Here

I can’t sleep. I’ve left the warmth of my bed in the wee hours of the morning, leaving the cat curled up in her usual spot on the bed. Neither dog moves as I head for the kitchen. Hot chocolate. That will do.

Sitting on the front porch with my feet curled up under me, I warm my hands with the mug of hot chocolate. I’m struck by the darkness. The sliver of moon is casting eerie shadows. The single streetlight shines in the empty church lot, revealing a lonely soccer ball taking up its own parking space. There’s something strangely comforting about the darkness. As my eyes adjust I am able to make out the steeple on the church with the lopsided cross on top, and I smile. “Even the darkness is not dark to you, Lord; for night is as bright as day.” The hot chocolate calms me, but I’m not ready to return to bed. And so I sit.

As the cool of the night seeps into my bones I become aware of the sheer sound of silence. It is too late for crickets and too early for birds. Not a single car has gone by. The goats and chickens are all quiet. Even the river is noiseless tonight. And for a moment – just a moment! – the clamor in my head is stilled.

And then the beautiful soprano line from Mendelssohn’s Elijah fills my head: “And in that still voice onward came the Lord...” Music has a way of speaking to me when nothing else will. The Lord was not in the mighty wind that split mountains; the Lord was not in the earthquake that broke rocks into pieces; the Lord was not in the fire. No, the Lord spoke to Elijah in the sound of sheer silence, asking, “What are you doing here?”

What am I doing here?

I wonder: God, what do you mean by here?  Here as in Saxapahaw?  Here as in ministry? Here as in the front porch in the wee hours of the morning?

And God laughs: Yes. All of the above. Here.

I think of Elijah’s response: “I have been very zealous for the Lord.” The Israelites have broken your covenant; the people have turned away from you again and again. I’m worried. I’m worn out. My heart is broken.

And then I laugh, because God’s response to Elijah was simply, “Go.”

Trust Me, and go back to bed, for the dawn will come, bringing bright sunshine and chirping birds and barking dogs and busy people traveling to and fro. The dawn will come, bringing new opportunities and renewed hope and moments of sheer joy. The dawn will come, and people need to know that even during their darkest hour I AM here.

The Dream

The narrow path I had been walking along led to a door.  When I noticed the door I stopped and looked back along the path I had been following.  As I realized the path was straight and narrow excitement welled up inside of me.  Certainly the door would lead to the kingdom of heaven!  I began to imagine what I would find on the other side of the door once I reached it.  I envisioned lush greenery, trees covered with the most perfect fruit, streams of crystal clear cool water, a gentle breeze.  I began to walk more quickly, eager to reach the door – eager to open the door to this whole new world.  When I reached the door I paused, taking a deep breath before opening it.  Then, filled with anticipation, I quickly pushed the door open. 

It is hard to describe the next few moments.  I was stunned by what I saw.  Nothing looked the way I expected it to look.  There were no trees – actually there was no greenery at all.  And no evidence of water.  As I stood in that doorway I looked out over a barren desert that had been parched by the scorching sun and hot wind.  Tears sprung to my eyes as I stood there, utterly perplexed.  How could this be?  Didn’t scripture say that the way that leads to life is straight and narrow?  Yet there was no life on the other side of this door!  What happened?

Confused and dismayed, I looked back along the path that had led to the door.  From this new perspective I realized that the path was not as straight as it had originally seemed.  Neither was it particularly narrow.  I began to stumble back along the path, seeking to understand how the path I had followed had led to such a desolate place.  I had not gone far before I realized that there were numerous forks in the path – forks I had not noticed before.  I came to one fork and turned around, looking down the two paths.  The paths looked almost identical.  They both appeared straight and narrow at first glance.  But the one I had chosen was wider and better traveled, and it curved ahead – perhaps at another fork.

