Why I Stay

 

On Easter Sunday, 1986, I preached my first sermon at our new church plant. We had a vision for a diverse church, because the neighborhood was beautifully integrated between black and white residents. That first Sunday a couple showed up with their biracial grandchild who had been shunned by their previous church, confirming our vision to welcome all races. The congregation grew slowly, reaching out to neighborhood children and gradually winning over their parents.

Though never large, we had a healthy congregation in the year 2000, with small groups, and a lively ministry to children and youth. Then one day one of our core families told us they would be finding a new church home. The reasons were multifaceted—at least partially related to me being a female pastor. Their departure led to other families moving on. Not only did the church shrink, I lost friends and felt as though it was all my fault. I felt devastated and really wanted to quit.

I didn’t quit then, partly, because I could not go to another church within my denomination without moving. We were raising four children, and my husband was well invested in his work. So I stayed.

The church became more invested in diversity, gradually becoming majority black. We had two successive young black men as youth directors, who each did an excellent job. With both, I hoped they would stay and pursue pastoral ministry. I would have loved to have handed the church over to either of them. During the tenure of the second one, we also had several other clergy attending, so a really healthy group of leaders.

Slowly, they all left for various reasons. Again I felt deserted and discouraged. But I still didn’t leave. What else would I do? I still felt called to pastoral ministry.

In 2017 we rejoiced at the birth of our first grandchild. She lives in Baltimore in 2017, while I remained in Cincinnati. This created a new challenge. I loved watching my new granddaughter, and later her little brother. If I retired, I could more freely visit, or even move to their city, but when I searched my heart, I still loved preaching. I still loved being a pastor. I wasn’t finished yet.

Then Covid hit. Like most churches, we had our share of disagreements about how to handle that reality. Yet somehow, in the midst of it, all, God kept us going. Despite the financial challenges, God provided, and the last four years, that pattern has continued. Our bank account rides quite the roller coaster. At one point, when the balance dipped so low a check might bounce, an outside friend sent a generous donation. More recently another friend gave us a grant to help.

Attendance has greatly suffered since Covid. Some weeks only a few fill the pews. Yet every time I’m ready to quit, someone shows up who needs us. Sometimes it’s a young person who grew up in the church years ago who resurfaces. Or a mom, whose child I baptized after his birth, who comes back around, now that he’s six. Or a young woman, who had to work weekends for years, and finally has Sundays off to attend again. If the church was closed, where would they go? Hopefully, they would find another church, but would they make that extra effort? I know it feels different to show up in a place where you’re still known.

So I’m still here. I’m still not sure the church will survive. I still fight discouragement. I still can’t figure out how to attract new people, because nothing we’ve tried has seemed to work.

The pastors who have resigned will get no judgment from me, only empathy. Your value to God is not dependent on your profession. To those who stay, God sees you.

I’m no hero, but I’m just trying to be faithful and somehow, every time I want to give up, God shows up in some kind of way. So I’m still here, 37 years later. The same place. The same vision, with revisions. Some of the same people. Definitely the same God, always faithful, always present. And that is why I stay.

 

Tell Their Story

 “Tomorrow there’ll be more of us, Telling the story of tonight”

This snippet of a song from Hamilton runs through my head on a loop. The Hamilton of that particular moment expected that one portion of this story to be told, the victory of him, Lafayette, Laurens and Mulligan. But that one moment only represents part of the story of Hamilton and his friends. No one night summarizes anyone’s life.

We just lost a dear friend to COVID. If you ask me to tell a story of Dennis, it doesn’t really come to any one night. I can remember certain moments, and conversations, but in reality what I remember is the arc of his life, the bent toward justice, kindness and compassion. It takes the whole for any one part to make sense. His laugh, his sparkling eyes, his welcoming presence, all fit together in endless moments of memories to form the essence we remember about him.

Like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, it’s not about a particular moment, but a life well lived, impacting more people than can be imagined. After Dennis died, the family received a barrage of notes, with stories they had never heard of people he had helped that they were not aware of. And only heaven has the full tale. That’s the real place our story fully reveals itself.

When I watch the play Hamilton, I don’t cry where I expected to, but always at the end when his wife sings the remix of this song, and says she’ll tell his story. Those left behind are charged with that responsibility. And after all Alexander and Eliza went through as a couple, his betrayal in so many ways, she still tells his story with love and commitment. So we lift up our loved ones, despite their foibles, and remember the impact they had on us and the world.

