Jesus’ Birth:Follow the star

Scripture: Matthew 2:1-12

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising and have come to pay him homage.’ When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, ‘In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet:
“And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
   are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler
   who is to shepherd my people, Israel.” ’

Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, ‘Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.’ When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary, his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure-chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.

Interesting Facts:

• Matthew was likely composed between 80 and 90 C.E.  Though widely thought to have originated with the disciple Matthew, the late date would suggest otherwise.

• The wisemen were likely courtly priests who practiced astrology. King of the Jews is meant to be a foil to King Herod.

• “His Star” refers to Num. 24:17 “I see him, but not now; I behold him, but not near—a star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel”

Pondering:

• Why would this be relevant that Jesus had gentile (non-jewish) men come to worship him?  

• What significance do the gifts (gold, frankincense, myrrh) given by the magi hold?

• In the following verses, Jesus’ parents flee to Egypt to keep him safe from Herod. How might this story inform how we treat ‘the other’, ‘the outcast’, ‘the immigrant’?

God & Abraham’s Covenant

Scripture: Genesis 15:1-6

After these things the word of the Lord came to Abram in a vision, ‘Do not be afraid, Abram, I am your shield; your reward shall be very great.’ But Abram said, ‘O Lord God, what will you give me, for I continue childless, and the heir of my house is Eliezer of Damascus?’ And Abram said, ‘You have given me no offspring, and so a slave born in my house is to be my heir.’ But the word of the Lord came to him, ‘This man shall not be your heir; no one but your very own issue shall be your heir.’ He brought him outside and said, ‘Look towards heaven and count the stars, if you are able to count them.’ Then he said to him, ‘So shall your descendants be.’ And he believed the Lord; and the Lord reckoned it to him as righteousness.

Interesting Facts:

• The book of Genesis was likely assembled from various sources that date from the tenth,  eighth, and sixth centuries B.C.E.

• In chapter 12 Abram is told to leave his homeland and travel to the land God will show him (Canaan). He would have followed and slept under the stars.

• In chapter 13 Abram tells Lot, his nephew, to separate himself from them and make his own way.  Abram and Lot both have plenty of livestock and possessions. 

• In chapter 14 Abram is blessed by King Melchizedek of Salem after winning a battle.  You only hear of Melchizedek again in Hebrews where Jesus is named as a priest in the order of Melchizedek.  Thus, Jesus is linked to a king/priest and to Abram in genealogy.

• Eliezer of Damascus mentioned in 15:3 is likely a steward of Abram’s house. He is concerned that with Lot separated from him, he will have no one to share his reward with as they are childless.

Pondering:

• Can you think of other instances in the scripture in which there is a vision and message, “Do not be afraid?”  The phrase is used 365 times in the Bible.  Do you think it helps the hearer to not fear?

• Do you think he remains faithful of God’s promise? Why or why not?

• Flesh out the story, what happens next?  How does God’s promise come to be fulfilled?

• What does this mean for us in our present-day experience?

Spirituality Is…

Visionary.

It ignites and invites like

Blue sky Texas eyes,

River-wide smiles and

Austin city limits, sparkling.

Nimble joy and wild as Bluebonnets.

Tender. Timeless. Radiant.

Loren Tate Mitchell

May 22, 2023

For Aimee.

Have A Sticker

 On Sunday morning, one of our youngest disciples at New Providence was running around the fellowship hall after church giving everyone stickers.  She didn’t say a word, she just ran up to people, placed a sticker on their hand and jubilantly ran off to gift another to someone else.  A few individuals chuckled to each other and said, “what did you do to earn a sticker?”  The reply was, “I don’t know” or “nothing!”  And so, it is with God’s grace.  What is the phrase in Isaiah, “and a little child will lead them?”

This is what I want everyone to feel when they come into the doors of New Providence (these heavy, creaking, century old doors), that you are welcome and loved for no other reason than you are a child of God.  Whether you are 3 or 93 there is a safe sanctuary for you here, where you will be enveloped in open arms, known by name, and seen as beloved. 

We should all behave a little bit more like our children.  They wave to everyone with abandon.  They have no qualms about singing (whether there is music playing or not).  They listen (with at least one ear).  They talk about their lives. They pray (for anything and everything without shame). They give generously (from their piggy banks and their plates). They believe without doubt.   They express joy. 

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”—Matthew 19:14

Movement

Movement.  In the desert.  A flurry of activity from a cookie-cutter civilization.  Movement toward a common goal.  Build a tower.  Build a grand tower brick by brick to scrape the sky. To stand so high you watch clouds float by.  Movement. Upward mobility, the type of which would bring a great name for a people unto itself.