I kept traveling back along my path, stopping at each fork.  It was clear that these forks marked small decisions – seemingly insignificant decisions – I had made during my life.  At one fork I had chosen to spend an evening with one friend instead of another, knowing time with the one friend would be more fun.  At another fork I had chosen to eat some food that was not good for me, rationalizing that a little bit would not hurt.  At another fork I had skipped a meeting I should have attended because I was tired (and didn’t really want to go anyway).  At another fork I had ignored an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach because I was enjoying spending time with a person. 

Each fork marked a small decision – one I never imagined would make any difference in the grand scheme of my life.  And yet, at so many of these small forks I had chosen the wider path, the easier path, the better traveled path.  I had inadvertently chosen the path that led to death.

At that moment I woke up from my dream, sitting straight up in bed.  How was this possible?  What had I done?  How could so many seemingly insignificant decisions have caused so much damage?  In that fog between dreaming and wakefulness I cried out in dismay.

Desmond Tutu writes, “The Buddhist practice of mindfulness and the daily examen of Ignatian spirituality point to the same end: when we pay attention, it is possible to halt evil in its tracks.  Paying attention also helps us to see how easy it is to become inured to the proliferation of evil.  Evil does not sweep in like a tsunami; it bleeds into the fabric of life, washing out the joy and staining the beauty.  Choosing wrong is learned through a series of small decisions.  Little failures become ingrained through repetition.  The small faults, unchecked, open the way for all the vileness of which we are capable.”[1]

While Archbishop Tutu is talking about the sin of apartheid, an evil that bled into the very fabric of life in South Africa, he speaks a truth that is relevant to all of us: Choosing wrong is learned through a series of small decisions.  But there is a deeper truth: Through Jesus Christ we can learn to choose the good.  Through mindfulness and repetition, goodness can infiltrate the fabric of life, filling it with joy and revealing the depth of its beauty.

As I became fully alert on that dark night, I remembered the awesome God I serve – a God of compassion and forgiveness – a God of second and third and fourth chances.  While the path in my dream may have led to the door of hell and death, God was showing me another way.  There is a path that leads to the kingdom of love and life.  It is a narrow path.  It is not as heavily traveled as the other paths.  And yet, it is clearly available to all.  This path is followed by those who pay attention to the signs – those who listen to the nudgings of the Holy Spirit – those who are mindful of God’s grace at work, even in the midst of the smallest decisions.  With God’s help, we can learn to choose the path of life.

In the darkness of that night, as I prayed for forgiveness and mindfulness, I began to sing:

Goodness is stronger than evil;

Love is stronger than hate;

Light is stronger than darkness;

Life is stronger than death.

Victory is ours, Victory is ours,

Through Him who loved us;

Victory is ours, Victory is ours,

Through Him who loved us.[2]

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[1] Desmond Tutu, Made for Goodness: And Why This Makes All the Difference (New York: Harper Collins, 2010), 95.

[2] The Faith We Sing (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2000), 2219.  From An African Prayer Book, by Desmond Tutu.

¡Soy hispano!

According to the US government definition, I can answer the question “Are you  Hispanic/Latino” affirmatively![1]  I am Hispanic because I trace my origin to Bogota, Colombia.  In this case, “origin” is understood as country of birth and Colombia is in South America.[2]  At first glance, it seems I have misrepresented myself for the past 40+ years, as I have never considered myself to be of Hispanic origin.  White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant? Yes. Hispanic? No.  But then, the US Census Bureau has simplified the definition, since determining whether a person is of Hispanic origin is quite complicated: simply, you are of Hispanic origin if you say you are.[3]  So if I want to say I am of Hispanic origin, I can.

Sue in Mexico City, 1968.

While calling myself Hispanic may seem absurd, the more I have reflected on this the more sense it makes for me to do so.  After all, I share many characteristics with the Hispanic communities in North Carolina. I was born in a Latin American country. I came to the United States from Mexico, like 63% of the Hispanics in this state.[4] I was in the fourth grade when my family moved to the United States from Mexico City, where I had lived for almost seven years. Like so many of the people coming to the United States from Mexico, we moved here because my father was offered a better job. In his case, it was a promotion within the same company. Nevertheless, it was a better job. Like so many Hispanic children, I did not choose to come to the United States. I came to this country because my parents came to this country. Finally, like 55% of the Hispanics in North Carolina, I have legal documentation of my right to be here.[5] I am a legal alien; I carry a green card.