Dennis, we’ll tell your story friend.

Elisha and Grief

When we read the story of Elijah and Elisha in 2 Kings 2:1-12, we normally focus on the dramatic exit of Elijah in a chariot toward heaven. When this reading, part of the lectionary, fell on the Sunday after losing a dear friend that Friday, I heard it as a grief story.

The story begins with Elijah telling Elisha to stay behind while he goes to a different place. Elisha however refuses to leave his side. Like Sam following Frodo, he faithfully follows his master to Bethel. When they arrived, the other prophets ask Elisha if he knows the Lord is taking his master today. Elisha does know, but tells them to be quiet. Elisha is in denial.

The sequence repeats itself, with Elijah trying to leave Elisha behind while following the Lord to Jericho, but Elisha again refuses to leave him. Again the local prophets mention Elijah’s impending exit, and Elisha tells them to be quiet. Still in denial.

Finally the Lord sends Elijah to the Jordan, and Elisha refuses to leave his side. Fifty prophets watch the proceedings, but only Elisha accompanies his master across the river. From there the chariot of fire appears and takes Elijah away, but Elisha cries out after him. Then Elisha sees him no more, and tears his garment in two. His grief works out in his response, as he tears his own clothing.

Denial. Grief. Pain. But still faithfulness to the journey. Elisha could have stayed behind, avoided the coming reality, but he remained faithful to his friend. When someone we know is dying, we may want to hide from that journey, to avoid our own pain. It’s harder to lean in, to stay in the hurt and walk toward the inevitable. But so worth it. Every Frodo needs a Sam, or many of them, as they near the end.

And even if we don’t have this dramatic ending to witness, being present when a loved one dies, whether we can do it in person, or simply stay as close as possible as the situation allows, offers a true gift to that loved one and to ourselves. We may tear our clothes afterward, but we will have been a faithful companion on a journey we will always remember.

Living Hospitality

 

Why would Boaz, a man of stature in the community, of ample means, who could have presumably arranged a marriage with the young woman of his choosing, agree to marry a foreigner who was also a widow? Widows did not carry the shame of the divorced, but they were not seen on equal grounds as a never married virgin. And this woman was a Moabite, a tribe detested by Israel due to their previous lack of hospitality to Israel in her travels. Why would a righteous Israelite extend hospitality to a Moabite widow?

 

Maybe he just found her attractive, or was impressed by her kindness to her mother-in-law, these reasons are hinted at in the Scripture. But perhaps his willingness to even consider Ruth traces back to his childhood, “Salmon the father of Boaz, whose mother was Rahab.”

 

Rahab impacts the future of the nation of Israel with her own hospitality to foreign spies sneaking into her hometown. Not only does she welcome them into her home, she subsequently hides them from the King’s men, advises them how to hide safely, and lowers them from her own window to escape. She also tells them of the fear of her people toward Israel and their God, and proclaims with great enthusiasm that the God of Israel is God of heaven and earth.

 

Because of her kindness and courage, the men rescue Rahab and her family when they take the city, and she then lives with the Israelites. Specifically we see from the genealogy of Jesus that she marries a man named Salmon, of whom we know nothing except for his appearance in the genealogies of David and Jesus. Any man would be blessed to have Rahab for his wife, a woman who could think on her feet, already had her own business with a side hustle of flax, was kind to strangers and believed in the God of Israel.

 

And yet, taking her on involved swallowing her past, as throughout the Bible in both the Old and New Testaments with the sole exception of the quote from Matthew’s genealogy she appears as Rahab the prostitute. Even when the writer of Hebrews and James are praising her for her faith, they still refer to her as Rahab the prostitute. The fact that centuries later her former life labels her over her status as an ancestor of King David and of Jesus would suggest that perhaps in her lifetime this past followed her as well. So Salmon had to marry her with that knowledge, as well as the fact she was also a foreigner. But marry her he does, and as his future descendent Solomon would someday describe, found a worthy wife.

 

This provides the setting for Boaz’ childhood. He grows up in a community where the ethnicity and former profession of his mother perhaps come up from time to time. And yet his father models love and acceptance. Was Salmon one of the spies who checked out Jericho? We don’t know, but it’s easy to imagine him being impressed with her level head in a crisis and determining to marry her.