Movement. In the desert.  The Lord came down. Always down, to meet the people of God’s creation.  The humanity which he brought with the breath of life. The humanity he had named.  They dared to make a name for themselves. Only God names.  Movement.  The Lord scatters the people. God divided their tongues.  No longer one language, no longer one culture, no longer one people.  Movement. Scattered like dry leaves from a strong wind. 

Movement.  Generation after generation the people scattered upon the earth. Divide, then multiply. Then divide again.  All strive to make a name.  All strive to hold their own power.  All strive to be like God. All strive to be favored by God.  And all fail. Until….

Movement.  The Lord came down. Always down, to meet the people of God’s creation.  The humanity in which he had breathed life, the humanity God named--Emmanuel. God with us.  Only God names.  Movement.  Jesus walked among us, gathering the scattered, healing the lame, feeding the hungry, speaking the Word.  All strive to give him names.  Son of Man, Son of God, Messiah, Rabbi.  All strive to give him power. Make him King.  All strive to be like God.  All strive to be favored by God. 

Movement.  A walk to death, a place on the cross. A final breath. A burial. A stone rolled away.  A stranger on the road, a stranger on the beach. A savior, who once was dead and now is alive. Raised to the God who always comes down, to be seated with God at the throne of grace.

Movement.  Shifting eyes and sweaty hands. Feet shuffling on the dusty floor of a cramped room.  Disciples of a Rabbi who had gone ahead of them. The students must become the leaders. When the day of Pentecost had come, they were gathered in one place. But that was as far as they’d come.  As far as they could go.  They no longer knew movement.  They were stagnant. Weighed down by the crush of fear. 

Movement.  A strong wind. God’s breath, the very Spirit of God tore through windows, whipping the robes and sashes of the people. People gathered yet scattered. It filled the house.  Divided tongues of fire rested on each head.  Movement.  Once frozen in fear, now thawed.  Filled with the Holy Spirit they knew the words to speak.  They spoke in other languages. And they began to comprehend. Amazed. Astonished. Movement.  God’s people scattered. God’s people gathered.  Children of God. Heirs of God. United with Christ-- brothers and sisters.  Go out. Go out. Go out.  Movement. 

Why do you stand looking toward heaven?

Acts 1:6-14 The Ascension of Jesus

So when they had come together, they asked him, ‘Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?’ He replied, ‘It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.’ When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. While he was going and they were gazing up towards heaven, suddenly two men in white robes stood by them. They said, ‘Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up towards heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.’

Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a sabbath day’s journey away. When they had entered the city, they went to the room upstairs where they were staying, Peter, and John, and James, and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James son of Alphaeus, and Simon the Zealot, and Judas son of James. All these were constantly devoting themselves to prayer, together with certain women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, as well as his brothers.

There are just a few things I want to highlight from this scriptural account of Jesus’ ascension that are important for us as we (still) await the return of Jesus Christ.

1)      We are not meant to know then when and how of God’s plans for the second coming.  Whether it be another hour or another century, the clock is ticking for us. God is God and we are not, thank goodness.

2)      We are not to stand around gawking at the sky, scratching our heads as we wait.  Again, the clock is ticking for us, we are not meant to be idle (nor busy ourselves with meaningless distraction).

3)      The Holy Spirit is given to us so that we may have the ability to be witnesses to the good news of Jesus Christ.  We need not fear that we are not equipped for the task.

4)      We are meant to stick together in this work of witness, to be in community and not become siloed.  Witnessing takes many forms; it is in the warm greeting of a stranger, the carefully packaged box of food, in the hands of those who open the doors.

5)      We are to devote ourselves to constant prayer for our mission.  There is no person too close to Jesus who need not pray without ceasing, see even his mother was a participant.  There is no individual who can do this work without being in conversation and relationship with the triune God.  And so, let us pray.

Lord of life, 
We do not know the face of the future,

any more than your disciples did. 
Like them, we have many questions:
how to live 
how to bear witness. 
Like them, we thirst for the spring waters of the Spirit 
to inspire us in our living 
to give us a heart language in our testimony.

You have been raised in glory

that we might rise with dignity 
You live in power that we might live in peace 
You are present everywhere

that we might be fully present in our own lives 
This we believe 
This we step out on. 

