Moms are under lots of pressure to be all things to all people. If a woman works outside the home, she's pressured by people (Gov. Mike Pence included) who shame them for not staying at home with their kids. If they stay home with their kids, they're questioned about why they aren't using their degree(s). What no one wants to talk about is that some mom's are better, happier mom's when they work. Some mom's have no choice but to work to keep the family afloat. Some moms' degrees lead to jobs that don't pay any more than daycare or babysitters would cost, so we invest in making a home on a budget and supporting the family that way (it takes time and planning to stretch a budget). Some mom's can easily afford to stay at home, and just love it. Some moms have kids with special needs who need them there. The truth is, it takes a village, but few women in this day and age have an unpaid village to rely on. Most women exhaust themselves everyday trying to honor their family's needs. Most husbands or partners exhaust themselves everyday trying to give their family the best life possible. It's time for us to stop judging and shaming one another for how we try to find balance and sanity in our vocations (one of which is parenting). Most of us are quietly doing the best we can. None of us can be all things to all people. All of us need support. Let's stop judging and start being a village for our friends in every little way we can!

Fear Goggles

This election is not only about Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton. It's about our deepest fears and how we respond to them. Fear in itself isn't a bad thing. It alerts us to danger and focuses us while we defend ourselves. But when fear sticks around and becomes the glasses we wear all the time, fear deceives us. It alters our vision. Fear can make neighbors look like suspects. It can make compassion look like weakness. It can make hope look like naivete. Fear can make isolation look like safety, and violence look like the only option. Fear can make prejudice look like wisdom and openness look like carelessness. Fear can make interdependence look like helplessness, and diversity look like a threat. When fear alters our vision it clouds our faith by convincing us that what we see is all there is. When we surrender our vision of our common humanity to let fear be our lens, we risk losing more than an election or an argument. We risk losing our souls. We were created in the image of a God of Love, called to give Love eyes, ears, hands, and a voice. Let us look for love everywhere we go. Let us listen for love in the midst of the bluster. Let us create spaces for love right where we are. Let us speak love into the angry, hateful, fearful, and broken places until everyone can hear it. Don't campaign for fear. It was never meant to lead. ‪#‎lovewins‬ ‪#‎loveheals‬

Space for Grace

I spent first 9 years of my life in the Catholic church. Each time I entered the Old Mission Parish in San Luis Obispo, CA I felt the quiet safety wash over me; not the kind of safety that says bad things won't happen, but the kind of safety that promises that when bad things happen I won't ever be hopeless or alone. It's the kind of safety that wraps itself around my senses and fills me with the assurance of Love that is bigger, surer, and more enduring than anything I know. Today I walk into the Episcopal Church and meet the same peace. We all need reminders of that Love; signposts that point us in the direction of that Light when we find ourselves in dark places. Those reminders can be people, spaces, or moments. They become sacred when they shelter us with the promise of Love that is bigger, surer, and more enduring than anything we know. Spend time with those people, be those people, inhabit those spaces, and open yourself to those moments. As the great Glennon Doyle Melton says, "Carpe Kairos".

SPEAK LOVE!

"My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand." John 10:27-28

When my son or daughter is having a nightmare, I don't have to wake them up to calm them down. I just rest my hand gently on their faces and speak or sing softly for a few seconds, and they relax. They feel safe when they hear my voice because they know me and trust me. Even as their minds navigate unknown, unfamiliar, and sometimes scary emotional territory, my voice reminds them that they are always tethered to where they belong. When they hear my voice, their semi-conscious brains remember the hugs, conversations, meals, laughter, and experiences we have shared. My voice is like an auditory umbilical cord that nourishes their spirit with the reassurance that they are never lost, never abandoned. Even as they sleep, that one voice can carry them out of fear and back into peace, where they may even rewrite the course of their dreams. What was shadowy and ominous may dissolve in the warmth of a new light spilling through a window, or around a corner. What started out as fear may, in the wash of that light, transform into excitement about new possibilities. My voice only has this power for them because it is what they hear when we hug, talk, eat, and laugh. It's what they hear cheering them on from the sidelines and asking about their day in the car lines. My voice only has this power because they know me. They know I will always show up for them. They know that, while I am very far from perfect, I will always do everything it takes to never be far from them. They know that my voice will welcome them, accept all of them, forgive them, apologize to them, encourage them, cry with them, and guide them. They feel safe when they hear my voice because we have put in hours, days, months, and years together hugging, talking, eating, and laughing (and arguing!) our way through this messy and beautiful life. Wherever they go, and wherever I go, we are always a part of each other. No one will be able to take their identity, or their story of love, away from them.