 

When Boaz finds himself presented with a different and yet similar opportunity, he does not hesitate. And from this lineage comes King David, and someday Jesus. Bryan Stephenson, who wrote Just Mercy, says, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.” Stephenson and his law associates serve those especially on death row who were wronged accused. They look past the accusations at the reality. That’s what Salmon and Boaz did as well, instead of letting the past of these women distract them, they found them worthy.

 

The way we raise children makes a difference in how they treat others. This seems simple and we easily think it only includes teaching them manners and other common courtesies. Yet the biggest impact happens in everyday life, watching parents live out their mercy and kindness. It wasn’t Salmon teaching Boaz the Ten Commandments that shaped his attitude toward Ruth as much as Boaz growing up watching his father honor his mother yet hearing the rumors around town.

 

This matters in our current conversations about race. We can say all the right things, but what do our children see us doing? Do we actually have friendships with people of other races? Do we invite them into our home?

 

Recently I listened to two young Christian activists who had been involved in protests against police violence toward Black people. They both cared intensely and had put themselves in harm’s way in their city to stand as allies in the movement. One had been raised in a White rural environment. The other had grown up in the city, the child of a pastor, attending a diverse church. As I listened I could hear the difference in their understanding of race. My observations do not diminish the passion and commitment of the person raised in a monoculture. Typically we can’t change our childhood environment. But we can chose where we live as adults, and what we purposefully expose our children to.

 

If we make life choices that place us in diverse neighborhoods and churches, we will learn so much about how to navigate in a multicultural world. If we become parents our children will naturally become more literate in other cultures if we are engaged in that environment. Just moving into a diverse neighborhood but living in our own cultural bubble will not have the same effect. If we want to teach hospitality, we must live it, not only with those who resemble us, but with those vastly different. Like Salmon and Boaz, let us look past the previous experiences of those we encounter, and be people of grace and kindness.

Notre Dame: More than a Building

Today as I watched in shock and horror while the flames ravaged the roof of the iconic Notre Dame Cathedral, I tried to console myself with the words, "it's just a building." But that's not really true.

An album page from our 2002 visit that includes the spire

We visited Notre Dame when our four children ranged in age from nine to fourteen. We marveled at the gargoyles and flying buttresses. While studying French in Paris in 2007 I worshiped at the cathedral on the Sunday I arrived, gathering that evening with the faithful.

In the midst of this tragedy commentators are noting the architectural wonders of flying buttresses and a rib vault, the rose windows, all the unique and stunning elements set the cathedral apart. Much history has transpired within and around it, and it has survived previous difficulties, but nothing like this fire.

Tuning in towards the beginning of the blaze, I hoped the fire could be quenched quickly, but soon the beautiful spire toppled into the building below as enormous orange yellow clouds of smoke billowed into the air. Thankfully the 400 firefighters were able to save the main stone structure and the iconic front bell towers remain.

As I write this just hours after the incident, the future of Notre Dame Cathedral remains uncertain. The French President Macron has vowed to rebuild, and I hope this is possible. This landmark steadies the city as importantly as the Eiffel Tower, and has a more important purpose.

We can easily forget Notre Dame doesn't exist simply for tourists and history buffs or architect fans. A congregation uses this building, and this happened on the Monday of Holy Week. Just as when people lose the house they live in, Notre Dame serves as their spiritual home.

Often people say, "the church is not the building, it's the people." Accurate, but then, our body is not just a body, it is how we exist in the world, and a church building is how a congregation gathers in the community. The building serves as a reminder of faith, as a place to come for solace, and when it's a church like Notre Dame, even pilgrimage.

I am grateful that as of this writing, no lives were lost in this tragedy. Yet the loss of this spiritual and cultural icon looms large. I hope with President Macron, that like the Lord of this Cathedral, Notre Dame will rise again.

Aging: It Beats the Alternative?

When young, our definition of old may be quite a low number. I definitely remember thinking I didn't want to get "too" old. But as the years go by, our perspective typically shifts. Whereas 50 used to seem old, now 90 fits that description.

I had the interesting experience of two great grandfathers that lived to be 100, and grandparents that reached their 90s. Such a heritage caused me to reset my expectations on life expectancy. Why not go for three digits?

