"In the early Church people were attracted to it not so much by the preaching, but by the fact that they saw Christians as a community, living a new life as if what God had done was important, and had made a difference. They saw a community of those who, whether poor or rich, make or female, free or slave, young or old, all quite unbelievably loved and cared for each other. It was the lifestyle of the Christians that was witnessing." Desmond Tutu

After Easter Sunday, the church heads straight into the Book of Acts. There is a kind of non-linear path to this from an historical standpoint. The scripture we will read over the next few Sundays has us reading texts that seem to have happened after Pentecost, the ‘birth of the church’, which we celebrate on May 11th. But reading these stories of the early followers is good for us, good for the church. So little has changed. We are still trying to figure it all out, trying to come up with the right words, the best slogan, the slickest marketing tool to bring people into the Way. Reading the stories of those first century Christians makes us not feel so alone, so incompetent.

It is not news that mainline faith traditions have been declining for years. The reasons for this are numerous and book after book has been filled with them and what to do to do about it.  It is so easy to go to the fear place and try to do everything possible to ‘fix’ these fragile communities of equally fragile people, hoping beyond hope that we will attract others who want to join us. Most faith communities have buildings that need constant care, constant sources of revenue to keep them chugging along.And in these troubled economic times, it can, at times, seem futile.

Reading these wise words of Desmond Tutu who visited the Twin Cities last week, I was reminded of what it means to be the church. His idea that people were attracted to the early church because people "unbelievably loved and cared for each other." How simple…..how difficult. It is not about the most eloquent preaching…..though that helps. It is not about the most beautiful building….though that is awe-inspiring. It is not about the most gifted choir…though that is a treasure. It is not about the slickest ad campaign….though that can generate great enthusiasm. It is not even about the most profound theology.

What attracted people to the Way of Jesus was a community where they were loved and cared for…..unbelievably. And isn’t that what we all search for? A community of people who, in the words of Bridget Jones "love me just the way I am." We long for a community where, with all our faults, our failures, our quirks, our idiosyncrasies, we are welcomed for who we are without judgment or question.

We may not always agree with one another. We may not like the hymns that were chosen this past week. The preacher may have said a few things that really didn’t jive with the way we think. But for the church to be the church, the love for one another must be visible, palpable. Like those in Acts, it is our witness to the world.

"I give you a new commandment, that you love one another." John 13:34

"Our minds are like crows. They pick up everything that glitters, no matter how uncomfortable our nests get with all that metal in them."  Thomas Merton

Perhaps it is because spring is a time for cleaning, for clearing out the accumulated ‘stuff’ of the hibernating months, but I have been thinking a lot about clutter. I have been systematically cleaning out some closets, drawers, getting rid of those single socks that I thought I’d find the mate to one of these days. Where do they go anyway? I’ve been going through the piles of papers in my office getting rid of the ones I had thought were so important at the time but on re-reading them realize I could have put them in the circular file right out of the envelope.

This kind of cleaning out is easy. It is really only a matter of setting aside the time and the intention to do it. The de-cluttering that is much more difficult is the internal cleaning out of ideas, thoughts, mind cobwebs that gather over time, that pile up each day. Things like anxiety, frustration, anger, mistrust, judgments, self-pity…those little tapes we allow to play over and over in our heads. Add to those the chatter that comes at us each day of facts, fears and stories that are really not ours to own yet are presented to us, through media of various kinds, so we get drawn in and swallowed up. Without even realizing it, I can find myself walking around with a load of mind clutter that keeps me from being present to what is really important.

My friends in recovery pray: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." It is a powerful, powerful prayer. It is a prayer of surrender, of acceptance, of understanding the complexities of life,of humility, and of a final trust in self and a higher power to move through the world constantly shedding the clutter we want to harbor while gently holding onto what is most important, what is most life giving.

I have some closets that still need attention. As I look out the window it seems as if the weather is going to cooperate and by Monday they will be organized and less full. It may not be quite so easy clearing out my monkey mind……but I pray for serenity, courage and wisdom. May it be the same for you.