Of course, most similarities end there. I have grown up with privilege. I’ve never been discriminated against because of the color of my skin. I’ve gone to the best schools, never wondering whether my legal status might keep me from attending.[6] No one has ever asked me about my legal status in a job interview or at a roadside checkpoint. While there have been times when I have been afraid, I have never lived in fear. My white skin and my fluency in English have given me so many opportunities – opportunities I have simply taken for granted.[7]   

So what does it mean for me to claim my Hispanic origin? It means that stereotypes of what it means to be Hispanic/Latino are just that – stereotypes. Not all Hispanics are brown-skinned, Spanish-speaking, and undocumented. As a matter of fact, some are white and some are black; some are third and fourth generation American citizens; some have never spoken any language except English. In other words, there is as much diversity among people who are Hispanic as there is more generally in the American population. Stereotypes are dangerous and discriminatory; stereotyping Hispanics is damaging and divisive to our entire community. And yet, it happens all the time.

This past year I have spent a great deal of time learning about the challenges faced by the Hispanic community in Alamance county, particularly as a result of the 287(g) program.[8]  The Sheriff’s department has partnered with ICE to implement this program – a program that is intended to facilitate the removal from this country of dangerous criminals who are undocumented.  But this county has chosen to use the program to attempt to remove all Hispanics who are undocumented.  In the words of our county commissioner, Tim Sutton, “287(g) deters local crime by illegal aliens. But that’s not the only thing I’m after. I want illegal aliens, to be honest with you, out of here.”[9] I wonder if Mr. Sutton has truly thought about the impact of his statement.  What about those who came to the United States as children? Those who have been here 20+ years? Those who know no other home except North Carolina? Out of here to where, Mr. Sutton?

One problem with the 287(g) program as it is implemented in Alamance County is that it leaves all those who are brown-skinned, regardless of their legal status, living in fear. This type of racial profiling is crippling our community. Claiming my Hispanic origin compels me to stand with my Hispanic/Latino brothers and sisters against the fear tactics imposed by those in power, especially here in Alamance County. Claiming my Hispanic origin compels me to speak out against the injustices experienced by my Hispanic brothers and sisters.

Compels. That is a strong word. I have been motivated to pray for and with my Hispanic brothers and sisters for years.  From trying to teach the language of Chemistry in English to youth who only spoke Spanish, to entering into the lives of and worshipping with the Hispanic community at Reconciliation UMC in Durham, I have been motivated to pray. I have been inspired by the friendships I have formed and the reading I have done to do more for my brothers and sisters – but I have not acted. Today I am compelled to stand with this community against the powers that be. While I have no idea what this will look like, may God open doors that enable me to do this faithfully!

---

[1] The term "Hispanic" refers to persons who trace their origin or descent to Mexico, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Central and South America, and other Spanish cultures. http://www.whitehouse.gov/omb/fedreg_1997standards

[2] Origin can be viewed as the heritage, nationality group, lineage, or country of birth of the person or the person's parents or ancestors before their arrival in the United States. http://latinostories.com/Latino_Facts_and_Statistics/Census_Stats_Latinos/Definition_of_Hispanic_Origin.htm

[3] http://pewhispanic.org/reports/report.php?ReportID=111

[4] http://pewhispanic.org/states/?stateid=NC

[5] In NC, an estimated 41% of Latinos are native-born US citizens.  Those who are naturalized citizens or have visas make up 13.6% of the total Latino population in NC.  The remaining 45% lack legal immigration status.  Hannah Gill, The Latino Migration Experience in North Carolina, page 5.