We can complicate faith, getting caught up in arguments about who God is, how God loves, and what God does. We can ask for proof and claim we know who belongs and who doesn't. But at the end of the day the love of God is simple. We will know it by the sound of the voice who won't be silenced by hate. We will know it by the sound of the voice who won't stop calling to us when we feel lost. We will know it by the sound of the voice who won't stop reminding us that, while we are far from perfect, we are never far from God's love. We will recognize the voice of God because, at the sound of it, light will spill through the windows of our soul, make its way around dark corners, dissolving fear, and transforming it into possibility, courage, and hope. We will know God's voice because it is the same voice that has spoken love into our lives from the beginning through people who hug, talk, eat, laugh, and argue their way through this messy and beautiful journey with us. We will know God's voice because it is always the one calling us to the best in ourselves. It is always the one calling us into loving community. It's always the one saying, "I love you. I forgive you. Let's eat." No one can take that identity, or that story of love, away from us. But we must use our voices to speak the kind of love that gives life--that invites all people to navigate the unknown, unfamiliar, and sometimes scary territory of this life together. Speak love so that, as Presiding Bishop Michael Curry says, we can "change the world from the nightmare it often is into the dreams that God intends."

Home By Another Road

In our family, vacation days usually mean board games. We have a tradition of getting a few new board games every Christmas. Most games are competitive, like Monopoly. I don’t know about your family, but my kids are ruthlessly competitive Monopoly players. My son usually becomes an all-powerful real estate mogul in the first half-hour or so. In competitive games like these, it’s a zero-sum situation. There is one winner and the rest lose. It’s every man, woman, and child for him or herself. In most games, you’re motivated to capitalize on others’ bad decisions and misfortune. Most sports are the same way. One side wins and the other loses. These games mirror how life works. They help us learn how to win and lose graciously—we hope ;-) But what if there was another way to play?

A new form of board game has come out in the last few years that turns this everything we know about games upside-down. They’re cooperative board games. In these kinds of games, all the players work together to achieve a common objective. If they succeed, they all win. If they fail, they all lose. We have three of these games at our house, and it’s amazing to watch our kids and their friends play. They give each other help, cheer each other on, and, of course, sometimes put some pressure on each other. These games are built on the idea that everyone’s fate is connected. Everyone matters. It’s harder in many ways, and the stakes are higher. But they require a whole different set of rules that suggest there’s another way to get to the finish line, or to that coveted Home square at the end of the board game’s road. The first time my kids played a game like this, they said, “Whoa. That was cool. I like it when all of us are on the same team.” They had their own little epiphany when they realized that the ruthless, every person for themselves, way was not the only way to get “home”.

            In 40 b.c. the Roman senate declared Herod “King of the Jews.” He was named governor of Galilee at the age of 25, and was chief administrator of the entire northern section of the country. He had incredible power and material wealth, but he lived with a constant fear that his status was in jeopardy. His fear made him paranoid. He saw anyone with any popularity or following as a grave threat. This fear led him to execute one of his ten wives, drown his brother-in-law and mother, and take the lives of three of his fourteen children. He believed that, to rule over a kingdom of people, he had to be ruthless, have absolute power, and be willing to eliminate anyone who got in the way of his plans. He saw people as pawns on a chess board in a game he had to win at all costs. He had forgotten that, long ago, the prophet Samuel proclaimed God’s dreams about a different kind of King—“a ruler who is to shepherd my people.” Not a ruthless dictator, but a shepherd.

