I was driving home late last night after an out of town meeting. Some folks like long drives because it allows them to think. I admit I usually just get bored (though I pay attention to the road, no worries!)
But I did arrive in place of thinking. Specifically, I ended up in a lovely place of remembering. I was listening to the radio when U2’s song, “But I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” came on. That song transports me to another time and place. I instantly see the mountains on a drive upward from Salida, Colorado. I instantly feel such a deep sense of belonging with gratitude.
More than ten years ago, I used to travel to this place on an annual ski trip with college students. There are so many memories connected to these trips. Laughter. Inside jokes. Texans seeing snow for the first time. And… that time I became seriously injured (I don’t even remember most of the day) when a whole community surrounded me with care in ways that astounded me.
And belonging. Such a rich feeling of belonging.
Every year, some odd student would be tasked with creating a playlist. We would pop in a CD (a CD! remember those!) and listen to music as we drove up the mountain in a caravan of two or three vans. Several songs had to be included each year (The Who’s “Baba O’Riley,” Barenaked Ladies’ “If I Had a Million Dollars,” and Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song,” which we had to play specifically when we turned into the parking lot of the ski resort). Good trips have good traditions.
But then the playlist creator o’ the year would add other songs of their choosing. One year, or maybe multiple years, “But I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” was on the CD, meaning we listened to it several days in a row as we drove up into those mountains and prepared ourselves for full days of skiing.
I suppose the title is a bit ironic because I have such a deep sense memory of listening to that song and having a feeling of arrival. I was a very young seminary student, just barely out of college myself, and I knew I had found some of my best friends. And along with it, there’s that feeling — do you know it? — of resting in the realization that this is your group. These are my people. I remember feeling such a visceral sense of gratitude to be gathered with them and to know what this kind of group-belonging feels like.
So all these years later, I drove home in Michigan on a night when it was cold, dark, and oddly foggy, and when that song came on, I could still feel that exact same feeling. And I cried. And I loved it.
In 2019, I want a lot of my reading, writing, learning, and activism to move in the directions of addressing 1) ableism, 2) forms of health stigma (how stigma affects community inclusion, employment, access to resources, public safety) and 3) healthcare access.
Just putting that out into the world as an intention. I’m starting to plan some of this.
How about you? What are you intending and planning for 2019?
What are you good at? — like phenomenally good at doing, creating, or cultivating?
Earlier this week, a good friend and colleague of mine asked that question in a Facebook group. She said, “Pat yourself on the back. What is the thing you’re amazing at?”
It was really lovely to name those things. A cascade of comments followed as people named and celebrated each other’s super-strengths.
Today, I want to ask you the same thing: What are you amazing at? — like phenomenally good at doing, creating, or cultivating?
Maybe it’s been a while since you’ve named it, even to yourself. Think about it internally and celebrate it. This super-strength of yours comes so naturally that you might even forget to think of it as strength or a skill. Don’t forget, not everyone can do that!
Then, beyond thinking of it internally, want to share it? Want to put it in a comment here or send me an email at revannarbor@gmail.com? I really would welcome hearing it.
Then another question… one we might want to sit with for a while… with intention…
How do we take these super-strengths and add them to the needs around us? To our larger communities? To what people are already doing?
They are certainly needed. The discovery is all about finding where they best fit with impact.
I was walking toward a building near campus yesterday when a person waiting outside held the door open for me. The person was about to take in a big cart, but before moving it, it seemed easier to let me go through first. So the person held the door open for me as I approached it.
When I saw that this was about to happen, I immediately sped up my walking toward the door. I probably doubled my speed. Then the person said,
“Oh, no need to hurry!” This was spoken as a kind reminder that I wasn’t inconveniencing.
I thought about how frequently we worry about taking up space, or inconveniencing, even when we are given an authentic occasion to receive. Some of us have been socialized in this direction especially.