[6]“NC Coalition for Justice for Immigrants” website, http://www.welcometheimmigrant.org/legislative-updates, has information on legislation in NC about denying post-secondary education to undocumented immigrants. House Bill 11 can be found at the NC General Assembly site at http://www.ncleg.net/gascripts/BillLookUp/BillLookUp.pl?Session=2011%20%20&BillID=h11.

[7] See Peggy McIntosh’s article, White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack.

[8] Go to the Immigration and Customs Enforcement website to learn more: http://www.ice.gov/287g/

[9] The 287(g) Program: Costs and Consequences, page 10, from the Institute for Study of the Americas at UNC-Chapel Hill. Download at: isa.unc.edu/migration/287g_report_final.pdf

Durham, Sweet Durham

The sun was just setting as we walked out of Torero’s in downtown Durham last Friday.  The cumulonimbus clouds billowed on the skyline, brightly colored with pink and purple and orange hues against the startling Duke blue of the sky.  A large group of well-dressed young women stood on the sidewalk, talking and laughing, creating an obstacle course for us to get through. A freight train traveled toward Raleigh with car after car of goods.  Boxcars followed by tankers, the inevitable graffiti coloring the sides; the regular clickety-clack of the wheels creating a steady din in the background.  The road was busy, the parking lot full, and the sound of people filled the air.  It was a magical moment for this city girl who now lives in the country.  I delighted in the sights and sounds – truly an assault on the senses.  No words can capture the beauty of that moment.

As I took in this scene I exclaimed, “I love Durham!”  In that moment, memories came crashing in on me, and I realized I’m not just a city girl, I’m a Durham city girl.  As I noticed Liggett Myers on one side I vividly remembered the wonderfully sweet and pungent smell of tobacco filling the air.  Years ago, my mom and I sat talking on the East Campus wall just a few blocks away on an equally beautiful night when that smell of tobacco was particularly strong; that was the night my mom became my friend.  Looking toward Brightleaf Square I was flooded by more memories.  Pizza and more pizza at Satisfaction across the years – such good pizza, such yummy fried mushrooms, such wonderful company!  And more recently, I recall a Disciple Bible Study at El Rodeo one beautiful spring evening.   There are so many memories of good food, live music, people dancing, deep conversations, and loads of fun with so many friends across time.  

After leaving Torero’s, my friend and I headed to East Campus for an evening stroll.  Large trees, empty benches, lush grass, beautiful flowers – it’s such a pretty campus.  And it is so quiet in the summer time!  As we walked, I recalled so many walks with dogs – Helmunth jumping the wall and dashing across Main Street, Jeepers disappearing late one night only to reappear on our doorsteps back home.  Miles and miles of walking that wall alone, with dogs, with friends...  It was along that wall that I experienced my first really passionate kiss so many years ago.  Of course, I’ll never forget regularly putting a penny in the Sower’s hand for good luck.

Stepping out of Torero’s on a Friday night seems like such an ordinary thing to do, and yet on this night the sights and the sounds triggered memory upon memory.  Maybe it is a sign that I’m getting old.  On the other hand, what an extraordinary privilege to be able to visit these few blocks of downtown Durham that hold almost thirty years of memories!  And what a gift to remember so many good friends across time – friends who have made my life rich with beauty and joy and love – a richness money cannot buy.

The fact that I am a Durham city girl at heart has more to do with the people whose lives have intersected mine in Durham than with the city itself – friends who have helped to create so many magical moments.  Thanks be to God for this little corner of heaven called Durham, and for the friends who have made Durham so special to me.  What a gift to be able to say, “I’m from Durham!”

A First Year Pastor’s Top Ten Gleanings

It has been almost one year since I became the pastor at Saxapahaw United Methodist Church.  While my years of teaching high school at Northern Durham, my wonderful seminary education at Duke Divinity, and my invaluable experience on the pastoral staff at Reconciliation UMC prepared me well, the learning curve has been steep during this first year of ministry.  Today I thought I’d reflect on what I’ve learned so far.  Here are my top ten gleanings:

1.     The weekly task of preaching is a gift.  The hours spent preparing – reading, praying, pondering, exploring, and finally writing – create a rhythm in my week that grounds me in God’s Word.  That is pure gift. 