So when a star stopped over a spot in Bethlehem, far from Rome, far from the seat of power, and shined over a baby born to nobodies from nowhere, Herod was afraid. Why would men from the east risk such a long and dangerous pilgrimage to find a shepherd-king? Why would anyone roam across dangerous and unpredictable territory to find a king born in such questionable circumstances? Why would foreign men pay attention to a prophecy about a king who would risk his own life to go back for even one lost person? It’s easy to understand why Herod didn’t pay much attention to this prophecy. It would have seemed silly and unrealistic. A shepherd-ruler or servant-king makes no sense. That’s not the way the world works. A kingdom that expands can’t be bogged down in worrying about the restoration and well-being of every single person. A kingdom that is respected can’t tolerate outsiders whose culture and ideas challenge it’s power. A kingdom with true authority can’t abide people from outside the kingdom telling them how things should be changed. And yet, a star stopped over the place where the child was, illuminating  just this kind of servant-king. And yet, a star guided men from outside Herod’s kingdom to the place where power was swaddled in vulnerability. And yet, a star stopped over the place where God gave those faithful foreign men new dreams of a different way home; dreams of a new kind of kingdom where the King was the servant of all, and God’s promise was available to anyone who had eyes to see and a heart to follow; This King was interested in expanding the reach of God’s love, not his own territory or power. The rule of life in his kingdom was only that everyone would have their lives restored and know that they mattered. In this kingdom, wisdom comes wrapped in humility. This King will stop at nothing to find anyone who is lost and bring them back into the fold. It’s no wonder that wise men from all over the map followed that star. In a world where walls keep people separated, and laws are manipulated to protect some while forsaking others, this star stopped over the most unfortified place off all to welcome  new way and a new rule. The star stopped over the place where the rules of the game would be changed forever. These wise men hadn’t come sure of what they would find. They were sent by a cruel king under false pretenses to aid his destructive plans. And yet, the star stopped over this new king whose great ambition was to serve, heal, restore, welcome, and bless all people. The star stopped over the birthplace of a “whole new beloved community rising in the East”—a community that would live a new rule of life in which differences are met with curiosity, rather than suspicion; a community where ambition becomes compassion; a community where cruelty is exceeded by kindnesses, and where belief in what is possible overwhelms fear about what is terrible.

            This kind of game-changing rule of life is not naïve or unrealistic, but it is hard. That is why, when we are baptized, we agree to uphold those vows with God’s help. God led faithful people from all lands, cultures, and races to the place where the star stopped, not to give them a cozy, easy place to set up a tent and stay. God led them, and all of us, to the place where the star stopped to show us a game-changing new way of life. What the star illuminated was not a new political philosophy, socio-economic strategy, or a trendy new movement. The star stopped to show us that the every-person-for-themselves way of the world is not the only way. It’s not God’s way. When the magi arrived at the place where the star stopped, and saw Christ, they were overwhelmed with joy because in Christ God proclaimed that we’re all on the same team. We’re all connected. We all matter to each other and to God. This is terrifying news to those who want to divide, conquer, and use people to pursue their own self-aggrandizement. But to the rest of us, it is the epiphany worth going well off the beaten path to find.

