I especially appreciate the playground sheep. Take it all baaaaaaack. 🙂
Can We Allow Ourselves to Be Surprised?
A Sunday Reflection:
I have no need to sugarcoat this time we are living right now… This is a time of deep grief.
During this time of pandemic, separation from one another, and huge forms of disruption, we’re living a time of grief, and that grief cries out to be acknowledged. Sometimes, it literally cries out… We cry it out. We might close a door to a room or get in the bathtub and weep in catharsis. Have you had a moment like that? I have.
Or we might have moments of experiencing the Grief Ninjas. That’s what a friend of mine calls them. We’re just going about our business, doing something run-of-the-mill or routine, and boom. Something reminds us of a person or opportunity we’ve lost, and the Grief Ninjas suddenly do a surprise attack. We’re suddenly and surprisingly in tears.
Or we might have moments of feeling nothing. We feel so much internally that we are flooded with emotion, and our bodies have learned to cope with this by numbing. We feel nothing, even when we’d like to feel something — anything. This is called dissociation. It’s the freeze pathway of the trauma response — fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. And though it might seem like it would be nice to feel nothing during a crisis, it’s actually really painful. It’s disorienting. And as Brene Brown says, “You can’t selectively numb feelings.” We begin to feel detached from our good, pleasant, and meaningful emotions too.
So with all of this, I have no need to sugarcoat this time we’re living. There’s no need to assign silver linings to it. If we need to name that this is painful, we can. We can allow ourselves to feel whatever we need to feel.
So I want to name this before I say anything else. In a moment, I’m going to bring a question to us — to all of us, and myself, included. This question is not a “But.” It’s an “And.”
“Can we allow ourselves to be surprised?” That’s the question.
That’s an And. We might even say it’s a “Yes-And.”
“Yes-And” is a fundamental premise of improv. Have you ever seen a group of people do improv games or improv comedy? Or have you ever tried it? You don’t have to be utterly brilliant, an accomplished actor, or remarkably funny to do improv. You just have to “Yes-And.” Someone presents a scenario or character to you. It emerges from the moment. And having entered this scene, you say “yes” to it. You accept it. And — there’s that word “And” — you add to it. You add yourself, or another aspect of the scenario, or you move the storyline forward.
We are in a time of grief. Yes. No doubt.
And…
And? What would you say? What might you add?
So back to my question: Can we allow ourselves to be surprised?
Without sugarcoating things, or assigning silver linings, can we allow ourselves to be surprised that goodness often comes right alongside all the pain and that it accompanies us too? Can we be surprised by all the forms of goodness that emerge alongside all of that valid grief and pain?
I’m touched by people applauding hospital workers from their high rise apartments every time a shift ends and a new one begins. I hope you’ve had the occasion to see some videos like that.
I’m touched by neighbors checking in on each other.
I’m touched by the person who sent me coloring sheets in the mail, allowing me to color yesterday while watching “I, Tonya.” Maybe that’s a weird combo. But you know? It was fun.
I’m touched that over the last six weeks, I’ve had the occasion to introduce people to each other on Zoom, and now, they are checking in on each other. Some of them haven’t even met in person.
I’m touched that my former college students check on me all the time. My life is totally blessed by them. I mean it. It is abundance to me. Among all the other things, I love that some of them watch tv with me. We sync up shows and chat in real time.
I’m touched that people are using their brilliance to take care of people in their community — just by being themselves. I see so many of you utilizing the talents and skills that come so naturally to you that they might forget they’re a remarkable talent or skill. They’re just that natural to you. And they are remarkable. You’re remarkable. And you’re providing for community from yourselves. I love seeing this.
In all of these, and in so many other moments, I feel the surprise of goodness. And I hope you feel alive when you are surprised by them too.