~ Prayer originally posted on the Monthly Prayers page (now Weekly Worship) of the Christian Aid website. https://www.christianaid.org.uk/churches/weekly-worship

Rainbow Connection

Red is for the bloody thorns and life that blooms eternal
Orange for the sun setting while his body rested in the tomb
Yellow for the glow above, a lamb’s paschal moon
Green is for the scrubby shrubs just beyond the grave
Blue for the light thread of hope on the horizon
Indigo for the night sky that summons early dawn
Violet for the royal shroud as the King arises.

LTM 5/7/23

The Beauty of Belonging

I went home to Hollins this week, twice actually.   On Tuesday I visited on my own.  I had some time before an appointment, so I left early and went for a walk around the campus loop. On Saturday I returned with my family because Kemper wanted to walk around, and we happily obliged him to return to the place where our relationship began.  Kemper stopped at a campus map and asked me to show him the buildings where I had classes and the places where I lived.  He said it seemed like they were far apart, and he was surprised we did all that walking.  I had to laugh because with the exception of my life here, it was the only place where I could get up five minutes before I had to be somewhere and still arrived on time.

Twenty years ago (twenty?!) Hollins was a haven.  It felt like a little bubble of a sanctuary in the middle of a city.  When you drove up the hill and around the curve, the noise of the neighborhood fell away—we were out of mind and out sight.  I idealized the notion that when you drove through “the gate” (there is no gate) you were just a Hollins woman…all that needed to define you was your physical presence and whether you were in Lily Pulitzer and pearls or sporting Birkenstocks while smelling like Patchouli you were Hollins.  I honestly cannot imagine a more eclectic group of women than those milling around that campus in the early 2000s.  Sculptors, dancers, writers, business majors, psychology majors, scientists, and historians.  But it would be a lie to say we lived harmoniously all the time.  We were as segregated as anywhere else in America. If you divided the campus into quadrants, the upper crust had one corner, the bohemians another, the international students were a small sliver and the black students perhaps even more underrepresented.  But, in the end, I like to think we were all hyper aware that we were 800 women working in tandem to break the glass ceiling.

The campus was quiet this week.  I only saw a handful of students on each visit.  I walked the loop amazed at the new apartment houses that were constructed a few years ago and shook my head in disbelief at how lucky “these girls” have it. But I wouldn’t have traded my asbestos ridden freshman dorm for anything in the world.  As I took in the view of Tinker Mountain, and the white fences lining rolling hills, I had to wonder if I ever really appreciated the beauty of the place when I was living in it.  Isn’t that always the way?  While the young women I saw were still eclectic in the ways they chose to assert their personalities through physical accoutrements, I noticed something almost all of them had in common.  For the most part, they were running or walking the loop or quad alone, and they all had on earphones.  Truly, I only saw one group of women who were chatting together as they walked, seemingly returning to campus after an outing together.  This made me sad in a profound way.  Because the one thing I cannot fathom (although I know some people would feel this deeply) is being alone at Hollins.  We may have listened to our iPods sometimes, but more often than not, we were blasting our music through our computer speakers or the jukebox in the cafeteria for all to hear and share in the fun. Apart from walking to (some) classes alone, we moved in packs years before the era of Taylor Swift’s girl squad.  We walked to meals as first-year students as a hall…a gaggle of 20 girls winding their way across the back quad to the dining hall, where we would sometimes shut the place down…sitting at the table together for so long we went back for second dinner.  My memories of taking classes together, sitting on porch steps together, solving the problems of the world together, are some of my most treasured experiences. 

In addition to my awareness that so many of these ladies were seemingly in their own little world, drowning out the sounds of nature and conversation with earbuds and walking alone with their heads down, faces in a phone; the other thing I was acutely aware of was that I was a visitor in a place I had once called home.  Hollins is an open campus, the library is used by the public, people often park and walk the loop around the perimeter of campus for exercise, Hollins hosts many events that are open to the community at large.  But something about covid and the state of the world has altered that.  Hollins administrators have been incredibly cautious about protecting students in the pandemic, which I greatly appreciate! But, it doesn’t feel like I can roam the quad the way that I once did or enter the library for a quiet place to work.  I was also hyper aware of the fact that for all our young, fanciful thinking, Hollins is not actually a snow-globe filled with glitter…but that bad people could burst the bubble as easily as the good.  Seeing a stranger, especially a male, no longer makes me feel just cautious, but a little afraid.  Who knows if they have a hidden agenda. Twenty years ago, I had no qualms about Michael leaving my dorm to walk across the quad to see our friends in another building without an escort.  There were enough people who recognized him along the way that he didn’t seem to pose a threat. Boys at Hollins were like unicorns…there were usually only a few, they were mysterious, and everyone stared at them. But on this visit, I was hypersensitive, even with no one else in sight, that I didn’t want Michael or Kemper to get too far away from me.  Taking them into the chapel to use the restroom felt like an invasion. Even while Michael made jokes that he didn’t want to get near the security office, because they might come after him with all his unpaid campus parking tickets! I was very aware that I was now a stranger there too and I tried my best to blend in and be non-threatening while sporting my Hollins hat and tennis shoes. 