Not everyone will want the game changed. The world is full of Herod’s who sit defiantly on their thrones, telling us that it is a zero-sum game; that we have to give up on some people for the good of the many; that we are only as valuable as our wealth, status, and influence. The world is full of Herod’s who want us to believe that competition and ambition are only way to get ourselves to that winning HOME place at the end of the road in this game of life. But the wise ones—the prophets, shepherds, and servants of the world—see a star leading down another way. They follow the light of God that breaks into the world mysteriously and graciously, defying the rules that the world’s kingdoms insist upon. The epiphany this new light offers is not always easy to see, and it’s sometimes even more difficult to share because it asks that we blaze a new path and take another, often longer, way home. But when we live into our baptismal vows and take those challenging, faithful steps toward a rule of life marked by compassion, generosity, service, and welcome, we will hear the whispers of God in our dreams, in our friendships, in our family life, and in our community, reminding us that the place where the star stopped over Bethlehem was not the destination. It was only the beginning of the journey. The true epiphany happens when we allow ourselves to carry the light of that star out into the broken and hurting world, living God’s dream into reality. In God’s reality, we don’t capitalize on others’ bad decisions; we stand by them even when they fail. In God’s reality, we don’t take advantage of another’s misfortune; we invite them to the Christ’s table where they learn that they are beloved of God, regardless of their fortune. Each time we exercise power through humility, lift up the beauty in diversity, and rely on the strength of compassion, we become God’s light, shining right where we are, on whatever path we are on, showing the others that they can go home by another road. 

In Potter's Hands

Potters know that not only does each kind of clay respond differently to shaping, but each individual pot responds differently. A potter's hands have to pay attention to the feel of the clay and adjust the kind of pressure they're applying accordingly. The act of shaping a pot is as much an act of listening and attending to the clay as it is coaxing it into a pre-visioned shape. The best potter is a master of improvisation. She has to be ready to revision the shape of the piece, and pull back some of the pressure if the walls begin to get too thin in places. If she tries to force a shape that the clay won't support, the whole piece just flops and it's back to the kneading board. Patience and openness to change are as vital to beautiful art as the technical skill required.

Envisioning our vocational life is much the same process. The pressures of life can bear down on us and shape us often without our even realizing it. The further we move into adulthood the more we are asked to choose, not between a simple good vs. bad, but rather between multiple goods. We want to provide good things for our family; we want to support the dreams of our spouses; we want our parents to be proud of us; and we want to belong to a good community. Parker Palmer claims that our efforts to respond to such pressures can lead to a "divided life, He says, "The instinct to protect ourselves by living divided lives emerges when we are young, as we start to see the gaps between life's bright promise and its shadowy realities...As the outer world becomes more demanding--and today it presses in on children at an obscenely early age--we stop going to our rooms, shutting the door, walking into the wardrobe, and entering the world of the soul. And the closer we get to adulthood, the more we stifle the imagination that journey requires...Because imagining other possibilities for our lives would remind us of the painful gap between who we most truly are and the role we play in the so-called real world."(A Hidden Wholness, pp. 14,15)

I find myself at just the juncture to which Palmer refers--between the realities of the world, which make greater demands on both our time and finances, and the vision I imagine for myself when I let myself really dream aloud. It's exciting to offer my own particular gifts. But it isn't always easy to use those gifts and be present for my family in the way that they need me. So now I have a choice. I can flop, or I can improvise. The proverbial walls may seem a bit thin, but life is like clay after all; It is malleable and yearning to find a shape, if I'm open, patient, and creative enough to listen; if I can attend to the emerging shape of things; if I am willing to improvise.
Sometimes the hidden gift of dead ends is that they force us to turn around, to change direction, and to look for other access roads. The hidden gift of the "thin places" is that we are forced to mine our own creative resources in new ways. As potter and theologian Marjory Zoet Bankson notes, "As the wall gets thinner, my options narrow because certain moves cannot be reversed without collapsing the entire form. Each decision, each direction, makes a difference. As my hands keep the clay in tension, the body of the clay takes on an individual shape. My vision of the finished pot is especially important...even though the pot is far from finished. While there is still room for change, my intention comes strongly into play, giving the pot identity and purpose." (This Is My Body, p 96)