About five years ago, I started a blog that I titled “Smuggling Grace.” I hoped to find moments where grace, love, and sacred possibility just sort of snuck into our world, maybe even during times of challenge, trauma, or pain. I love to seek out these moments and write them in story form. On my blog, I notice that I write about a lot of topics and in a lot of genres, but I think that’s my primary one — finding some grace to smuggle in, not that it needs a storyteller as much as it needs to be experienced. We all have moments like this, when grace is smuggled to us. We don’t expect it, and sometimes, it’s remarkably surprising. Then we get to smuggle that same energy toward others. We smuggle it forward. We can all be Grace Smugglers.
Can we allow ourselves to be surprised?
I hope so. It doesn’t negate the grief. But it accompanies us.
And who knows? In these days, maybe we can be surprises ourselves, participating in goodness and sharing it — smuggling it — to others.
Peace to you.
Grace to you.
Surprise
to you,
toward you,
from you.
Surprise.
Faithful Risk-Taking
Last Thursday, on behalf of the Presbytery of Detroit, I had the pleasure of hosting a webinar with Ben Johnston-Krase. He is the co-planter of Farm Church, a congregation in Durham, North Carolina. Farm Church is a church that meets on a farm and leverages the resources of that farm to address food insecurity.
During this webinar, Ben talked about what it means to take risks faithfully in a world that is changing rapidly. What values are we putting at the center of our risk-taking?
Ben’s presentation was tremendous and insightful, so I thought I would share it! If you have trouble accessing it below, you can also click here.
Giving From Who We Are
Image Description: A brown box with a red ribbon wrapped and tied around it.
— I know a person who facilitated guided meditations over Zoom for free every day this week. She did this for loved ones and people totally new to her. Then she passed along the recordings. They were so lovely and helpful.
— I know a person who has been sewing masks up a storm. She realized she can make these quickly, and she’s passing them along to loved ones and people unknown to her.
— I know a person who offered to teach improv games over Zoom to a support group of people that typically meets over the phone. Many participants have never seen each other’s faces, and his offer allowed them to do this for the first time while playing together in fun and meaningful ways.
— I know a person who ran a virtual Boston Marathon in his Michigan hometown. He wanted to turn the term ‘social distancing’ on its head and encourage people to run or walk any distance on April 20 while giving to social causes. He raised approximately $6,000 to support people experiencing homelessness in Flint.
I love when people give uniquely from themselves, using their best gifts and skills and turning them toward others. We can all do this.
Zoomed Out?
Image Description: In blue writing, the image says “Zoom,” and in gray writing beneath, it says “Joining a Meeting.”
Over the last couple of days, I’ve been feeling isolation fatigue.
I don’t just mean that I’m tired of being alone, though I definitely am. I mean I’m literally tired. I feel fatigued in the isolation.
This is a very typical response to this very atypical time we’re experiencing. So far, I’ve mostly avoided this by staying positive and connected to others. But the fatigue has caught up with me over the last couple of days.
This is a common experience too. And if you’re feeling it as well, I want to share some information which might affirm and confirm your experiences. Here are two helpful articles I read this week:
The reason Zoom calls drain your energy
I admit I laughed while linking this second one because I’m going to join a Zoom call in 45 minutes — one of a few today. Thankfully, this next one will involve my mentor doing some teaching with the Presbytery of Detroit. And that will genuinely energize me.
I welcome that energy. Here goes!
Combining Energies
Yesterday, at the invitation of a loved one, I joined a Zoom call with a community and experienced something very new to me. This community studies and practices Kabbalah, the Jewish tradition of mystical interpretation of the Bible.
Right now, this community is practicing the counting of the omer. Week by week, they explore the principles and energies from the Tree of Life, shown on the image above, and they ask themselves, what can we learn from combining these energies? They are…
Keter/Crown
Chochmah/Wisdom
Chesed/Kindness
Netzach/Eternity
Malkhut/Kingdom
Yesod/Foundation
Tiferet/Beauty
Hod/Splendor
Gevurah/Judgment (or Severity, more about that in a moment)
Binah/Understanding*
This week, the community is exploring Gevurah. In this image, that’s translated as ‘judgment.’ Last night, we used the word, ‘severity.’ Each day, in the counting of the omer, this community explores permutations by combining Gevurah with one of the other energies. Guvurah and Crown, Wisdom, Kindness, Eternity, Kingdom, Foundation, Splendor, and Understanding. What does severity mean when viewed through the lens or energy of these others?
