Take, Eat, and Remember

I have a distinct memory of the very first Sunday I took communion. I wish I could say I remember it so well because I caught a glimpse of the holy wonder of Jesus through participation in this timeless sacrament or that I had some recognition of what this mystery meant. I should confess, however, the memory has little to do with Jesus. I was in the backseat of my father’s car, sitting surreptitiously behind the driver’s seat so that he could not see what I was up to.

My father, a faithful Episcopalian and Eucharist partaker, had decided that that Sunday was the first Sunday that I would take communion. Because my mother was at home with my younger, sick brother, it was up to him to impress upon me the importance of this day and this meal. I, on the other hand, had a different agenda in mind. With my mother distracted with illness and my father focused on imparting Eucharistic wisdom to his impressionable daughter, I saw this car ride as a unique opportunity to try out the red lipstick I had stashed away in my white, paten-leather purse the previous Easter. As my dad eloquently spoke of Jesus’ life, death and last meal with his friends, armed with a pocket mirror and Estee Lauder, I proceeded to paint the lower part of my face bright red. It was a least two days before my face returned to its normal hue. But, after a vigorous scrubbing in the bathroom and many amused looks from those who witnessed my make-up artistry, I joined my father at the communion rail, cupping my hands in the sign of a cross, ready to receive the bread of life. I will never forget that morning.

Our celebration of World Communion Sunday was a reminder to me of the great diversity of those who are hungry to be fed. From the youngest ones who join the meal without care or pretense to the ones who have come to the table, again and again, year after year, growing in the knowledge that this food, which binds together saints of the past, present, and still to come, is the only food which truly fills us. That’s not to say that there have been some seasons in my life when taking communion has felt less significant to me. I have often thought fellowship meals and coffee dates on random afternoons which help relationships to grow into intimate, close friendship, are even more important than any ancient tradition of the church. In part, I may have even been right. But I don’t think one precludes the other. Perhaps they go together, hand in hand, our holy meal which celebrates the love of our Savior providing the framework for all of our other encounters. Coming to any table to break bread is given deeper meaning because we have been taught how to commune rightfully with one another with unconditional love, respect, and care.

When we celebrate holy communion, we acknowledge that this morsel and drop of bread and wine are a foretaste of the fulfillment of God’s promises to us and to the whole world. Last Sunday, from East and West and in every tongue, we joined with countless others to be reminded of the abounding hope found at the Lord’s table. With this memory fresh in our hearts, we are sure to experience this hope elsewhere, around other tables, holding hands and saying grace, or even as we marvel at the signs of the season’s shifting. God’s presence abides with us-- in our worship and in our world, always steadfast, faithful, and true.

Leave-taking

“I am better at hellos” quipped Karen Blixen in one of my favorite scenes from Out of Africa, when she discovers that her husband is, yet again, leaving her alone on their Kenyan farm. I would imagine many of us would relate to Karen when the time comes to say good-bye to the ones that we love. It’s never easy, even with the assurance that one day, in one way or the other, we will meet again.

As we prepare for leave-taking with our Malawian friends, I have thought of the great difficulty I have had with saying good-bye over the years. The day before leaving is always the hardest. Emotions seem to run high and low. I always end up in a colossal argument with my mother on the way to the airport, dissolving in tears and my resolve to never allow her to drive me to the airport again. It is as if we are refusing to face the truth of our sadness at leaving by conjuring up some other pain as a distraction. Days later, once resettled in our respective lives, we remember how we have learned to love each other even at a distance.

At times I have wished to corral my family and friends into one place, keeping them safe and close. But, I know this is impossible, that we must learn to hold each other in our hearts, and envision new ways of relationship and care which transcends space, time, and geography. We can even teach ourselves to be grateful for the few hours we are given, an impromptu coffee date along an interstate thoroughfare. I realized I was getting better at coming and going when I viewed an hour conversation with an old friend not as too little time but instead as simply a gift. Despite the moments when I wish I would have stayed safely tucked in my original home community, I know it is impossible to prevent life’s movements-- friendships shift, people move, and loved ones pass away. None of us are immune.

For the past two weeks, our church community has been given a gift of face-to-face time with our Malawian brothers and sisters. We have smiled and laughed a lot, encountering parts of our home with them as if it were our very first time. We have been reminded of our unity even in the midst of our different cultures. We have come together, making a patchwork of memories which all of us, on both sides of the ocean, will cherish dearly. Saying goodbye to friends who live 8,000 miles away seems rather stark, worthy of tears to say the least. Yet, we do not know what future gifts of encounter await us. We do not know God’s ways or plans, but that His faithfulness endures. With this leave-taking, we give thanks for the gift of time that we have been given with our friends, and trust that in a myriad of ways, even from afar, our relationships will continue to grow and strengthen through the power and love of Jesus Christ.