2.     The weekly task of preaching is a challenge.  Sunday comes every seven days, whether I am ready for it or not.  Unlike teaching a lesson where there is a clear objective, the objective of preaching comes from studying God’s Word and knowing God’s people.  I recognize my utter dependence on God on those weeks when I’m sitting in front of my computer on a Saturday morning and still have no idea what Word to bring to God’s people.

3.     Praying for the people is utterly essential.  Each week, in addition to spontaneous prayers, I pray through the church directory; mine is filled with notes and names that I have added.  These prayers connect me to the congregation in a way that nothing else can; they are the foundation for building strong relationships.

4.     Conflict is inevitable. 

5.     Time with the congregation is indispensable.  From visiting the sick and those who are grieving, to showing up at birthday parties and games, spending time listening and laughing and praying together is invaluable.

6.     Time with friends and colleagues is important for a balanced life.  Whether it is time with my accountability group, my friends, my mentors, or other pastors, that time is so important to help me keep things in perspective.

7.     Time in study and reflection beyond preparation for worship and Sunday school is absolutely necessary.  From daily devotions to close readings of theology books to watching movies and reading novels, this time spent learning about God and God’s people has a way of grounding me and keeping things real.

8.     There is never enough time.  

9.     The people who make up the church are extraordinary.  They love one another, through good times and tough times.  They freely give of their time to the church – teaching and leading, planning and visioning, cleaning and mowing – on top of the many commitments of a busy life.  And even more astonishing, they support the church financially, paying me to do the things I love most.  The people of God are faithful and good and generous and loving.  They are extraordinary.

10. It isn’t about me.  At the end of the day, it isn’t about what I’ve done or who I’ve visited.  God has this uncanny ability to show up and give us a glimpse of the Kingdom in the midst of our most mundane activities and during our most profound moments of worship.  At the end of the day, there is nothing to do but give thanks to God for this gift called ministry.

Beach Reflections

May 20, 2011

I love walking on the beach.  There’s nothing quite like the sun on my back, a breeze in my face, sand between my toes, the water splashing up to my knees, and the never ending sound of the waves. The beach is a space that is both infinitely vast and deeply personal – a time that is totally in the moment and surprisingly eternal – a place where I can reflect on life and listen for the voice of God.  When I walk on the beach, it’s as if I’ve stepped into a corner of heaven. 

Walking at North Myrtle Beach, May 2011

This week as I walked, I reflected on the deep places of hurt and the broad places of gratitude in my life.  I realized that the water at the beach is never still enough for me to see my own reflection.  The constant motion, the foam of the waves, the churned up sand – well, the conditions are all wrong for seeing my own reflection!  And yet, I can see the sun reflecting off the water near the shore.  The bright yellow globe may be slightly distorted by the water, but there’s no questioning that reflection!

What is God saying to us, that the sun can be reflected at the ocean’s edge but our own images cannot?

When I lift my eyes beyond the shore to the horizon where the blue-green of the ocean meets the blue-white of the sky, I am drawn into the expansiveness of God’s creation.  I am but one small creature in a universe that extends way beyond the visible horizon to vast horizons across space.  Then, as my eyes are drawn back to the waves that perpetually break and roll into shore, I am aware that waves have broken on shores since long before I arrived, and will do so long after I am gone.  

Like the shifting sands under my feet, as I gaze across the ocean I sense a shift in my own perspective. My eyes see the truth: it is the Almighty and Everlasting God who is reflected in the ocean.  It is the very image of God that surrounds me - the Creator of the universe so powerfully present in this particular moment.  From this perspective, there is an abundance in God’s creation that far outweighs my joys and sorrows; it isn’t that my reflections are insignificant, they just aren’t as heavy as I have allowed them to become.  Somehow, in that moment, I am welcomed into a reality that extends beyond the horizon and I know that my reflections matter to God!

Overwhelmed and humbled, tears flow freely into the very water where the image of God is reflected.  The tears are swept away by the water – the salt of my eyes becoming indistinguishable from the salt of the ocean.  It is as if God has cried an ocean of tears with all those across time and around the world who have shed tears.  In that moment, my deep places of hurt merge with God’s sorrow and pain and I find healing.

Then laughter escapes my lips as I rejoice and give thanks for all that God has done.  Like music to my ears, the commotion of the breaking waves, the sounds of children playing along the shore, and the voices of people enjoying the beach mingle with my own laughter making a joyful noise to the Lord.  In that moment the peace that passes all understanding washes over me.

I think there’s a reason we cannot see our own reflection at the beach.  If we saw our own reflection we’d get lost in it and miss the beauty of God’s reflection.  And it is in encountering God’s image that we grasp eternity.  The beach is but one little corner of heaven where we find healing and hope, grace and peace.

Fragile! Handle With Care!

May 3, 2011

The tiny porcelain angel was not much bigger than my hand.  It was beautifully crafted, with wings that were so thin they were practically translucent and a face that was almost radiant. I ran my fingers along her wings as my friend told me the story of this family heirloom; I could sense both how precious and how fragile this little angel was.  As our conversation moved on I turned to put the little angel back on the shelf, and as I turned I inadvertently bumped the angel against the shelf.  Much to my dismay this beautiful little angel broke into pieces!  I had been distracted as our conversation moved on and had not been as careful as I should have been.  I misjudged with tragic consequences.  I felt awful; the damage had been done and there was nothing that I could do about it.

Unfortunately, little porcelain angels are not the only things we break.  There are times when we inadvertently say something to a friend that shatters them.  Or, in a moment of distraction, we do something that forever changes our relationships.  How often we misjudge a situation with tragic consequences! 

The Psalmist sings to God: “I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.  My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth” (Ps 139:14-15).   Like the little angel, we are intricately woven – beautifully crafted – by God.  Like the little angel, we are fearfully and wonderfully made – with astonishing and unique features that God knows intimately.  The Psalmist understands that we are fragile; God knows that each one of His beloved children must be handled with care.

And yet we continue to hurt one another and ourselves – often inadvertently, occasionally intentionally.  We are broken by careless actions or thoughtless words.  We are shattered by forces that are seemingly beyond our control.  Like Humpty Dumpty, it seems like we cannot be put back together again.  But with God, all things are possible.

These same hands that broke my friend’s little angel are the hands that are held open as a broken piece of bread is placed in them with the words, “The body of Christ, broken for you.”  The body of Christ that we broke when we shouted, “Crucify Him!” is given to us as a gift.  Through Jesus Christ all things are possible.  By grace, Jesus is right there, broken, in our very hands, given to us that we might know the depth of God’s love for us and find healing and forgiveness.

I hear God whispering into my brokenness, “You are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you... Do not fear, for I am with you” (Isaiah 43:4-5).  I hear the truth of Jesus’ words: “Your sins are forgiven” (Matt 9:2).  As I leave the Lord’s Table, I find that I can go out into this broken world once again.  Certainly, I know I am fragile, I know I must handle my relationships with great care.  Yet, I hear God’s words: “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9).

Roller Coasters

Easter Monday, April 25, 2011

Many years ago, a friend and I spent the day at Coney Island riding the wooden roller coaster over and over again.  Flying down the long slopes with our hands in the air, and clinging tightly to the bar as we flew around sharp curves, we screamed and laughed and screamed again.  Wooden roller coasters are terrifying and exhilarating – there is always this sensation that the car is going to fly right off the tracks.  And the clickety-clack of the wheels on the rails sets up a vibration that rattles the riders to the core.  It is quite unsettling.  Each time the ride ended, we looked at each other and shouted, “Again!”  We rode the roller coaster over and over again, until the bones and muscles in our young bodies cried out, “Enough!”  (But let’s come back next week!)

Ministry is so much like a wooden roller coaster.  There are times when serving God is so intense that there is nothing else to do but hang on tightly and trust.  There are moments of pure joy when it is so good to just throw our hands up in the air and praise God.  There are weeks that are decidedly unsettling, as relationships are rattled by dispute.  And there are days that are filled with sadness, moments of transition and loss.  The work of ministry is exhilarating and terrifying, and much less predictable than a roller coaster.  Each Monday, as I take a day of rest, I delight in the anticipation of crying out “Again!”

But on this Easter Monday the bones and muscles of my body are crying out “Enough!”  It is time to get off the roller coaster of life and rest, at least for a little while.  It is time to rest and remember.  Today I remember and give thanks for the lives of the many wonderful people who have died since last Easter, including Charles, Andrea, Kris, Eula Mae, Ben, Peggy, Marie, and Mary.  Today I remember and give thanks for the lives of six incredible youth who were confirmed yesterday: Crystal, Meredith, Tonisha, Bradley, Jonathan, and Anna.  Today I remember and give thanks for the mentors and friends who have been brave enough to ride this roller coaster of ministry with me.  Today I remember and give thanks for the wonderful and faithful congregations at Reconciliation UMC and Saxapahaw UMC.  Today I remember and give thanks for my family.   

And as I remember and give thanks to God for all the moments of exhilaration and sadness of the past year I find myself eager to cry “Again!”  Again!  In grief and in joy, in good times and in difficult times, this roller coaster called ministry – this gift of being able to serve God and God’s people – leads me to cry out, “Again!”  (But not until next week!)

Exposing Sin to the Light

Some of us are fortunate enough to have had an experience in our lives where, as John Wesley said about his Aldersgate experience, “I felt I did trust in Christ alone for salvation; and an assurance was given me that He had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death.”[1]  I was in twelfth grade, one of the disciples in our church youth group’s production of Godspell.  Each disciple played various roles as the story of Jesus was told, and one of the roles I played was that of the woman caught in the act of adultery (John 8:2-11).  I will never forget the upheld hands of my fellow disciples holding imaginary rocks; I’ll never forget the hatred in the eyes of my friends who were ready to stone me to death...  I’ll never forget the feeling I had as I watched each one drop his or her hand and turn away, unable to cast the first stone.  No one condemned me.  In that moment I knew with certainty that Jesus Christ loved me – even me!  I knew – deep down in the very core of my being – that my sins were forgiven.

I shared this story with the youth in my confirmation class recently and it led me back to the eighth chapter of John.  I realized as I reread it that I had never really considered what it would feel like to expose a sin that had been hidden.  The woman’s adultery – something that had happened in the cover of darkness – was brought into the light early in the morning as Jesus taught in the temple.  I wonder if the woman felt shame and humiliation as she stood before this angry crowd.  Or perhaps anger or embarrassment?  Maybe she was simply bewildered by the rapid sequence of events.  After all, she had been caught in the very act of committing adultery.  No matter what, it must have been excruciatingly painful standing before a mocking crowd as Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger in the sand.  Her sin had been brought into the light, and one way or the other things would never be the same.

As I reflected on this story I did something I rarely do – I flipped on the TV to take a break.  Oprah was on, talking to Olympic gold medalist Greg Louganis.[2]  Greg came out on the Oprah show in 1995, revealing that he was both gay and HIV positive.  This week he was reflecting on that day, so many years ago.  He spoke both of the terror of sharing the truth about himself, and the relief of no longer needing to live in the midst of never-ending lies.  Regardless of whether we view homosexuality as sinful or not, Greg had been living in deep darkness – a life of deception weighed heavily on him.  He took a huge risk when he spoke the truth, and discovered profound healing.

I have worked with several women who have experienced abuse.  One described the way that her partner intentionally hit her, bruising her in places that could be concealed by her clothing, but never touching her face.  When she tried to bring this abuse into the light, the abuse actually got worse.  Then he ‘accidentally’ bruised her face, and the truth came out.  Like the woman caught in the act of adultery, she was forced to bring the abuse – and all the baggage that came with it – into the light.  It was a very painful time for everyone involved, but with time and therapy and prayer she began to find healing and wholeness. Telling the truth about her situation helped to free her from a terrible secret.

What does it feel like to expose a truth that has been hidden?  What happens when something that has occurred under the cover of darkness is brought into the light?  It seems to me that this is when the lies and deception end, and honesty and truthfulness begin. As Greg Louganis said, he no longer needed to edit himself, but could speak the truth.  This must have been profoundly freeing.  As for the woman who was left standing next to Jesus, she had been given new life – a chance to start over.  Jesus tells her, “Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.” The truth, in the midst of an angry, murderous crowd, had revealed that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23). The truth, in the midst of all her disgrace and pain, had set her free.

This morning I was reading from Ephesians 5: “Live as children of light... Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what such people do secretly; but everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for everything that becomes visible is light” (v. 8, 11-14).  Light – truth – freedom – healing.  All this, just for exposing the unfruitful works of darkness – the hidden truths, the carefully concealed brokenness, and even the outright sin – to the light.  And this is only the beginning.  Don’t forget about the amazing gift of God’s abundant love and ceaseless forgiveness. 

 

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[1] The Journal of John Wesley, May 24, 1738.

[2] http://www.oprah.com/oprahshow/Gay-Issues-on-The-Oprah-Show/1

Gasping for Prayer

Sometimes praying takes no effort at all.  Praying can be automatic, instinctive, natural – like breathing.  The words are simply there, the posture (kneeling or sitting or standing, hands folded or upheld) is effortless, the communication is easy.  God is powerfully present and actively listening.  As Marie Barnett sings:

This is the air I breathe

This is the air I breathe

Your holy presence living in me.[1]

Prayer is living and breathing – a part of who I am.  Prayer is powerful and beautiful – God with me.  Sometimes praying takes no effort at all.

But sometimes I feel mute and deaf and blind to prayer.  There are no words in my mouth and the words on the page are meaningless.  The Psalms, the Collects, and even the Lord’s Prayer might as well be in a foreign language – there is no understanding.  If God is speaking, I’m not hearing anything.  My posture is restless – my knees hurt and I lack the strength to hold up my hands.  Communication seems all but impossible.  In these times when prayer simply escapes me, I long for a breath of fresh air; it feels like I’m gasping for prayer. 

Habit leads me to read the Psalms.  A pattern of morning prayer leads me to read a Collect or two.  After all, I believe:

This is my daily bread

This is my daily bread

Your very Word spoken to me.

And yet, sometimes God’s Word simply does not speak to me through these patterns and habits. I breathe in, longing to speak.  I gasp, longing to be filled once again with the wind of God.  And I still feel breathless – dry and empty – unable to pray.

The amazing thing is that when the senses I rely on don’t seem to be working, God finds another way.  Shortly after sunset tonight, as I walked across the bridge over the Haw River, the full moon was reflecting brightly on the water and that wind of God touched me in the beauty of that moment.  God found another way.  Earlier today, I listened to the FolkPsalm[2] band sing psalms of lament and praise in Goodson Chapel.  The Word of God spoke to me in the sharp contrasts: “How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long?”[3] versus “Your steadfast love, O Lord, extends to the heavens, your faithfulness to the clouds.”[4]  Together, in the heaviness of one and the joy of the other, God spoke a breath of fresh air.  God found another way.

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[1] CCLI Song No. 1874117, © 1995 Mercy / Vineyard Publishing (Admin. by Music Services, Inc.)

[2] http://folkpsalm.com/

[3] Psalm 13:2 (NRSV)

[4] Psalm 36:5 (NRSV)