Last night, we considered Gevurah and Yesod — severity and foundation.
How might Gevurah become a foundation?
Our teacher shared that Gevurah is not about punishment. But it is about a firm sense of saying No. When Gevurah is a needed foundation in our lives, we do things like set hard boundaries in our relationships: It’s not okay to be treated wrongfully. Gevurah as a foundation also may look like a commitment to justice. We practice severity — that is, strength — toward injustice.
I appreciated this time very much, and now, it has me thinking about the combination of energies more generally as well. Yesterday afternoon, the Interfaith Round Table gathered leaders together from 12 different faith traditions (also over Zoom, of course). We discussed how our communities are doing during this time of crisis. We shared the gifts and challenges we’re discovering in responding to this time. This was certainly a combining of energies as we shared unique forms of wisdom, struggle, and gratitude. We felt the benefit of being together.
Then, later in the day, I shared with a few people that I was feeling bummed — not overwhelmingly or devastatingly so, but persistently and mildly so. I felt that throughout much of the day. But I ended my day with a phone conversation with one of the people closest to me. During this time, I found myself so grateful for her, even while feeling bummed, and I thought about the strength of this connection in relationship over time. I felt that even while we’re all separated. This experience was a combination — and transformation — of energies.
I’m going to keep thinking about this: What energies do I need to combine?
*I used slightly different transliterations of Hebrew here rather than listing them exactly as they are in the image. This local community spells (or rather, transliterates) a few of these energies differently than what’s in the image.
My Lovely, Permanent, Yellow Flowers
Image Description: My bouquet of yellow flowers. Daffodils are in the background of the image.
Lately, when I’ve been gathered in groups for reflection and discussion (over Zoom and the like) I’ve asked these questions:
What is a little grief you have?
– And –
What is a little joy you have?
As we experience this pandemic and time of economic uncertainty, we are definitely acquainted with the big griefs we carry. We are concerned for the losses we know, for our loved ones, and for our own health. We grieve disruptions and the ways our lives are different than they were just a couple months ago.
But do we make space to name the little griefs? The ones we probably wouldn’t name, because stacked up against the larger ones, they seem a bit more insignificant?
I’d like to say that they’re not insignificant. They matter to us also and are worth grieving. They might also serve as symbols for the larger griefs we’re carrying too.
Likewise, do we make space to name the little joys? The ones we probably wouldn’t name because they’re typically more mundane than others we might have shared in the past? Yet we find even more gratitude for them now?
These are not insignificant either. They matter to us and are worth sharing with others. They might also serve as symbols of encouragement and hope alongside all we’re carrying too.
When I’ve asked these questions in groups, I’ve also given a particular answer a number of times. One of my little (but not insignificant ) griefs is this: I always keep yellow alstroemeria flowers on my table. I also keep some in my writing room. They are lovely, and they brighten up the space. They also last such a long time in a vase — typically three weeks. For this reason, they’ve come to take on meaningful symbolism to me. And when they begin to wilt and the flowers begin to fall, I typically go to Trader Joe’s and buy more. I’ve had a long streak of having these flowers on my table. Sure, they aren’t nearly as important to me as all the other things we’re carrying collectively, but I’ve been sad to lose their presence. You can disinfect your groceries, but you can’t disinfect your flowers.
I shared this with some people while back, and…
This sharing has led to a little but not at all insignificant joy. I feel big gratitude about it.
Yesterday, I received a package on my doorstep (some of you all know I love surprises, including tiny gestures) and this one felt amazingly huge. A friend had some permanent, yellow flowers made for me. And the petals are made from hymnals. So they have all these lovely words.