Leave-taking Prayer

By: Saint Thomas More

If the heart grows heavy

As an adamantine stone

May some lost lark find refuge there

And a lilting song intone.

And if sadness sits upon your winter face

And heavy knits your brow

May spring descend with flowers bright

And laugh upon the broken bough.

If the road leads to deserts sere

And the soul is on sorrow's brink

May you find old Jacob's ancient well

And drink, and drink, and drink.

Reflections on our Anniversary

As I have reflected on our 25th anniversary service last Sunday and all the events that have surrounded it so far, I feel stumped for words to describe what a joy and privilege it is to be a part of this church community during this special time. As I looked around the sanctuary during the worship service, I wondered about the threads of life represented in the room. Some threads seem bold with color, while others have begun to fade ever so quietly. All are woven into our life tapestry, giving it strength, wisdom, and vitality. As a newcomer, I realize that I have not even scratched the surface of our stories of joy and sorrow and faith, each individual contribution making up the layers of our foundation.

Being a part of this church, however briefly, has felt like a homecoming. The feeling of family which seems to extend not only to those within our walls, but also to those beyond it, is as palpable as my most cherished memories of family around the thanksgiving table. This feeling of family is significant to me as it has been ten years since I have lived at home with my parents, and almost that long since I have been able to participate in the daily moments of family life like birthdays and anniversaries.

Being geographically separated from home has been a source of sadness for me at times, particularly when I have been unable to make the journey to join holiday celebrations or hospital gatherings to witness the passing of the lives of my grandparents. My calling and the responsibilities that have come with it have pushed me to travel to distant communities, and, in a way, discover family wherever I have found myself.

Sometime last winter, when I was living in Cape Town, I experienced a moment which brought this truth to my greater awareness. A dear friend from my church choir was scheduled to have a hip replacement surgery, and she and her husband had asked me to come and pray with her as she was preparing to go into the operation. The pre-operation room housed six beds, and around most of the beds, family or friends were present. Her parents were hours away in another region of the country and her siblings even further in Germany and the United States. It struck me that then, in that moment, I was family for her. She had given me the privilege of standing next to her in a most vulnerable and anxious time, a privilege that is most often reserved for a parent or child. I may not have been able to be present for my own parents as they have dealt with stress or sickness because of my geographic vicinity, but I could be there for this woman, offering myself and my love as if I were her own daughter. I pray that others will stand in for me for those whom I love that are too far for me to reach with my own touch.

This kind of offering, these kinds of relationships, are just what the church is founded upon. In our baptism, through the love of God which has been infused in us, we are able to reach out and be mothers and fathers, siblings and children to those who we meet sitting next to us in the pews, right before our eyes. It may not be what we thought we needed or wanted, but in God’s way of providing for us, it is enough. As we celebrate this 25th anniversary, we are reminded that our stories are inextricably bound with one another. Through our peaks and valleys, in our times of light and darkness, we walk with one another, offering who we are and what we have. It is manna in the wilderness-- not too much or too little, but just enough.

Sitting with Jesus

A Reflection on Luke 10:38-42

I have spent the better part of this week with Mary and Martha’s story on my mind. No doubt, Sara’s sermon on the gospel of Luke planted a thought-provoking seed. As one embodying many of Martha’s personality traits, it’s easy to imagine Martha’s actions in the story. The cleaning, the cooking, the fixing, and constant do-gooding was all well inspired by a call to serve Jesus. What’s harder for me to envision are Mary’s actions and behaviors in this tale. We know that she is praised for setting aside responsibilities and protocol so that she can simply sit, or be, with Jesus.

I have wondered what sitting with Jesus really looks like for us in our everyday lives. Just who or what is enough to stop us in our tracks, to cause us to pause from the tasks at hand and be fully present. I wonder if Jesus wasn’t criticizing Martha’s actions so much as he was reminding all of us to honor encounters with the Lord, even the ones which take place without recognizable importance. These moments of holy wonder are our burning bushes, and if we aren’t watchful, we may miss them altogether. Jesus hardly ever appeared with fanfare, but almost always showed up in the unexpected margins-- dirty feet, stale bread, sour wine-- mundane banality turned precious. It’s easy to miss Jesus, even when He is sitting beside us.

The last moments I shared with my grandmother, a few weeks before she passed away, seemed insignificant at the time. In the middle of a whirlwind visit home, when I was attempting to share a meal with every friend I ever had while also preparing to leave for South Africa just weeks later, I made a thirty minute window to stop by her home and say hello. I was distracted by my own many tasks, the piles of fundraising letters I needed to send and the “to do” list which was pages thick. I was preaching the next morning in a local church and two attempts to write a sermon had fallen flat. The last thing I had time for that day, that week, and that summer was a drive to the other side of town without a productive purpose in mind. I did try to act present as I sat down to visit, but my grandmother was too perceptive. She saw right through me.