Have a wonderful weekend………………..

We are a desperate people. It is April and we are being threatened by yet another winter storm. Perhaps as much as 7-12 inches of snow is to fall throughout Minnesota beginning in the next couple of hours. Most people are walking around now with a look of dread on their faces, bundled up in the same hues of gray, brown and black they’ve been wearing for the last eight months, with only a Christmas red and a hint of Easter pink thrown in to raise our spirits. Because Easter was so early this year, many organizations planned a host of April events. You could conceivably do more than one interesting and inspiring experience every day for the next few weeks. We have looked forward to these harbingers of spring, of change. And now we may have to dig out to get to them. Will it be worth it one wonders? Or shall we just stay at home, put another log on the fire, throw on our pajamas and wait it out. All that remains to be seen.

While some have decided to stay close to the home fires, hundreds are streaming to the Como Conservatory. They are are roaming around among the ferns, watching the goldfish swim in clean, clear, unfrozen water, allowing the humidity to feed the scales that have been masquerading as their skin. I’ve just been there. I watched as people opened the doors to the main room that is always planted with the flowers of the season. Flannel-ed humans, still wearing their down coats and wool hats, stood like alien beings among the brilliance of blue hydrangeas,orange lilies,yellow daffodils, and purple hyacinths. Pasty white faces bent to smell the sweet fragrance of something other than stale, pent up air. It was a glorious sight to behold.

But for most of us this beauty was only the sideshow of what we really had come to see: The Corpse Flower. This amazing flower, standing a little less than two feet tall, planted in a terracotta pot that could house three small children comfortably stood in a small wing to the side of the main rooms. A line snaked out the door as we all silently waited to view its blossom that only unfolds every fifteen years. It seemed a solemn, humble act of waiting to view this plant known for giving off the smell of rotting flesh. It was an amazing gathering of humanity…old and young, children hoisted on the shoulders of parents, young people taking pictures with their cell phones, all of us reaching our noses to get a whiff. The plant and leaves have the green and burgundy color of a variegated coleus and as my eyes traveled from the top of the plant down toward the floor, I noticed that the pot itself was wrapped royally with a lush piece of brown velvet. It seemed fitting.

As people turned to leave this tiny room, having seen and smelled this flower which will not bloom again until 2023, smiles were on nearly every face. We had indeed seen something special, something elusive, something that we may never have the opportunity to view again. It’s difficult to know what to make of the kind of joy that could be found in seeing such a sight, smelling such an odor. The Corpse Flower.

As I said…..we are a desperate people.

"It would be infinitely lonely to live in a world without blessing. The word blessing evokes a sense of warmth and protection; it suggests that no life is alone or unreachable. Each life is clothed in raiment of spirit that secretly links it to everything else. Though suffering and chaos befall us, they can never quench that inner light of providence." John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us

Earlier I wrote about the passing of John O’Donohue who has been a spiritual mentor and inspiring author to me. His last book, in the process of being published at the time of his death, arrived in bookstores recently. It is both beautiful in spirit, word and look. The intricate Celtic designs that grace the book jacket set it apart from many of the other books that surrounded it on a table at Common Good Books recently.

Blessing. I have written about blessing many times in this space. O’Donohue writes: "A blessing is not a sentiment or a question; it is a gracious invocation where the human heart pleads with the divine heart." There are many times during my week when I offer silent blessings….as I pass someone holding a sign asking for help, as I see an animal who judged unwisely their ability to cross a road, as I see children playing, or witness some of the elders I know who move more slowly than they would like.

But I am not thinking about those people right now as I think of blessing. I am actually thinking about the people who are irritating, those who continue to pick away at issues or situations, those who act irresponsibly, those who intentionally hurt and cause pain, those who are void of any sensitivity to the suffering they dish out.