And they came in a bouquet! This meant so much to me. Big joy. Lovely connection. So very thoughtful.
I am so eager to put these on my table. And now I’ll remember big connection in the little grief. Thank you, good friend.
That’s Bananas! (Har)
Image Description: My plethora of bananas.
My grocery delivery came. Hooray! When I first looked outside and saw all the items on my doorstep, my eyes went straight to the bag that instantly caused me laughter.
I ordered 4 bananas.
I received 4 bunches of bananas.
They were all in one bag.
Obviously, I can’t eat 23 bananas. Lots of folks told me these were destined for banana bread. That certainly sounds delicious, but I actually plan to pass three of these bunches along to others. I’ll deliver them to other doorsteps over the next few days.
I Believe You
The video above comes from Facebook live. If you have any trouble accessing it in this format, feel free to click here.
This is a sermon I prepared for Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor this morning. I thought I would share it too if it’s helpful. I’ve also prepared a transcript in here if you’d like to use that.
As we begin, I’ll read the story first. It comes from the Gospel According to John, chapter 19 verses 20-31.
When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the religious leaders, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’
But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ But he said to them, ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.’
A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’ Thomas answered him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’
Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.
When the scene of our scripture passage opens, we might be surprised to remember that it is Easter day itself. It is the very day of this shocking resurrection experience, but the disciples of Jesus are hiding behind closed doors and living in fear. I think we can relate this year… Mary Magdalene, one of their own, has shared incredible news with them. She has already told them that she has seen Jesus alive, but they have yet not seen Jesus themselves. Maybe some of them might risk wondering if it really could be true. . . Others, as we know, dismissed her story entirely. They believed it to be an “idle tale.”
So there they are hiding behind locked doors, scared for their lives, and in this story, the resurrected Jesus chooses to meet them right there. He shows up on the other side of that locked door right in their presence. And what does he say? He speaks words of comfort: “Peace be with you,” he says. Then the story shares that after he greeted them with these comforting words, he “showed them his hands and his side.”
That’s kind of an interesting thing to do, isn’t it?
He showed them his wounds from the crucifixion.
The disciples were overwhelmed with joy in his presence. They had been locked away from life, and life met them right where they were. Jesus, risen to new life, stood among them, and the he commissioned them to service. He said, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And he gave them the gift of the Holy Spirit. This moment changed everything for them, and all of them were called to new life. They were all astounded, and all of them were sent forward from his presence.
Well, all of them except Thomas.
Thomas wasn’t there in that moment when Jesus appeared to his disciples behind the locked doors. We don’t know what he was doing. Maybe he was behind locked doors somewhere else — social distancing — or maybe he was living outside with greater courage.
But this is what the story shares: He missed it. I can’t imagine what it would be like to hear all of this amazing news secondhand without encountering Jesus himself. Maybe Thomas had grief. Maybe he had isolation after missing out. FOMO. Maybe he had doubt about it all.
It seems to be that way. Thomas said to the rest of the disciples, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails, and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” So Thomas continued to stay connected to these disciples, believing something different than they did and maybe feeling something different than they did.
Whatever he believed, and whatever he felt, Jesus met Thomas right in that place too. One week later, all the disciples were gathered together, and this time, Thomas was there. Interestingly, the story shares that the door was shut yet again, but Jesus appears in that house with them. He was among them, and once more, he said, “Peace be with you.”
Then Jesus looked straight at Thomas. Jesus met him in his grief. He met him in his isolation. He met him in his doubt. Jesus said, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”
Do not doubt but believe.
Believe, Thomas. . . that is, trust. . .
Jesus is there before Thomas, meeting him right where he was struggling.
Jesus is there before Thomas, as one who has known suffering and pain himself,
one who has known grief, isolation, and trauma in his body,
and that very one – the one who suffered and died – is risen to new life.