Why do I say all of this?  It’s a reflection on space and community.  It is a reflection on the beauty of place and the beauty of belonging.  I was fortunate to have both in my time at Hollins.  I don’t want to forget.  And I want to shake these young women and say, “Don’t fritter it away. This is sacred ground.  This is holy space.  This is where you find your people! This is beauty. This is home.”   

Do you have a sanctuary like this?  Do you have a place that gives definition to a particular season in your life?  Do you ever revisit it? Is it still a part of your daily experience?  What is it like to return somewhere after being away? 

The Bedford Girls

My great-grandmother, Pearl Katherine White Beard, was a writer.  I honestly do not know much about her, except that as a married woman she lived in Bedford County where she married my grandfather Roy Craft Beard, in the shadow of the Peaks of Otter at Kelso Mill and had five children.  I know that when my great-grandfather died, leaving her to raise five children she found herself faced with a difficult decision.  She sent her two sons to work on another farm with their uncle.  She took her three daughters to the Bedford train station and sent them to the Miller Home Orphanage in Lynchburg.  My grandmother, Shirley Pearl Beard, was just five years old, so the year would have been 1923.  This is pure speculation on my part because I would have to go back and look at dates to verify, but I suspect that as a widow, my great-grandmother took up writing as an additional source of income.  I remember seeing article clippings that she had penned for the society pages in the newspaper describing a wedding, and particularly the bride’s beaded gown in lavish detail.   As an adult, I cannot help but think about how hard it would have been for her to send her children to be taken care of by someone else because she felt herself uncapable of doing so.   When my grandmother, Pearlie, as we lovingly called her, would tell me stories as a child I just thought her mother must have been so cruel to ship her daughters away.  But I wonder if it pained her to write those flowery articles as she recalled her own wedding day, and the life she imagined she would have.  If she thought, amid her struggles, how irrelevant the number of beads hand stitched in lace were in the grand scheme of things.

When Pearlie became a young woman, she left the orphanage and married my grandfather Grover Carl Holt, Jr.  After years in the orphanage, even with visits from her family on occasion, she was eager to move on and begin a family of her own.  They lived in Hurt, Virginia on a little farm that reached all the way to the railroad tracks by the river. I feel like she was quite the practical woman.  She laundered and canned and sewed all their clothes. When she found the style of shoes she liked, she bought an extra pair. On Sundays she put on her clip-on earrings and powdered her nose with care.  She gave birth to five children and only two made it to adulthood.  My Uncle Glen, and my mother who was eight years his junior. Two sons died very young, and one son was placed in a home for the disabled when he was in his teens.   Instead of describing bridal gowns and wedding guests, Pearlie wrote cards, letters, and grocery lists.  She set the Sunday table for the extended family and when her mother became feeble, she gave her a room in her own little home.  When I was a child, she taught me the days of the month and the seasons of the year.  She took me to church. Now, even still, she teaches me a lot about forgiveness.

My mother, Belvia Sue Holt Tate, is also a writer.  She kept this little secret for a long time, amid her other notable hobbies of painting and gardening.  I recall her taking literature and writing classes at the local community college when I was a little girl and how vivid the narrative about her daddy came to life. By then my parents and I were living back on the land my grandfather farmed near my Grandma Pearlie.  My grandfather, Crebo (they called him since he was a child), passed away when I was a baby.  Suddenly, my practical grandmother, ever the caregiver, was rattling around in her little grey house all by herself, surrounded by the memories of all she had lost.  I became her purpose.  Mornings, evenings, and summer days were for Pearlie’s house; where I baked mudpies, played with dolls, and watched Pearlie dress her long white tresses in rollers. 