There is a picture today in the Star Tribune of Senator Betty McCollum responding to our governor’s recent budget vetoes. Her stance, her face, her indignation, captures much of what I have been feeling lately. Finger pointing, brow-furrowed, neck taut, she is clearly a woman who feels passionately and is able to express that passion. Inside I have been feeling the way the senator looks on the outside.

And then I come back to my walk in the world.I have been privy recently to emails and conversations that  are hurtful, crazy-making and just plain mean-spirited. I could, though not easily,respond in like fashion. But my heart tells me that is not the way to go. Instead I want to allow my ‘human heart to plead with the divine heart’ and to be able to bless even those, perhaps especially those, who are dishing out this dirt.

"The language of blessing is invocation, a calling forth. It imagines and wills the fulfillment of desire. In the evocation of our blessings, the word ‘may‘ is the spring through which the Holy Spirit is invoked to surge into presence and effect."

May I, may you, may we, be blessed with the grace to receive blessing this day and return that blessing to all who need it….even those who walk with less than gentle feet in the world so we may bless the space between us. Amen. So be it.   

"The Lord went in front of them in a pillar of cloud by day, to lead them along the way, and in a pillar of fire by night, to give them light, so that they might travel by day and by night." Exodus 13.21

The magazines I subscribe to are mostly filled with pictures. My reading time is devoted to books and newspapers but I enjoy the luxury of sitting down with a nice cup of tea and lulling over photos in a magazine.Yesterday I opened the first of a new subscription to National Geographic Traveler. This is definitely going to be a keeper….lots of great places to dream about, to enter into, to spend time with as a way of taking a small vacation from the ordinary day.

This month had a special feature on Appalachia. I looked at the beautiful photographs one expects from National Geographic and I allowed myself the pleasure of reading one of the articles about the Appalachian Valley, a place I know well. I was reminded of something I knew about this area of the country that has always held great meaning to me. Writing about the Tennessee Valley Authority’s damming of the rivers in the 1930′ s in order to create electricity for the people of these mountains, James Conway tells of the many people who were displaced by the construction and flooding. Those people who had lived in the same place since their ancestors came to this country from Scotland, Wales, England and Germany had kept the original embers of the fire that had glowed in their hearth from the first days. These embers were the center of the fires that warmed their homes decades later. When they were forced out or willingly left, many were known to have carried the embers of that fire to the next place they would live. They might have left their original home but they carried the fire of their ancestors with them to begin their new life on different soil.

It is a fascinating and comforting image for me. It is also a great metaphor for the fire of all we carry with us each day. Many of us carry the fire of ancestors, grandparents, who continued to tell us the stories of those who sacrificed much so we can now live in the ways we do. Others carry the fire of their faith with them, warming and continuing to uphold them on their life’s journey. Still others carry a fire of challenge given to them by those they may never have met but whose very lives have etched their thumb print on hearts now beating for justice.

Reading this article caused me once again to reflect upon the embers of my home fire and those who carried them through time, from home to home, from heart to heart. I pray I will always have the courage to fan that flame and keep that fire alive to pass on to my children and my children’s children.

What embers do you carry with you? What fire is at the center of your life that warms the core of who you are? How does that fire get passed from place to place, from person to person? In this time of changing seasons, it is something to consider.

"Thank you Father for your free gift of fire. Because it is through fire that you draw near to us every day. It is with fire that you constantly bless us. Bless this fire today. Make this fire a worthy thing. Let it become a reminder of your love. A reminder of life without end. " Masai Prayer

"I just want to do God’s will. And he’s allowed me to
go to the mountain. And I’ve looked over, and I’ve seen the promised
land! I may not get there with you, but I want you to know tonight that
we as a people will get to the promised land."  Dr.  Martin Luther King Jr.

To say that adolescence is a difficult time is such an understatement. As we find our way through the world, those early double digits are filled with challenge, rebellion, discovery, pain and incredible growth. Most of this realization, unfortunately, only comes with age. Learning to be our true selves is a tangled web that deserves to be held lovingly and gently until we find our place on the path of our life, in our place on the planet.