Just the day before, I had joined a number of people in serving communion to a lovely congregation. We served by intinction, meaning that the people came forward to the front where we were standing. Then each person tore a piece of bread from a larger loaf we were holding and dipped it in the grape juice. So many people tore off teeny, tiny minuscule pieces. I wondered what would have happened if I had first invited people to take a generous piece, which would have been a more accurate symbol of what we were receiving together.
That’s when I thought of something that the poet Mary Oliver says: “Joy is not made to be a crumb.”
Likewise, I suppose,
The taking up of space — being noticed, being cared for — is not made to be hurried.
This is something that a mentor’s mentor used to say. She may have meant a variety of things by that statement, but she certainly meant that we end up teaching, extending, and tending to others in ways that reflect the most deeply held lessons from our own experiences, the kinds that rest (at times, after a struggle) at the core of our being.
“We teach who we are.”
It reminds me again that the word ‘heal’ is both active and passive at the same time. We heal in receptive ways. Healing is something that we receive, even as we work to create the conditions that make it possible.
And when we receive and integrate healing into our own lives (and this is always a process rather than an arrival) we also begin to heal — that is, participate actively in healing of others.
“We teach who we are.”
We’ve all received; when people welcome us through their own agency, we can extend our healing and learning toward others.
My new mentor has had a life motto for many years:
“I always tell people, ‘I’ll only drop your hand if you drop mine,'” he says, meaning that unless you’d prefer not to stay in contact for some reason, he will stay connected in relationship with you for life. Every time I’ve sat down with him, he has said that statement at one point or another in our conversation.
What he says is true, by the way. He keeps in touch quite intentionally with hundreds of people, many of whom are former students from the years when he was a youth group leader, a campus minister, and the headmaster of a Quaker school. He’s been in touch with some of them for fifty years. It’s a big network.
We may not have a network that deep and wide, or a network with so much longevity, but we do have a network. We are connected.
And we should not forget what a resource this is, or rather, a resource of resources. I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit as I consider justice work and organizing. We can hear about needs nationally, internationally, and in our neighborhoods and feel the weight of them as solitary units, perhaps scrolling through social media at a loss about what to do or how to act. Or we can let things move through our connected network of relationships.
I heard a really important story on the radio while driving in my car earlier this week. A medical student at the University of Michigan has started a community effort with online and in-person components that empowers medical students, medical residents, and physicians to talk about stress and their own mental health needs. The medical community has the highest rate of suicides of all professions in the United States, and there is still a great deal of mental health stigma within this community. This student recognized how many physicians are struggling in silence and began to wonder what sort of large-scale impact could be created if physicians were reframing mental health stigma themselves.
I passed this story onto eight medical people in my network, and it led to really important discussions. They’ll probably pass it on too.
Change happens just this way, through relationships. And you never know what you’ll catalyze when you let things move through the network. We all have one.
Throughout college, Sam Ross has been leading music during our times of worship at Canterbury House. I recommend having a jazz pianist lead the hymns in your community because they are soon accompanied with colors and blue notes you didn’t know were possible. The music becomes more soulful, more playful. Sam knows how to do that.
He’s also a stellar human being, a considerate leader who is so thoughtful, not only with creative, improvisational riffs, but also with a kind word.
Last night, Sam performed his Senior Recital, all with original music, and I can hardly put into words how incredible this concert was. There’s something so special, of course, in watching a culmination like this come to life. You think about all the study, rehearsal, growth, and artistry that goes into such a concert, all the tinkering of tunes that morph and expand into full performance pieces with energy. That is something to witness.
Then on top of that, the concert was a culmination (and continuation) of celebrated relationships and moments. Every single original piece was connected to a person, something they said or did, or something of who they are. That too was something to witness.
I will never forget the joy of being at this particular concert.
I also felt a lot of gratitude last night for being a campus minister, because goodness (and it really is goodness) I often get a front row seat to watching people thrive. And I get to witness this moving in so many directions. That is a privilege I don’t take for granted. That privilege is a continual joy.
