony. We remained in this city for some days. On the sabbath day we went outside the gate by the river, where we supposed there was a place of prayer; and we sat down and spoke to the women who had gathered there. A certain woman named Lydia, a worshipper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth. The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul. When she and her household were baptized, she urged us, saying, ‘If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home.’ And she prevailed upon us.

 

The sky was a lovely shade of lavender early one morning as we drove over the bridge into Brownsburg.  Jump stood tall in all her glory, her summit peaked in burnt orange, blending into deep blue. I wondered to myself, as I often do, has there ever been anything so lovely as a mountain sunrise? 

The color, lavender, stuck with me throughout that day, as I was beginning to brainstorm ideas for our recent session planning meeting. The sky was lavender, you see, because there was a weather system moving in—the beautiful colors were present only because it was cloudy—a storm was coming.  As I pondered leaders that show up in the scriptures, a woman named Lydia came to mind. 

Lydia was an interesting character for several reasons.  First, she was not originally from Philippi, but from Thyatira.  My guess is that she had migrated south to the city with a large port, because she was, in fact, a businesswoman.  We are told she was a dealer in purple cloth, the most expensive in those days.  She was a woman of financial means and would have been a member of a prominent guild in the community.  Even more fascinating, she was a “God-fearer”…she didn’t worship Roman gods, but rather worshipped the God of Israel.  She was in so many ways an outsider.

She was open to hearing Paul’s message.  In fact, as was the case with many people of wealth, she was baptized with the rest of her household—in some way erasing the rules of class that stood between them.  She then practiced her first act of faith by showering hospitality upon them.

What strikes me is that Lydia’s life sounds like she had it all, great wealth, independence, success.  But I suspect that it was beautiful because there had been many storms in her life.  I suspect she was widowed, only inheriting her business because there were no men in her family to take on the work.  She had no doubt experienced grief and loss.  Why was she in prayer by the river instead of within the city walls? She was an outsider in her faith, too.  I suspect it wasn’t easy being a woman in a man’s world and she found it easier to retreat.  The beautiful lavender hues in her life were not without clouds and shadows.  Thus, is life, but we too can trust in the grace of God by our savior, the ruler who, by earthly standards would have been wrapped in that luxurious purple cloth.  May you find ways to be a leader of the faith in your own right, standing tall on the thin shore between the waters of baptism and the walls that human brokenness builds. Witness to the faith, in all its colors.