Then before I even lost any of my grandparents, my mom died at 66, unexpectedly and needlessly. Dad contracted lung cancer from smoking and died after a three month awareness of his diagnosis, at only 71. Recently I've had several friends die in their 40s and 50s. And this year I'm facing turning 60.

I didn't mind those other milestone birthdays. I welcomed 50, because I had heard at 50 you could stop worrying about what people think, and I said bring that on. However I've been dreading this one. Perhaps part of it means entering the decade I lost my mom. Considering when to retire. Facing declining health and appearance. Lots of life changes ahead, some welcome, some dreaded.

I've been content to let my hair gray, have no intention of having any "work" done, so as I age, that's how I'll look. I'm finding that more difficult to accept than I expected, preferring to still appear young and healthy. I've typically been guessed to be ten years younger than I really am, but even at that rate, I will eventually look old.

So I'm trying to learn to accept that as not being a curse. Our culture values youth, but the Bible praises the wisdom of the aged. I don't dislike people for "looking old," so why do I think I will lose status for that same thing?

My heart was encouraged last week by visiting my uncle. He's my mother's brother, and since I can't take my grandkids to see her, I wanted them to meet her brother. Uncle Jim is 82 and suffering from Parkinson's disease so he is losing ground. But his wit and humor remain, his impish smile, his kindness as he dragged out toys for my granddaughter to enjoy. As we prepared to leave he helped pick up the toys as well.

She enjoyed playing with him, and when it was time to go, she even gave him a hug. Back at her house, she kept talking about Bapa Jim (as she dubbed him, her grandpa name coupled with his first name) and how he had toys to play with. She liked Aunt Mahnaz too, who's only in her 60s, but it was Bapa Jim she talked about later.

When I looked back at the family shot I had taken, one of them shows her looking at him intently.She was undeterred by his age or physical condition. Through the eyes of a child he was a welcome playmate.

And at the moment it's those eyes that matter to me. I want to be able to enjoy my grandchildren, those I have now and those to come. Visiting my uncle reassures me that is still possible, well beyond 60.

Somehow it's challenging to age past my own parents, but I hope I have the privilege of doing that. They say ageing beats the alternative, and I think that's true, until it isn't. A day comes when heading home to Jesus beats the condition life has become for us, and that happens at different times for different people. Until I know otherwise, I'm hoping for a long delay.

So meanwhile I have to accept the inevitable signs of aging with grace, and focus on what I can still do and be. God still has work for me. I still find ways to help my grown children. And most fun of all I enjoy these grandchildren for whom I am Ganny. Best role yet, and may it last for decades to come.

What a Car Can Mean

This car has been parked in the church lot behind our house for weeks. It's not road worthy, the license is not attached, so it can't be parked on a street. The owners hide it behind this church so the police don't tow it. When they need the car, they take off the tarps keeping rain out of the broken windows, laying the wood on the parking lot while they are gone. When they return from their errands, they replace the tarps and wood to protect the car, and carry their wares to their home.

The average middle class person can afford a car with windows and headlights and a license plate that they can park conveniently in front of their home. Often middle class and upper class folks complain that those without means expect to be taken care of, and should find a job.

Working usually requires transportation. In my city the only train system is a limited rail downtown more for tourists. The busses mostly run downtown, which is not where work can be found for the typical person without high skills. So the average person trying to get out of poverty, needs a car. But how to pay for one? If they can scrape some money together, the car may look like this.

One of my parishioners has a serviceable car, and the head gasket recently blew. Where does she get the extra funds to repair the car on her wages from waiting tables? And people often fail to tip. If she doesn't fix the car, and doesn't get to her job, she has no income at all. Such a vicious cycle.

People without means to buy cars need public transportation that goes to parts of the city with work and that remains affordable. Care about such matters, even if you don't personally need to use it. Support busses and trains in city budgets and measures to make the affordable to those who depend on them. Wanna help someone you know with these issues? Buy a bus card so they can get started on their job search and save for a car. Consider donating your used car when you are ready to upgrade to someone who needs it or an organization who provides cars for people, instead of getting that tiny amount the dealer offers for a trade in. You could make the difference for someone who needs a car to start working. These concrete matters impact others. The next time you're ready to buy that sweet ride, find a good home for the old one.