I was in second or third grade, probably around 1993 when I started writing short stories and poems.  I would sit by Pearlie’s chair in the living room, next to the heat vent on the floor and weave words to the sound of the morning news. Weather report by one Mr. Willard Scott, of course.  When I got older, I would sit on her porch and journal about how life wasn’t fair, and I hated my parents because we were moving.  We moved to Bedford County, under the shadow of the Peaks of Otter, just a few miles from Kelso’s Mill as the crow flies.  And Pearlie, she came with us.  And my mama took care of her, just like she did for her own mother.  As a teenager I could hardly wrap my mind around it, how my mama had watched her mama do the same thing in their home years before.  Preparing meals for everyone, doing the cleaning and the laundry, shuttling Pearlie to doctors’ appointments and me to everything under the sun. All the while working and going to school.  She didn’t have time to write or paint then, or really anything for herself except working in her garden, which she tells me was therapy. It wasn’t until Pearlie died, and I was grown, and mom had faced incredible life-changing experiences, that she wrote her story.  Now, even still, she teaches me about being a caregiver to others, but perhaps even more to myself.  To not lose the essence of who I am even as I grow as a wife, a mother, and a daughter.

A question was raised in Sunday School, “Can you think of someone who has made a huge sacrifice for you, who was it and why?”  And the point was raised that our parents make countless sacrifices we know nothing about, nor do we understand until we are much older.  I come from a long line of strong women who knew the undeniable truth of self-sacrifice.  I come from a long line of women who were incredible caregivers and sacrificed so much of themselves for the good of their children and their parents as they aged.  I hope I can be as strong as them.  I hope I can see the beauty in small details, like Pearl, even when life gets ugly.  I hope I can find my way to nurturing forgiveness in the middle of the mundane like Shirley.  I hope I can make time for my son in flurry of responsibility like my mama did for me. And I hope, I always have the words to share the stories of courage, sacrifice, forgiveness, and love.

southern spring

Raspberry-rose-magenta tendrils bloom as the

Enchanted forests awaken in kelly- greens.

Dogwoods dance in the wind of a

Blue Ridge backdrop rolling

Underneath a cerulean sky.

Delicate, grace-full, awaited.

Spring.

LTM 4/17/23

The Unexpected Detours

Trying to entertain your child(ren) over Spring Break can be challenging.  Trying to entertain your PK (Preacher’s Kid) on Spring Break during Holy Week adds an extra level of finesse. On Tuesday we planned to go to Lynchburg to have lunch and play putt-putt before I dropped him off at Beba & Papa’s (my parents) house for a sleepover.  This was exciting for a couple of reasons.  First, I do not think he had spent the night with my folks on his own since before covid.  Second, the kid loves putt-putt. You may not know this about me, but I do like to have a plan if possible.  So, I kind of had an idea of the timing of the day and how things would unfold. It was a gorgeous day! I love the drive on 501 to 122 along the James River.  So many Redbuds blooming, it was just beautiful.  So, we stopped at an overlook for a few minutes and went on our way.  Kemper wanted to stop by the river again, even though we were already hungry for lunch and so we pulled off once we got to the bottom of the mountain.  Turns out we had stopped at the James River Foot Bridge.  We were not aware that we could walk across this bridge spanning the river and discover walking trails on the other side.  We spent almost an hour exploring the area on the other side of the river.  We had a great time! It meant that we got to my parent’s house a bit later than anticipated and it put me later getting home, but I wouldn’t trade that little detour for the world. 

You know, the scriptures have a lot to say about unexpected journeys and detours.  The disciples certainly took one when they dropped their nets by the sea of Galilee and started wandering around with an itinerant prophet—surprise, the Messiah! Paul had every intention of persecuting the earliest Christians when he was stopped on the road to Damascus. The two disciples on the road to Emmaus encountered the risen Lord and ended up retracing their steps back to Jerusalem to share this news.  An angel of the Lord sent Philip traveling south from Jerusalem to Gaza and met an Ethiopian Eunuch and baptized him.  I guess what I’m saying is, our best laid plans being disrupted might just be God nudging us to pay attention and see him at work.  What detours might you welcome into your life this week?

Why Are You Weeping

My name is Mary of Magdala.  My name means “bitter one” and it is true that I have led a bitter life.  At least this was the case until I met Jesus.  I felt his healing touch, I became his friend and was the first of my companions to greet Jesus, our risen Lord.  It was early morning, just before dawn, the sky was still dark except for a sliver of orange light on the horizon.  As I walked to the tomb I was distracted by my own mournful thoughts.  The previous three days had been a blur; as if I had left my heart there at the foot of the cross the moment Jesus breathed his last.  Although I was exhausted, I made my way to the tomb carrying a heavy jar of spices made to ensure that my teacher and my friend has a proper burial.  As I approached the tomb, something was off, I couldn’t believe my eyes, the stone was rolled away!  I peered into the darkness, looking for the shrouded form of Jesus in the niche carved for his body, but he was not there!  I dropped my jar of perfume, and it shattered on the stone floor.  Drawing my skirt up around my knees I ran, tripping and stumbling over roots and stones as I hurried to the village.