I’ve been forced to think about my own adolescence today while we, as a nation, look back on forty years ago to the day Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. As I think about those times, the Viet Nam War, the assassinations of Dr. King, John and Robert Kennedy, all the turmoil that filled the world, I marvel at all we learned and yet all we failed to realize. I believe that if I could have projected ahead from my wide-eyed love of the world to this very day, my hopeful, faithful, optimistic self would have seen the world changed more perceptively than it is. Peace would have been at hand. We would never be involved in a war again the way we were in Viet Nam, without hope of an end in sight. People would have learned to talk things out, seen wisdom in the diversity of who we are, stopped killing each other. Adolescence carries its own set of rose colored glasses.

I believe it is those very lenses that allows those who work for peace and justice to continue to do so. Dr. King said: "Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase." Those I know who are doing the work of justice and peace in the world, get up every morning and do just that. They get out of bed, walk out the door, listen to people’s stories, help them find a safe home, a job, a lawyer, an advocate, food, a bus pass,schools for their children, an interpreter. They do this regardless of the color of the person’s skin, the language that first comes off their tongue,what their past has held. Someplace within each of these people who work long hours for very little money, lives the spirit of what I remember from those turbulent days, when our heroes were felled and our world seemed to be spinning out of control, a spirit that was inspired by the dream of the promised land. In this land all would dwell in peace and harmony, and humans would work and live together, recovering the Eden we had lost.

Like Moses before him, Dr. King did not get to see the promised land. He was only able to walk with the people toward it. And here we are today, forty years later, still walking. We have seen glimpses of hope, there have been baby steps toward understanding. And yet we keep on, inspired over and over again by his call, his commitment, his sacrifice. Across the years it is as if his voice continues: "Almost always the creative, dedicated minority has made the world better."

God grant us courage………………..

Have a blessed weekend.

"That same day two of them were walking to the village of Emmaus, about seven miles out of Jerusalem. They were deep in conversation, going over all these things that had happened." Luke 24:13

This Sunday’s scripture from the Gospel according to Luke is the story we have come to call "the Road to Emmaus" story. This is one of those accounts of the disciples walking along together on the road, talking as close friends do. You see it all the time as people here walk around the lakes. Two people, their heads bent toward one another, telling the truth of their lives as they walk along, avoiding a puddle here, a crack in the sidewalk there. While the world is alive around them, they have only attention for one another.

Along side them comes a supposed stranger who begins to walk and talk with them. They didn’t recognize the person as Jesus. Who knows why? They just didn’t. It was only later when they came to the end of their walk and invited this stranger to have dinner with them did they realize that it was Jesus who had been walking with them all along. They shared bread, they shared blessing, they looked into the eyes of one another, and they knew that the Holy was in their midst .After he had left them again they checked in with one another: "Didn’t we feel on fire as he conversed with us on the road?"

What a story!  These scriptures which we read in these days after Easter are account after account of Jesus showing up to those who loved him and walked through the world with him. While our rational minds can ask all kinds of questions about these stories, for me they point to one very important message. This Jesus, this Incarnation of God, still continued to show up in people’s lives, offering words of comfort and hope. "My peace I leave with you." he said over and over again.

As I reflect upon these words this week, here is my prayer. May every young man and woman serving in our military, far from home and what they hold dear, feel that Presence of Peace  walking with them. May everyone whose home is being threatened in these desperate times, know the assurance of a Love that will not shame them or let them go. May every child who lives in fear be able to reach out in the night and find a caring hand that is strong and sure. May every senior who waits in loneliness for a friendly visitor look down the long hall to see someone with the face of Jesus coming there way.

And when the Fire of the Holy burns within us, help us each to take notice and give thanks, deep, deep, thanks.