“You don’t have time for me, today,” she said. I tried to convince her otherwise, but with a quiet, firm raise of her hand she continued.

“It’s ok. I am happy just seeing you for a moment.”

We ended up having a good visit. When she died unexpectedly, just weeks later, it struck me how blind I was not to recognize the sacredness of a such a visit, what a blessing it was to have a living grandmother who cared to spend time with me. I almost missed those last moments with her. In my haste, I nearly neglected to take the sandals from my feet and honor this sacred ground. In these two years, I have often wondered if she realized that visit would be our last. Her grace for my harried disinterest has lingered with me, particularly on the days in ministry when the last thing I want is an interruption in my productivity. Just as I begin to maneuver away from whomever it is hoping for a longer audience, because I have a deadline breathing down my neck, I remember my grandmother’s face the last time I saw her alive. Now, I cannot fittingly show her how much she meant to me, or tell her that I value time with her more than any task I have ever accomplished. Yet, every time I pause to be present with someone else who is longing to be seen and heard, I know I honor her.

To sit with Jesus is simply to sit with another, old or young, rich or poor, empty or fulfilled, and to experience a shared and holy humanity. This may look like everyday stuff, lacking importance, grandeur, or significance, but this is just how God appears to us. For Moses, it was noticing God in a bush as he tended his flock. For Mary, it was pausing to sit and be with Jesus, in the midst of preparing for a party. As we tend to our chores, as we go about our frenetic lives, may we be tuned in enough to turn our head, pause, and witness the divine presence wherever it burns. May we take the time to stop and sit a while with Jesus, in whatever place we find Him.

PRAYER for EASTER MORNING

Holy One, at the first light of dawn

on the first day of the week

we gather to greet the risen Lord:

firstborn of the dead.

Keep us faithful as your people,

the first fruit of your Holy Spirit,

until you gather us at last

in your realm of endless light;

through Jesus Christ, Alpha and Omega.

(prayer from www.pcusa.org)

Photo taken by Sara Holben, May 2009: Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem.

We know what happened on the other days of Holy Week ... but what about Saturday? It doesn't say anything about Saturday. What did they do that day? What do we do? Well, of course it was the Sabbath for them ... so they DID know what to do, or not do, as the case may be. But what about us? What do we do with this day of waiting?

Since becoming a pastor 22 years ago, I know what to do with Saturday before Easter: finish the sermon, check and double-check the "list" of what needs to be done and by when on Sunday morning (sunrise service comes awfully early and then things happen very quickly!), in general, Saturday is very simple: stay as focused as possible on Easter so that it all comes together. For those of you with children and grandchildren (and nieces and nephews) ... it's also a day for finishing Easter baskets, planning Easter lunch (or dinner ... whichever it is for you), and on a spectacular spring Saturday (like today promises to be) ... enjoy the outdoors.

It's easy to fill up a Saturday ... any Saturday ... with errands and tasks and work to do (whether sermon or household chores). But maybe Saturday is simply meant to be a day to ponder the mystery of it all.

So on whatever "Saturday" list you have ... add to it: "ponder the mystery of God's gift of life" ... and if you can spare a few minutes, watch this YouTube clip (put together by some folks at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, MN. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0c2inXKD6PI

Easter IS Coming. Thanks be to God.

(Photo taken by Sara Holben - May 2009, outside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem)

Today during our Good Friday service, Parish Associate Rev. Dr. John Ames (how's that for an official title!) said something I've been thinking about all afternoon: "We cannot explain the cross - all we can do is point toward it."

Maybe that's what I've been feeling today. When it comes to Good Friday, all theology fails me. It simply is ... God's love which triumphs over everything else, including death. That's more than enough to contemplate on this Friday. A day which I began in prayer, and keep finding myself praying as go about the routines of the day. I invite you to join me:

Prayers of Intercession ...

God, in your great mercy you have sent your Son to save the world from death. In remembrance of his suffering, let us pray:

• for the earth and all that God has created,


• for the church in every land and for our own congregation, its leaders and members,


• for the peoples of the world, for governments and leaders, for peace and justice,


• for the sick and the dying, for those who mourn, for those in distress,


• for our friends and family that they may have your guidance, that they may have health and hear your words of encouragement,


• for ourselves, that we may lead faithful lives, giving thanks for our baptism into Jesus' death and our rising with Jesus into new life.

In the name of Jesus, our Savior. Amen.

[Prayer from: Season of Ash and Fire, by Blair Gilmer Meeks (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2003), p. 127.

Photo: taken by Sara Holben - May 2009. Outside the Ethiopian Orthodox Chapel, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem.