April 11, 2025
In some churches, all the stories of Holy Week are read on Palm Sunday. That means going from waving palms to that upstairs room with Jesus and his disciples for the Last Supper, and then directly to the cruifixtion, all in one morning. The Book of Common Prayer offers this as an option, recognizing that those who aren't present for the rest of Holy Week will miss hearing the whole story.
I am of a different mind. This is not just a story we tell, we hear, and remember, but a story we live. And that takes time. It takes intention. It takes space. It begins this weekend but we can’t wrap it up into a neat package Instead, I invite us to take one step at a time. No worries if you aren't able to come to church for Holy Week services - you'll be receiving emails on each Holy Day which will offer ways to honor our story at home. But either way, we'll take the whole week to let the story unfold. And for those who are able, here is how the week will unfold at Saint Anne's:
We'll wave our palms this Sunday, and shout our Hosannas as Jesus enters Jerusalem.
On Maundy Thursday, we'll have a drop-in Open House in the Parish Hall from 5–7 PM with different opportunities to enter this great story on your own time. There will be art to ponder, music to play, the indoor labyrinth to walk. You can pray in an immersive Garden of Gethsemane. There will be some Middle Eastern food. And an optional footwashing station - remembering the night before Jesus died when he washed the feet of his disciples.
At 7 PM on Thursday we’ll have a service where we’ll share bread and wine, the way Jesus did the night he told his disciples that his body would soon be broken like the bread they were sharing – that his blood would soon be poured out like wine. Eat. Drink. Re-member me, he said. And so we do.
On Good Friday, we’ll sit in the shadow of the cross, honoring the fact that sometimes the world feels broken. At noon on Good Friday we'll have a traditional Book of Common Prayer service. At 7 PM we'll have a Tenebrae service where we hear the Seven Last Words of Christ from Scripture, and through music and poetry.
On Holy Saturday, we’ll go back to the beginning of creation and start all over with the Easter Vigil at 7 PM. We’ll start in the darkness and then light a fire which recalls the dawning of time. Then we’ll sit around that fire bringing ancient stories to life.
And then next Sunday, Easter Morning will dawn, with all of its joy and flowers and singing and hope. But we won’t go there just yet; we have a journey to complete first.
This is our story. My prayer this week is for you to have time and space to breathe deeply, open your heart, and feel yourself stepping in. Hosanna in the highest!
April 4, 2025
I had a different note to share with you today. It was just a little story, and I'll share it another time. But, as you'll see below, Saint Annian Joan Stovall and her family experienced a deep tragedy yesterday, when Joan and Doug's son-in-law, married to their daughter Liz, died unexpectedly. There is nothing I can do to make it better. No words I can offer that will make their pain lift. But, sharing a light little story here doesn't feel right at this moment. So for just a moment, let’s just sit quietly with Joan, Doug, Liz, and their kids, offering them our presence and our love and our prayers for comfort and peace. Let's call on the angels and archangels, and all the company of heaven, to sit with them too.
Love God, love your people, share that love with the world. This is my prayer for you this week. There is nothing more important than this.
March 28, 2025
Last year at this time, we were in the middle of Holy Week: Easter Sunday was March 31, 2024. While that timing felt just right last year, this year it feels right to me that we’re still waiting. My body and soul aren’t quite ready to fully embrace all that Easter brings yet. I’m savoring the gradual return of light, taking note of how the sun sets just a bit later out the Sanctuary windows each Lenten Wednesday. Watching the grass perk up just a little with each upward temperature swing, rather than that burst of sudden green we get some years, feels like the right pace. Even the back-and-forth temperatures, and the chance of snow this weekend, feel fitting.Tentativematches my emotions, and, maybe for the first time ever, I appreciate that Creation is taking her time, offering lightness and promise bit by bit. How is it for you? Are you taking it slow this year, too, or are you ready for Spring to break wide open?
Speaking of a slow Spring, I discovered a new-to-me poem by Mary Oliver this week, and wanted to share it with you:
In the north country now it is spring
and there is a certain celebration.
The thrush has come home. He is shy and likes the evening best,
also the hour just before morning; in that blue and gritty light he climbs to his branch,
or smoothly sails there.
It is okay to know only one song if it is this one.
Hear it rise and fall;
the very elements of your soul shiver nicely.
What would spring be without it?
Mostly frogs. But don't worry, he arrives, year after year,
humble and obedient and gorgeous.You listen and you know you could live a better life than you do.
Be softer, kinder.
And maybe this year you will be able to do it.Hear how his voice rises and falls.
There is no way to be sufficiently grateful for the gifts we are given,
no way to speak the Lord's name often enough,
though we do try,
and especially now, as that dappled breast breathes
in the pines and heaven's windows in the north country,
now that spring has come, are opened wide.— Mary Oliver
My prayer for you this week is for the coming of Spring to feeling like a certain celebration in your heart and soul. My prayer for you is that, despite everything, you are able to hear the one song that makes the very elements of your soul shiver nicely, and that you feel heaven's windows open wide.
March 21, 2025
It's that time of year again. Lent? Sure. March Madness? Always entertaining. But what I'm talking about is my Jackie and Shadow obsess....er, interest. Jackie and Shadow are a bald eagle pair who live in Big Bear Valley, California, inside the San Bernardino National Forest. A nonprofit organization called Friends of Big Bear Valley has offered 24-hour livestream footage of their nest for the last seven years, and late winter / early spring is an exciting time at the nest: egg-laying and hatching time!
Last year, Jackie laid three eggs that did not ever hatch, though she sat on them for 80 days, long past the 35-day incubation period for Bald Eagle eggs. This year, she again laid three eggs, all of which hatched right on schedule. Sadly, one of the chicks did not make it through a subsequent snowstorm that brought two feet of snow to the area, but the other two chicks are thriving. Hearing Jackie and Shadow squawk over their chicks is like watching proud parents. Seeing them feed their little ones, with tiny necks wobbling to keep their beaks open, is pure joy. Their teamwork, feeding and guarding their chicks day and night, is powerful and beautiful. The nest itself is majestic and watching their movements in and out of it is calming and peaceful.
Our national life has been chaotic lately, with uncertainties fueling fear and a lot to worry about. I feel it, and many of you have shared that you're feeling it too—body, mind, and spirit. While stress and anxiety is a natural response to turmoil, it's crucial that we balance ourselves with things that bring life. Jesus promises, "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." Though it's not always easy, I find comfort in the reminder that the world is bigger and more beautiful than my worries. There are always examples of strength, hope, and joy to be found. There is always peace to be found. For me, Jackie and Shadow are a living, squawking, life-affirming, reminder
My prayer for you this week is that the peace Jesus spoke of settles in your heart. It's not the absence of challenges, but a peace that assures you that no matter what comes, all shall be well. The peace of wild things. The peace of perspective. The peace that passes all understanding.
March 14, 2025
Earlier this week, I had coffee with a wise and wonderful Saint Annian who shared a new prayer practice that I absolutely loved. Whenever they're waiting in line at the store or for an appointment—basically, any time they would normally reach for their phone—they use that moment to pray instead. It could be just 30 seconds, but they’re choosing to turn those little "in-between" moments into chances to nurture their spirit and connect to Spirit. Such a simple, yet powerful, idea.
Also this week, I’ve been traveling with my son Nolan for a few days; I’m writing to you from the Phoenix airport as we head home. It’s been a joy to have this time to refresh together. Going into our trip, I planned to savor these rare moments and to be fully present with him. But as soon as we got to our gate at MSP, I found myself scrolling through emails and checking social media, trying to get just one last thing in, reacting to breaking news, fussing about this or that. When I remembered the prayer practice the wise and wonderful Saint Annian had shared, I put my phone away. I prayed a little - for all of you, for our country, for the people in the airport around me. I also just sat. I chatted with Nolan, looked out the window, let my mind wander. It felt spacious, peaceful, connected.
As I continued this practice this week, I found taking these little pauses in the rush of life helped me stay grounded, and appreciative of the present moment. I recommend trying it next time you’re waiting or between tasks. It doesn’t need to be complicated, just putting your phone in your pocket and instead offering a simple prayer for someone you know, the stranger next to you, or yourself; or maybe taking time for a moment of gratitude for a blessing in your life.
In a world that’s constantly pulling at our attention, taking moments to pray is like a little act of rebellion against the noise. It’s a gentle way to reclaim our time and our thoughts. My prayer for you this week is a reclaiming of your time, your thoughts, your peace, your connection with something bigger than yourself. May you feel the gentle peace that comes from taking time to pause, breathe, and simply be.
March 7, 2025
Someone asked me recently where I am finding hope these days. My immediate thoughts were pretty generic, even to my own ears. The sunshine we've had lately. Daylight saving time approaching. The turkeys on Dodd Road. Those each do bring me joy, but is that really where I'm finding hope right now? I found myself thinking about the question for the next few days.
The truth is, this is a difficult time in our common life. The systems we count on to hold steady are not very steady at the moment, and some of the safety nets we count on have some rather large holes in them. If not you yourself, then someone you love is probably hurting or at least pretty worried right now. The division is eating away at us. Cries for decency feel like shouting into the wind. I can’t blame anyone who is struggling to find hope at the moment. And yet, in pondering this question, I realized I really do hold hope...
On Ash Wednesday we stand before God and acknowledge that we are people who make mistakes, sometimes big ones, over and over again. We acknowledge that we fall short of the teachings of Jesus, sometimes in big ways, over and over again. We acknowledge that we're all broken in some way, we’re all in need of forgiveness for the things we have done and the things we have left undone.
And if that weren’t enough, on Ash Wednesday we say aloud the honest truth that the rest of society tries to ignore, distract from, and forget: We are dust and to dust we shall return. We are mortal beings and each of our lives will end one day. But as followers of Jesus, we believe life and death are both of God, and both are holy. On Ash Wednesday we dare to speak that truth – we wear it, in fact, right on our foreheads.
In ashes, we remember that we are loved. In looking honestly at our own faults and failings, we are invited to encounter that love more deeply. In ashes, we remember we belong to God. In the acceptance of our mortality, we proclaim that this belonging doesn't end when we die. And as we begin to walk with Jesus through Lent once again, we seek, once again, to be people who live in this kind of love and this kind of peace – and then reflect that to the world.
And that is where I find hope right now. In claiming the burned remnants of something destroyed as a symbol of cleansing and renewal. I find hope in the knowledge that even as we walk with Jesus through the desert of Lent, the heartbreak of Holy Week and the pain of Good Friday, we know Easter morning will come, and Love will rise from the ashes. I find hope in proclaiming defiantly to a world that likes to linger in the destruction, that we won't linger there with them.
Love will always win, every time. If Love hasn't emerged triumphant yet, it's not the end of the story. This is the essence of our faith. It is where I find my hope. My prayer for you this week is to be able to hold this hope, too. Remember that you are love, and to Love you shall return.
February 21, 2025
On the very coldest day of this week - I think my phone told me it was -11 without wind - a pair of deer visited me at church. It was a quiet afternoon, I was the only one in the building at the time, and they came right up to my office window and peered inside. It was so unusual - and so delightful! After we looked at one another for a while, the deer started walking up the sidewalk, taking their time and peering in other windows. For some nonsensical reason, the thought came to me that they must be hungry and that I should get something for them to eat. I quickly found some carrots in the kitchen fridge. By this time the deer were up near the Narthex and I very slowlyyyy and carefullyyyy opened a door to toss out the carrots. Clearly my idea of slow and careful was not a match for the deer's sharp eyes and ears; they saw me immediately and ran off toward the outdoor chapel. I tossed the carrots out onto the sidewalk anyway, and went back to my office.
I felt terrible about scaring them away. I may have lingered on feeling bad about it longer than I should have, but it was absolutely frigid outside. I kept wondering if they had come near the building to be warm, and then, rather than leave well enough alone, I scared them back out into the open. I thought about those (in my mind) poor, cold deer for the rest of the afternoon.
The first thing I did when I got to church the next day was check to see if the carrots were still there. They were. Darn. I checked again several times throughout that day. Still there. Still there. And then a final check late in the afternoon, just before I was leaving for the day. The carrots were GONE. And not only were the carrots gone, but there were deer tracks leading right up to where they had been. Had they waited until they knew I'd be distracted by a Zoom meeting? However they did it, somehow they snuck back up the sidewalk without me seeing them, and grabbed those carrots. Smart deer. Happy me.
It's a silly little story. But during a week where there was a lot of heaviness in the air, the return of the deer to eat their carrots was a moment of joy. And a reminder that there is grace and beauty and balance and joy in the world. Even when we think it's all broken.
My prayer for you this week is that blessings sneak up on you where and when you least expect them. Especially when you think all is lost. In fact, in those times may blessings peer right in your window.
February 14, 2025
The Episcopal Church observes a practice of employees taking a sabbatical every seven years. Many of you have heard me discussing the idea in What If terms, but until now the timing hasn’t felt quite right. Now, in my 8th year as your priest (lucky me!!), the What Ifs are starting to take shape and at this year’s Vestry Retreat we had a For Real conversation about what a time of sabbatical could look like. I’ve decided to write for a grant that might fund some of the ideas floating around, and I want to loop you all in.
The idea of a sabbatical comes from Scripture, where God instituted a rhythm of work and rest. A day of rest each week is actually a commandment, a reminder that our hearts, minds, bodies, and souls need rest as much as anything else. Similarly, the concept of a sabbatical for a priest is time set aside to rest and refresh, both spiritually and physically.
The grant writing has required me to dream concretely about what I want from this possible time of refreshment. What keeps coming to me is an exchange between Jesus and the disciples that appears in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke. The disciples, trying to figure everything out, ask Jesus, “Who are you?” Jesus responds by saying, “Who do you say that I am?” A version of this question has been swirling in my head and heart for some time: Who does God say I am right now?
During seminary, there was time to ponder that question. As life unfolds, I joyfully spend time on many other aspects of who I am: a priest, a mother, a wife, a daughter, sister, friend, a person who wants to show up in and for our wider community. I focus a lot on who I am in relation to other people, but I wonder if I may be forgetting a bit of who God says I am, as just me. When I look back to the time I first remember feeling God knew me, I think of being a little girl, living in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Those are my earliest memories of church, and of connecting to the Divine. If I receive the grant funding, I imagine going back to Puerto Rico for at least part of the sabbatical time. Immersing myself in the culture that was formative for me. Worshipping at the church I attended as a little girl. Getting my Spanish back. Having time and space to ground myself again in who God says I am.
This grant also encourages the church to do some spiritual exploration during the sabbatical time, and my invitation for you is to ponder the same question: Who does God say you are, as individuals, and as a community. There are many ways to delve into the question. Maybe there are some who would like to go on a retreat together. The Episcopal House of Prayer and Camp Du Nord both offer time and space to connect with the Divine. Closer to home, maybe prayer walk gatherings, a speaker series, or some form of community artwork. A Parish Hall mural, anyone?! Perhaps re-build a labyrinth on our grounds. The grant provides funding for activities like this. Rebekah Dupont will be in the Parish Hall on Sunday with some more information and to capture some of your ideas for how Saint Anne’s might engage with the sabbatical time. I can hardly wait to hear your thoughts.
And I want to be clear: I absolutely love being in community with all of you. I am on fire for all that Saint Anne’s is and all we can be together. If I do take this sabbatical time, I will be back, with bells on. I am here, and all in, for as long as you’ll have me.
January 31, 2025
A few years ago when my mom and I were talking about how much we both dreaded the early winter sunsets, we came across the Danish/Norwegian concept of "hygge". If you haven't heard of hygge, you can click the link to read about it, but essentially it is the concept of making things cozy and inviting during the dark winter months. Things like keeping soft throw blankets on couches and chairs, stringing fairy lights even inside, and lighting candles. My mom and I decided to do everything we could to "hygge" the long dark nights of winter, and specifically that we would each - she in her home in Madison and me right here - light candles at sunset each night.
The first night of our Great Hygge Plan, I got a text right around sunset from my mom, with a picture of her lit candles. I texted her back a picture of my lit candles. Soon our sunset ritual included not just lighting the candles, but texting one another photos of our candles. We often didn't even say anything in the text, just sent each other a little light. Pretty soon, early sunsets evolved from something I dreaded to something I found cozy. And instead of the early darkness feeling isolating, we found more connection and an element of sacredness.
This Sunday at church, we'll celebrate a holiday known as Candlemas, at which we'll bless lots and lots of candles. Candlemas is connected to the Feast of the Presentation and the declaration of Jesus as the "Light to enlighten the nations". And both of these occur on the very day that is the halfway point between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. Any which way one looks at this day, it's all about Light, Light, Light. Sacredness we can invite into our every day lives.
In ancient days, whole communities would bring their candles and lanterns to church on Candlemas to be blessed so they could then bring "the Light of Christ" home with them. Sacredness. They would light these candles when they prayed, feeling wrapped in safety and warmth. Sacredness. I can almost picture the blessed lanterns hanging outside, lights dotting the dark paths through town, reminding everyone walking by that the Light of Christ guided their footsteps. Sacredness.
My prayer for you this week is that you find at least some moments when you feel yourself wrapped in the sacred Light of Christ. Moments of holy hygge when you feel the sacredness of warmth and connection. My prayer is that you find moments which remind you it takes just one candle to light a room; just a little Light to illuminate the path forward. Simple sacredness. Ours if we choose. Thanks be
January 24, 2025
This week was a long year, wasn't it? If you have not been paying attention to the news, I commend you for protecting your peace. If you have been even catching glimpses of it, chances are you're feeling exhausted. Regardless of one's views on different issues, the week has unfolded at a fast and furious pace. It is a lot to take in.
There is much for us to discuss. Episcopal Bishop, the Rt. Rev. Mariann Budde's, sermon at the National Prayer Service, in which she preached from Scripture and from our Baptismal Covenant, pleading for mercy for all who are struggling and fearful right now - and for which she has received death threats. There is worry about the safety of LGBTQ people. There is concern for refugees and immigrants in our country. Concern for the systems that have brought stability to our common life. There is wondering from many of you about how you can best live out the call to love our neighbors right now.
Below I will share some of what the national Episcopal church and our own Bishop are offering in this moment. But this is what I'll say to you: In keeping our Baptismal promises to respect the dignity of every human being, our call to do justice, love kindness, walk humbly, and the command to love our neighbors as ourselves, there will be work for us to do in the coming weeks, months, and years. The people of God will need your strength, hope, and loving arms. And. We can only be helpful to others if we are also taking care of ourselves.
I encourage you now more than ever to make time to find joy in your lives. Spend time in nature and marvel at Creation. Spend time with your communities in person, and laugh with friends. Make time for prayer and meditation and for connecting with something bigger than yourself. Go deep into this. Don't forget the "yourself" part of love your neighbor as yourself. Ground yourself. Nurture yourself. Intentionally spend time letting yourself be filled with the love of God and the Light of Christ, each and every day. This is how we can end up to be most helpful to others. And then take all the rest slowly. Episcopal Bishop Steven Charleston puts it this way:
When things feel like they are happening too fast, the elders suggest slowing down your reactions to them. Leaping forward to respond to every new reality can wear you out. Practice mindfulness. You will know when and how to act when your response will have an impact. Do not lose your sense of balance. Choose your own time and place.
My prayer for you this week is that you feel the deep peace of Christ settled in your soul. That you are able to ground yourself in the vastness, and the closeness, of God. In Hebrew the word for breath and Spirit are the same: ruach. Breathe deeply. Let Spirit fill you. Choose your own time and place for the rest. The work, and partners in the work, will always be there when you're ready.
January 17, 2025
I've spent much of this week getting ready for our Annual Meeting (this Sunday at 9:30 AM). It is an event I always enjoy. There is a lot to gather together: numbers and stats and recaps that the national church requires we track and report. I'm usually scrambling for these and sometimes find what I need on some scrap of paper I tucked away somewhere last June... So it makes me a little crazy, too. And I definitely couldn't do it alone - as you'll see in the Annual Report, there are many others who have their hand in this. But even with the scrambling and the lining up of the numbers and making sure Robert will get his Rules, it is an event I enjoy. Looking back at the year that was, and ahead to the year that will be, always fills me with deep gratitude for this community and all we are called to be together.
In a world that values wealth, status, and power, there is something countercultural about coming together each week to feed our spirits and souls. In a world that values independence and individualism, there is something profound about coming together each week to see how we can support one another. In what other places in our lives do we gather simply to experience holiness together? It is not even about what we find, but how we find it—together.
My prayer for you this week is to know how grateful I am for each of you, and for the community we share as the body of Christ.
January 11, 2025
My daughter and I stepped into a convenience store this week to pick up an item she needed. There was nothing remarkable about the day or the stop; we were simply moving from errand to errand, and we were getting gas anyway. Inside the store we got what she needed, stood in a short line, and then checked out. After we paid, we said thank you to the cashier and gathered our item. "Drive safely", the cashier said, and there was something about the way he said it that felt like he really meant it. We both looked up and said thank you to him again. "And may blessings find you today," he added, looking us in the eyes and smiling.
My daughter and I looked at him, at each other, and then we both broke into big smiles. "Thank you so much," we said to him. We kept smiling all the way to the car.
That is it. That is the end of this story. It was a simple exchange, and a quick one, and we were on our way. But we were on our way feeling truly blessed. It lightened our spirits and made the gray day feel a bit brighter. We felt more connected to the people around us. We felt kinder and more generous.
It does not take much to bless those around us. It does not take a special place or a special occasion or a special person. My prayer for you this week is that you both offer and receive blessings, in the most ordinary places, on the most ordinary days. You never know when you'll make someone's day - or allow them to make yours.
January 3, 2025
In this Resolutions Season, I had to share this, that a friend sent to me this week. It is too good not to! (I don't know the source, but if you've seen it and you know, please do share):
I might add a few things. I'm more interested in what you would add, though. Send your ideas my way and maybe we'll compile a Saint Anne's list! But my prayer for you this week is for you to know how very Jesus-like you already are. You with your generous hearts, your courage in speaking truth, your love for the world. I see you; I am grateful for you; I am inspired by you.
December 20, 2024
Our annual Winter Solstice service is tonight at 7 PM and the sanctuary is ready to welcome us in a cocoon of nurturing darkness before we joyfully welcome the light (over 200 candles are ready for us to light!). For those who are up for it, we'll have a bonfire to follow and warm beverages to hold as you stand around the fire, our ancient friend. Meanwhile, please enjoy this gorgeous poem by one of my favorite poets, the Rev. Steve Garnass-Holmes, who reminds us that the coming of Light in the world is unfolding, even as we wait. And that there is no power greater. Thank you, to the darkness that nurtures. Welcome, to the light that leads the way forward!
December 13, 2024
This is a beautiful, magical, sparkling time of year. It can also be a difficult time of year for many people. The short days and the deep cold add difficulty to much of our daily life. There can be pressure to feel ________ (joyful, grateful, peaceful, fill-in-the-blank-ful). There can be the assumption that everyone else is off to holiday parties or is celebrating with a house full of family. The assumption that everyone else feels a sense of joy and peace. Sometimes these things are true. But sometimes they are not.
I know six families who have lost loved ones in the last few weeks. I know people who are facing their first holiday without a loved one. I know people who will not be seeing family this year because things are strained, or money is too tight to travel, or they aren't healthy enough. People who are not sure what their housing situation might look like in the coming year, or what they might be facing as a refugee in the upcoming United States.
I also know parents who are celebrating a new baby's first Christmas this year, people celebrating good news from the doctor, families who are overjoyed at getting to spend some down time together. I know one couple celebrating a new engagement (full disclosure: this one is my oldest son and his lovely, long-time girlfriend, and we are thrilled!).
There is no doubt that this season can bring a mix of emotions, and heightened emotions. That first Christmas was probably a mix of emotions and heightened emotions as well. Mary and Joseph were young and not yet married, which meant that expecting a baby would have caused quite a cultural stir. They had no money, no status, no sense of security about the future. There must have been anticipation and hopefulness. There must also have been uncertainty, fear, and strain. They must have been cold, and tired, and hungry, at times. And, from all of that, came the dawning of new light for the entire world.
Whatever you may or many not be feeling this Advent and Christmas season, my prayer is that you know that, just as Mary and Joseph were, you are held in God's embrace. Whether you find that embrace a safe place to cry, or a joyful place to celebrate, my prayer is that you feel that embrace, as we once again wait for the dawning of new light. As we wait for Love to be born again.
December 6, 2024
Yesterday evening my husband and I pulled our Christmas decorations from our storage room. To our dismay, when we unwrapped our beloved hand-carved-from-olive-wood-in-Jerusalem Nativity creche, we discovered that, likely due to the record amounts of rain this spring and summer, every piece in the Nativity was covered with a dusty, greenish, mold. The creche had been a gift from my dad about 20 years ago when he travelled to the Holy Land for work, and as we went to work cleaning it up, I found myself near tears.
It's just a thing, I kept telling myself, it's just stuff. Clearly, a clean Nativity set was nothing compared to a clean bill of health when someone is facing an illness, or any other of the very serious things that happen in life. I felt embarrassed at being so upset.
It's just stuff. But it is also more than stuff. Over the 20 years we've had the creche, taking it out each year has been a special part of the season for me. A feeling of being surrounded by the wonder of the story and connected to something bigger. I've pictured my dad taking time from his work to walk to the market near his hotel in Jerusalem, and carefully pick out four Nativity sets, each a little different: one for me, one for my sister, one for my brother, and one for he and my mom. I've imagined the artist who carved them. The trees they came from. I've pictured my dad trying to carry these four Nativity sets home on the plane, too fragile to leave to in checked luggage. I've imagined the hundreds of people who did the same, and imagined all the Nativities carved from the same grove of olive trees, still connected through time and space each Christmas when they are set out in their various new geographies.
Our stuff is just stuff. Nothing compared to love, health, care, hope, and all other gifts of Spirit. And sometimes stuff is so closely tied to memories or emotions that it is difficult to separate the things from the feelings. I suppose this is why traditions matter to us so much. They can ground and root us, tying us physically to bigger spiritual things. And this is the season for both traditions and bigger spiritual things. As I cleaned our Nativity set last night, gently scrubbing Mary's face, the shepherd's crook, and the palm tree carved into the side of the stable with a soft toothbursh, I also recognized that traditions and connection feel especially meaningful this year, when the world itself feels unstable and uncertain. I am looking toward Jesus the Morning Star for hope and guidance this this year more than ever.
The good news is our Nativity set is mostly saved now. The pieces are a little bit worse for the wear, but the actual Holy Family probably was too, that first Christmas. Aren't we all, from time to time. My prayer for you this week is for memories, emotions, and connections to things and people in your life to bring you hope, peace, and joy, even through the muck and mold the world can throw at us sometimes. My prayer is for each of us to remember that muck can be cleaned; love remains. And if love can carry four creches through three international airports, it can certainly carry you through anything, too.
November 29, 2024
Our Saint Anne's community is one of my greatest blessings. Thank you for your joy, compassion, hearts, wisdom, spirit, light, and all the ways you live into the teachings of Jesus. Thank you for all the ways you bring more love to the world. I am thankful for each of you!
November 22, 2024
My mom shared a poem with me this week that I'll share with you, below. She said it reminded her of last week's Gospel text. That passage was Mark 13:1-8, where Jesus said in order to usher in the world God dreams for us - a world of equity, connection, and care for one another - the great buildings we see around us must tumble. "Not one stone will be left here upon another" and then "This is but the beginning of the birthpangs."
Though the people of Jesus' time did see the great Temple fall into rubble around them, the imagery of "old buildings" tumbling is a metaphor for the dismantling of systems and structures of human hands that don't result in loving our neighbors as ourselves. Passages like this ask us to think about what needs to crumble around us, to make way for God's dream for the world?
The question is intriguing. And scary. The systems we have now do not all serve all of us well, but they are the systems we know. And sometimes, consciously or not, we choose the devil we know. But the poem my mom shared inspires me to work on setting aside fear about "the birthpages" of change:
WHEN THE EARTH SHAKES - Chelan Harkin
It’s when the earth shakes
And foundations crumble
That our light is called
To rise up.
It’s when everything falls away
And shakes us to the core
And awakens all
Of our hidden ghosts
That we dig deeper to find
Once inaccessible strength.
It’s in times when division is fierce
That we must reach for each other
And hold each other much
Much tighter.
Do not fall away now.
This is the time to rise.
Your light is being summoned.
Your integrity is being tested
That it may stand more tall.
When everything collapses
We must find within us
That which is indomitable.
Rise, and find the strength in your heart.
Rise, and find the strength in each other
Burn through your devastation,
Make it your fuel.
Bring forth your light.
Now is not the time
To be afraid of the dark.
My prayer for you this week is not to be afraid of the dark, because God is in it with you. My prayer for you this week is that you feel yourself rising to meet any challenge, because God is in it with you. My prayer for us this week is that we reach for each other with care in the middle of the tumbling of old buildings, because God is in it with us.
November 15, 2024
After finding some inexpensive off-season plane tickets, my son Aidan and his wonderful girlfriend, Kira, are traveling in Europe right now. They're away for two weeks and Ireland was their first destination. Shortly after touching down, Kira texted to let us know they were safe and sound, and heading off to explore. She included in her text this little interaction they had shortly after landing in Dublin:
Aidan went to the rental car counter to check in and they asked for his last name. When Aidan said "McNally'" the man at the counter looked up and said, "Welcome home."
For reasons I cannot quite explain, hearing this story brought tears to my eyes. It may have been imagining Aidan's connections to his Irish ancestors, and how those bonds cross time and space. But even more simple than that, I think my tears were just acknowledging the tender beauty of belonging, and the grace of a warm welcome. Especially meaningful at a time the world feels like it's leaning toward the unkind and unwelcoming.
Every single one of us needs a place to belong. A place to be seen and heard, celebrated and loved. I believe that when we each cross the veil we will be greeted by God with the most wonderful "Welcome home" we could imagine. But before that time, belonging right here and now matters too. Jesus offered us countless examples of inclusion and welcome, and we are called to draw our circles wide the way he did. To this end, I was grateful and proud last weekend when the ECMN passed two resolutions, at our annual convention, regarding how we as a church will continue to welcome people of refugee status: with dignity, protection, and care. Our baptismal covenant insists on nothing less. Jesus insists on nothing less.
My prayer for you this week is to know the warmth and grace of belonging. I pray you each feel this at Saint Anne's, where you (yes, you!) are part of the very fabric of belonging. And I pray you feel it in your soul, wherever you find yourself. That you, just as you are, belong. A beloved child of God. Then I pray you take your own belonging and use it to welcome others into the circles we will only draw wider and wider. Because "Welcome home" might be two of the most God-like words we can say to one another.
November 8, 2024
For the second time this week I will ask: How are you doing? I truly want to know and am so glad so many of you have reached out. Bishop Loya wrote an email to the Minnesota clergy this week, and I'd like to share it with you:
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There’s a moment in the series Ted Lasso when the coach gives an epic post-game speech after a devastating loss. He says:
“This is a sad moment right here. For all of us. And there ain’t nothing I can say, standing in front of you right now, that can take that away. But please do me this favor, will you? Lift your heads up and look around this locker room. Yeah? Look at everybody else in here. And I want you to be grateful that you’re going through this sad moment with all these other folks. Because I promise you, there is something worse out there than being sad, and that is being alone and being sad.”
In these days after the election, many of us... are more than sad. We are angry, afraid, and deeply divided. Like Ted Lasso, none of us have words that can take any of that away. But it is true that there is something worse than being sad, angry, or afraid, and that is being those things alone....
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This week has been raw and tender and feels like it's been a month long. Maybe because I've gone through a month's worth of emotions, and maybe you have, too. We will have a gathering during our Adult Ed time this week to share and process and try to move through some of it together. We'll lean on Scripture, on ancient wisdom, and on one another. As I said on Wedneday, Jesus gave us work to do, and that work hasn't changed since last week. Our identity as people of God and Saint Annians hasn't changed either. But if we have some gunk to sort through before we're ready to pick that up again, that's ok. We'll sort together. Because ...there is something worse than being sad, angry, or afraid, and that is being those things alone....
My prayer for you this week is to know you are not alone.