"I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?" Isaiah 43:19

It started with a recipe for a hearty root vegetable soup.Sometime in January I had found the perfect soup for a winter day so I went to the grocery store and purchased all the ingredients. I came home and put everything away and one thing led to another and I never got around to making the soup. The sweet potatoes were used as a quick dinner one evening. The acorn squash was baked with butter and orange juice. The carrots were eaten as a snack. The onions found their way into a salad or as topping for a sandwich.

But the rutabaga languished under the sink in the dark.Several days ago I came downstairs to see it sitting on the kitchen table, found by my husband as he rooted(sorry about that) around under the sink for something. The rutabaga, perhaps one of the least lovely vegetables, had sprouted beautiful, frilly deep green leaves. While resting in the dark, this peasant vegetable had become a lovely sight. Right now it is sitting in our kitchen window continuing to amaze us with its foliage.

When I think of rutabagas I often think of the memoirs I have read about WW II. It seems this vegetable often made up the base of many soups that kept prisoners alive. The vegetable, for me, holds a certain sadness and stark quality for that very reason. And yet, here it is right now bringing such pleasure.

So many times in our lives we are confronted with people or situations that seem to be without beauty, without much hope for being more than a knobby, hopeless eyesore. Yet, I believe, that within each person, within each difficult situation there is the potential to bring forth new life, something unseen and yet to be realized. Isn’t that the core message of the resurrection story?

In this season of Eastertide, those days which hold the joy of Easter, we are called to look for signs that, indeed, Life is at the center of all. And so we walk through the world with eyes wide open, watching for the presence of the Sacred in our midst…..even, perhaps especially, in the lowly rutabaga. And let the people sing, "Alleluia!"

"For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."  Matthew 6:21

My father often said that if he ever became rich he would quit his job and open a restaurant. When he described the restaurant it was not a restaurant at all but a ‘soup kitchen’, a place where people who were hungry could come and have warm food,conversation and companionship. As someone who had been a cook in the Navy, he was famous for his chili….that lasted for days because he never seemed to get that idea of ‘quantity’, that the family of five didn’t need the potful that would feed a fleet. I loved thinking of him in a little diner someplace cooking up pots of comfort for anyone who would walk in the door.

It is always a lively and telling conversation when people dream and discuss what they would do if they came into a fortune. Lottery winners often say they will continue their jobs. Some do. Others begin a spiral of out of control wealth that leads to some very sad times. Most often people will first buy their ‘dream car’, pay off a mortgage, take that trip of a lifetime, or secure their children’s college educations.Still others, like my Dad, dream of healing the hurts of others, providing for unmet needs, giving away what has been given to them as gift.

Few think of preserving the loon. But that’s just what Iva Weir did with her $1.8 million dollar bequest. Iva’s story made front page news today in Minnesota. Her schoolteacher’s salary fueled by frugal living allowed her, after her death, to leave this amazing amount of money to the Nature Conservancy in Minnesota for conserving the loon’s habitat. Her life long love of the Minnesota bird caused her to provide for its preservation upon her death. What an amazing act!

The loon is a fascinating bird. How many times we have sat on the dock at Papoose Lake watching them glide along the surface of the water, regal yet somehow down-to-earth. We have sat at a distance watching their nests in the reeds along water’s edge, hoping for signs of new life in the nest. I have wonderful memories of hot summer nights, lying awake listening to their mournful call echoing across the lake. Not to mention their wild and frenetic calls of love to one another in the wee hours of the morning. This sound, this bird is the pride of Minnesotans and yet our desire to be near the lakes we hold dear, to be near to these black, white and red-eyed wonders are actually threatening their survival.

And so the money given by a schoolteacher who shaped the lives of children will now provide for the on-going gift of safer nesting, more protected land, wilderness preserved. Iva’s love of loons has been a gift to our children’s children who will also lay awake, exhausted after a day of swimming, listening long and hard for that sound, that precious sound of the loon’s call. Iva’s treasure has been not only a gift to the loons but to us. My heart is full of gratitude.