Both of these realities are overwhelmingly powerful. Jesus is risen from suffering and death. And God, found in the human embodiment of Jesus, is a God who still bears wounds. This God is one who knows what it means to suffer and chooses to bear those marks of woundedness forever. As theologian Nancy Eisland shared in her writings,* Jesus is the Disabled God. This is the God who meets Thomas, and this is the God who appears to us today.
Thomas is overwhelmed. Both of these realities – the suffering and the resurrection – are absolutely powerful. Thomas is overcome, and he exclaims with joy and wonder, “My Lord and my God!” He has moved from doubt to the highest profession of faith. Thomas sees the living God with wounds. He sees life standing before him, meeting him in his own place of woundedness. This changes everything.
Jesus didn’t leave Thomas out of the resurrection experience, and so I imagine that Jesus didn’t leave Thomas out of the commission either. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” In our scripture text, we don’t hear Jesus saying those words again, but I’m sure the calling remains constant. Thomas was included in that also.
And as we are gathered here this morning, we may very much be like Thomas. We carry own grief, isolation, and doubt, but gathered in community, we seek to remind one another that there is a God who is living and breathing — a God that journeys with us in suffering and the experience of death. A God who loves us to the core of our being, and one who commissions us to love others.
Maybe we can invite one another to hear those words for ourselves this morning. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And here’s where it becomes challenging and life-giving at once:
If we are sent, even sent in a sense from inside our own homes,
If we are sent as the Father has sent Jesus,
If we are sent with the gift of the Holy Spirit,
we are being sent forward toward the world’s woundedness.
We are called to show up in solidarity in the presence of great suffering and pain. We are called to believe the stories behind that pain — never doubting, but believing. These stories of human pain are real.
And we are called to speak the new life of resurrection which God breathes into the world and desires for every human being and every community. That is how high this calling is. It is challenging and life-giving at once.
The God we worship chooses to bear wounds, and this God cares for those who carry their own wounds. But so often, people doubt not only God but the stories of the wounds themselves.
I have a friend named Sarah Watkins who wrote something succinct on Facebook, but I thought it spoke volumes in its power. She said, “If you want to be a good ally to someone, believe them. Do you know how often people who are marginalized and abused are doubted about their own experiences?”
She goes on to say,
“I believe you were assaulted.
I believe you were blocked from voting.
I believe you are in constant pain.
I believe the cop pulled you over because of your skin color.
I believe your boss/supervisor/colleague harassed you.
I believe you.”
We can believe, and when we do that among our neighbors, I think we are all called to new, resurrected life.
I’ll close with another story. On a couple of occasions, I’ve had the privilege to meet Dr. Allan Aubrey Boesak. Dr. Boesak is a prolific writer and theologian. He has a long history of being present alongside those marginalized and oppressed in South Africa and a number of other places.
During the Apartheid in South Africa. Dr. Allan Boesak served as an advocate for justice, working to change laws and restore dignity to so many who faced discrimination and were even killed because of the color of their skin.
I heard Dr. Boesak speak at the Next Church conference a couple years ago in Atlanta. He ended a keynote lecture there in a powerful way. He said that at the end of our lives, and at the end of time when God has reconciled all things, perhaps God will say to us, ‘Show me your wounds.’
He said,
In that moment – even as people of resurrection – if we have none to show, perhaps God will ask us, ‘Wait. Was there nothing worth fighting for?’
And in that moment, he said, even if we stand there with no obvious signs of solidarity, this very God will show us his hands and his wounded side, and we will know that we were worth fighting for.
“As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”
As we leave this time, we are called to journey with our neighbors, even locked inside our own houses.
We have stories to believe.
We have truth to tell.
We have human lives worth advocating beside.
We have resurrection to live.
To this we say thanks and yes.
Amen.
*Nancy Eisland wrote about this in her book, The Disabled God: Toward a Liberatory Theology of Disability.
I Made My Snowman
Silly, minuscule, and melting, he bides time with the daffodils, glad to take form before he waters the emerging spring.
Smuggling Grace 