I entered the house where the disciples were staying and breathless as I was I said to Simon Peter and Jesus’ beloved disciple, “Jesus is gone! I do not know where they have taken him, go and see for yourselves, Jesus is not there!”  No doubt they thought these were the ramblings of a hysterical woman wrought with grief.  After all, unlike them I had never left Jesus’ side until he was laid to rest in the tomb and since that time, I hadn’t slept at all.  They looked at one another and ran from the house, down the street and toward the place where we had wrapped Jesus in the shroud and placed him.  I followed after them hoping for answers.  It had taken five strong men to place the stone, who could have moved it away?  Why?

Upon their arrival the disciples found, just as I had told them, the wrappings of Jesus lying on the ground, but his body was nowhere to be found.  Peter found the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head set aside, folded neatly by itself.  There was terror on their faces.  They began to argue as to who could have moved his body.  Was it the Romans? Was the enemy close at hand?  What were we to do without Jesus to guide us?  Surely, in some of those riddles he spoke he could have left us some instruction.  They fled back to the house leaving me alone beside the boulder.

I was exhausted, too overwhelmed to move.  My friend, my teacher, my Lord, why had these terrible things happened to him?  He was a good man, why did he suffer? And why could he not be put to rest in peace, this is all we had wished for him.  I believed with all my heart that he was our Messiah, for he had shown us wonderful signs and worked miracles, even in me.  I remember thinking, “now he is gone, how am I to go on without him?”  I fell to the ground amongst the flowers, the dust settled on my cloak, and I wept.  I had been strong, but I could bear no more.

I heard a voice behind me ask me why I was weeping.  How could I respond?  This person would not understand all I had seen, all that we had been through over these last days.  I became angry then, I turned further away from the man behind me, “They have taken my Lord, I do not know where they have taken him!”  The man appeared to be little more than a nosey gardener, I had a mind to put him in his place, but he asked again, “Woman, why are you weeping?”  Had I not already answered him?  As I wiped tears from my eyes with clenched fists I cried despairingly, “If you have carried him away tell me where you have put him, so that I can take him away!”  Then the man called my name, “Mary.”  Then I turned around and came face to face with my Lord Jesus!  “Teacher, teacher!” I cried and threw my arms around him.  Jesus gently pulled me away from him as though it pained him and told me not to hug him so, but instead to go back to my brothers, the disciples and tell them that he was ascending to God.

My jubilation at seeing him alive, warm to the touch was quickly mixed with sadness that he was not here to stay but merely to help us understand in our unbelief.  I regained my strength as I had been given a mission; the Lord had trusted me, a woman of little consequence in the world to share his Word.  My beloved teacher was now more than a teacher, he was truly the Messiah and he had asked me before all others to spread the good news.

My heart full of joy I ran back to the house and told the disciples, “I have seen the Lord!”  They struggled to believe me that day, especially Thomas, but Jesus appeared to them as well on three different occasions.  We all had to see him to believe it was true, but Jesus asked Thomas, “Do you believe in me because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.”  And now I must wonder if Jesus perhaps appeared to me first because of my belief.  I cannot be sure but perhaps my belief in Jesus as Lord caused him to appear to me first.  I never left Jesus, I was near him as he carried his cross, I wept at his feet as he died, and I lingered at the tomb as a pup who had lost its master.  Now I understand what our Lord meant when he told us of the things he was passionate about, a world filled with love and justice for all people.  Jesus’ kingdom had come, and we must all strive to live into that kingdom each day.  Our Lord died for us, wiping away our sins and has gone ahead of us to prepare a place for each of us.  I know it is hard to believe in a Messiah you cannot see, but he is there, alive in each one of you.  Indeed, I now understand Jesus’ words; perhaps one must believe, to truly see.

Sentinel

Standing watch

strong but delicate

graceful dancers

poised to plie—

pink blossom hair

dancing in the spring breeze.

Sisters Three

branched arms tangled

as roots stretch long.

A nesting place,

a feast for the bees.

They keep vigil

with the pines that hold

crows in their boughs,

over the generations

they weep.

LTM 3/26/23

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.