While writing here yesterday, I went to an online thesaurus to look up alternatives for the word ‘connection.’ It’s not that I didn’t want to use that word; it’s that I had used it twice in the same sentence. What could I say instead?
I expected to find synonyms that would denote how items, moments, or people are more generally associated, but instead, I found all of these personal, relational terms:
These are words I think about a lot, and for some reason, I was surprised that the synonyms for ‘connection’ took on such personal forms. It was a reminder that our connections with each other, even the more general ones, matter quite a bit. We never know how deep they might run, or how we might connect people in ways that lead to their own relationships over time.
Of course, I had my own gratitudes. From beginning to end, November contained a remarkable amount of significance and meaningful connections, including memorable conversations, long hoped for reunions, and stunning surprises. By the time the first week of December rolled around, I needed some rest to recoup just to settle within the energy of it all. Such a gift.
But November was filled with gratitudes in other ways as well.
During the fall semester, I did something I’ve hoped to do for a long time: I assembled a new circle of undergraduate students and recent grads. Together, we have formed a group that meets monthly in my home to share meals, connect personally, make connections between spirituality and the rhythms of life, and engage in some shared practices. In November, this led to a month of gratitudes.
They had chosen Gratitude as a discussion topic for November, and when we were finished with our conversation, we decided we would use an app called Group-Me (group texting) to share daily gratitudes with each other throughout the rest of the month. So every day of November included five to ten photos sent by members of this new community, along with a comment or a story of how the people, places, and experiences in the photo brought them gratitude.
The notification sound for my Group-Me app is unique and isn’t used for any of my other apps. So every time I heard that sound, I had this little burst of joy, aware that I was about to see and learn about another gratitude from a member of our community. I also enjoyed sharing my own photos and stories with the group.
It was so refreshing to have this rhythm, looking for personal gratitudes to share and experiencing each day punctuated by the gratitudes of others. I recommend this rhythm of living, not only finding and recognizing moments of gratitude, but sharing them purposefully and liberally with others.
This sermon was preached at First Presbyterian Church in Howell, Michigan and was focused upon the story that is told in Luke 3:1-6. An audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.
Luke 3:1-6
In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’”
This passage begins with words that don’t seem particularly significant to our 21st century context, so if you’re like me, as you read them, you might tend to tune them out. Luke initiates this section of his Gospel with a list of rulers from the 1st century — despots, kings, foreign occupiers, and the highest religious officials.
It takes a bit of time to move through these names, which adds to the probability that our brains might move elsewhere. But these words are absolutely significant to the message Luke intends for us to hear.
So let’s consider them again.
In the fifteenth year of the Emperor Tiberius. . .
Tiberius was the primary ruler and ultimate authority in the expansive Roman Empire.
When Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea. . .
Pilate was the Roman prefect who governed a large portion of the occupied land.
And Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis. . .
The Herod dynasty included kings who ruled harshly as a client state for Rome.
During the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas. . .
Annas and Caiaphas were the highest religious leaders put in place by Rome.
This is Luke’s list at the opening of this passage. But take notice of what happens after he lists all of these powerful leaders with high status. Luke says. . . During the time when all of these powerful people governed, “the Word of God came to John in the wilderness.”
The Word of God came to John and it came to him in the wilderness.
This is significant. At first, it may seem like Luke is simply setting the scene and establishing the time period as he mentions what was happening in the government, but it’s so much more than that.
Luke wants us to know that at the time these leaders ruled — some with corruption and all with wealth and influence — the Word of God came to one of society’s so-called nobodies in the wilderness, a remote spot entirely removed from society’s center.[1]
And this man named John went into many places in this wilderness. Luke says that he went into all the region around the Jordan River, and as he did that, he baptized people into the very waters of that river, proclaiming good news and a message of repentance. The word ‘repentance’ literally means to ‘turn around.’ John invited people to turn around toward a lifetime of good news, living toward God with worship, passion, and justice.
And John did this with power.
John the Baptist did not have the world’s power.
He wasn’t wealthy.
He wasn’t welcome in high society.
He didn’t have a position in the government.
He wasn’t the leader of an army.
But John was a prophet of God, a fiery prophet of power who did not mince words. Without question, John would have made us uncomfortable, and he might have made us angry too. Like so many of Luke’s characters, John preaches a radical Gospel: God is turning the world upside down. The powerful are becoming de-centered, and the people on the margins are empowered to lead the way toward new life.
With this message in the wilderness, John cries aloud the very words that the prophet Isaiah proclaimed centuries before him. “Prepare the way of the Lord, make God’s paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight and the rough ways smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.”
God is turning the world upside down. The mountains and hills and bastions of power will be made low! And the valleys of those who are humbled, despised, marginalized, and abused shall be filled so that all people will see and know the salvation of God.
As John proclaims this message, he serves as a messenger, preparing the way for Jesus who will indeed turn this world upside down. When John cries words aloud in the wilderness, Jesus is about thirty years old and on the verge of his public ministry. John is the herald, inviting people to prepare their anticipation, because once Jesus comes into the fullness of this ministry,
He will reveal God’s presence among us,
He will speak truth to power,
He will uplift the downtrodden,
He will eat in full communion with the ‘outsiders,’
And he will empower these very people to take his message of worship, passion, and justice to the ends of the earth.
All people, All people,
will see the salvation of God.
This world-turning intention is central to the character of God. It is a vital part of Who God Is. So it makes me wonder. . .
How is God moving now? How is God proclaiming a message of salvation now? How is that happening in our own time and in our own modern forms of wilderness?
After all, isn’t that just the kind of thing this God would do? Arrive in the middle of wilderness places that some label insignificant?
This is one of the primary messages of Advent —
God is always coming,
Always arriving in this Jesus,
Always initiating movements of power and good news through the Holy Spirit, often in the least likely of places.
So it makes me wonder how God is showing up in the wilderness.
We certainly have many places of wilderness in the landscape of our lives. These places seem rough and are perhaps on the outside of anyone’s knowledge or notice.
Our losses,
Our addictions,
Our health crises,
Our disappointments,
Our broken relationships. . .
They can feel like places of wilderness.
But we can take heart,
And we can remember,
God shows up even there and can turn the world upside down.
Your life is not insignificant in God’s eyes. It is immensely significant.
Even in these places of wilderness,
God turns our lives upside down,
so we can turn toward the direction of new life.
It makes me wonder how God is showing up in the wilderness.
We also know that there are many in our neighborhoods and many around our world who experience burdens that are heavier than we can easily imagine —
People struggle through poverty,
Children fall through the cracks of failing schools,
People are despised and disenfranchised through racism,
Men, women, and children are caught in the trauma of wars,
Refugees escape those wars but seemingly have nowhere to go,
And victims die and are wounded by the senseless and seemingly continuous violence in our country. These are wilderness places, These are painful wilderness places.
And these lives are not insignificant in God’s eyes. They are immensely significant.
Even in these places of wilderness,
God turns our lives upside down,
so we can turn toward the direction of new life.
It makes me wonder how God is showing up in the wilderness.
I know this. . . God often shows up in the presence of other people, and God can arrive in these realities of wilderness through our very presence.
In the midst of heartache, God can bring comfort and good news even through our presence.
In the midst of challenges, God can turn the world upside down even through our presence.
In the midst of wilderness, God can provide a way in the desert and make all things new even through our presence.
How will we add our presence?
How will we be a part of the very prayers we make?
How will we act on that small thing or that large thing that keeps arriving in our minds and hearts?
How will we reach out to that person or community that keeps showing up in our thinking and praying?
How will we follow John into the wilderness to proclaim good news? How will we participate in God’s actions of turning the world upside down?
Smuggling Grace 