Improvising when much is at stake is never fun or easy, at least at first. It's nerve-racking and unsettling. But sometimes we need to be unsettled and disoriented in order to pay attention to our lives, to hear the whispers of our souls, and to discover the source of real strength. Real strength is not the bill of goods the world has sold us. Real strength isn't about coming up with a plan and stubbornly clinging to it, despite the collateral damage. Real strength emerges when we not only embrace our gifts and aptitudes, but our limitations as well. Real strength emerges when we know how to ask for help and can accept help as a gift, without worrying about how we will repay it. Real strength emerges when we hear a host of voices in our head telling us why we aren't enough, but we can listen to the One voice that reminds us we are more than enough, just as we are. Real strength is not a big concrete, steel-reinforced wall, but a handmade pot that has been fired, survived, and was made stronger. It's not indestructible, but it is open. Its identity is not grounded in what it keeps out, but rather in what it holds. It's not perfect, and it very likely isn't the shape its potter originally intended, but the bread it can hold is no less than life itself. The water it can contain is no less than Living Water. In its simplicity it calls us to partake; to eat and to drink, and to become just what we were intended to be. 

Claiming, Not Shaming (Reflection on Mark 12:38-44)

Every single one of us, at one time or another, has had that classic anxiety nightmare. You know the one. You’re standing in front of a crowd of hundreds, expected to make a speech, and you realize you forgot all of your notes. Or you’re the new kid in a new school, and you look in the mirror at the end of the day and realize you were wearing your shirt backwards and inside out all day. Or you walk up to receive a prestigious award, totally unaware that you have toilet paper trailing from the heel of your shoe. All of these nightmares have something powerful in common. They are all about our universal human fear of shame. Dr. Brene Brown, an author and research professor who teaches in the graduate department of Social Work at the University of Houston, wrote a book called Daring Greatly. This book grew out of her extensive research on the subject of shame. In it she explains that “shame is the fear of disconnection.” Since “connection, love, and belonging give meaning and purpose to our lives, shame is deeply painful because when we are ashamed we fear that something we have done or failed to do makes us unworthy of connection. It’s that inner voice that says, ‘I’m unlovable. I don’t belong.’ Shame makes us believe that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.’” If we want to avoid shame, we only have two real options, right? Never fail at anything; or—the more realistic option—hold your cards close to your chest and avoid making yourself vulnerable. Have enough dignity to keep your flaws hidden and private. Growing up we all learned that, while it would be nice if the world we lived in were more understanding and compassionate, people can be cruel. So our best strategy is to protect ourselves. If we don’t put all of ourselves out there, we won’t get hurt, right?

            In the Fall of 1994 my husband attended a service at Oakhurst Baptist church in Decatur, Georgia. Something happened that day that flew in the face of our conventional response to shame. One Sunday, during the time for shared prayers of concern and thanksgivings, a man stood up in front of the whole congregation and shared that he had been diagnosed with AIDs. He spoke through tears while looking down at the ground, so he couldn’t see what people were doing. When he finished, he began making his way back to his seat, his eyes still downcast. He only made it a few feet before he realized people were coming toward him. He looked up and saw hundreds of people in the congregation lined up in the aisle waiting to hug him. The service ran long that day because they would not let him sit down until they hugged him. When he finally took his seat he was weeping, not out of shame, but in response to shame’s opposite—belonging. His diagnosis had taken his health, his future, and his independence. But when he shared this painful and personal news with the church he risked losing everything else: his dignity; his reputation; his relationships; and his community. He put everything on the line, and gave everything he had, making himself completely vulnerable, and they did not shame him. They claimed him. What started out as a walk of shame became a pilgrimage of grace. His congregation taught him that, if he wanted to avoid shame, there were more than two options. He was no longer forced to choose between being perfect or being guarded. They showed him that it is possible to risk everything and be loved, just as he was. I have no idea what music they played in the service that day, but as I read this story I thought of the old Baptist hymn “Just As I Am.” In the church my husband grew up in it was played during the altar call. It was the “come to Jesus” song. I grew up in the Presbyterian Church, so I never quite understood altar calls. But this man’s experience with his church family makes me hear this altar call hymn in a completely new way. I hear it as he must have heard it:  “Just as I am, though tossed about with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without, O Lamb of God, I come, I come. He felt claimed. He felt welcomed. He belonged.

            The widow in today’s reading from Mark’s gospel knows the shame the man with AIDs must have felt. As a widow in 1st century Palestine there was nowhere she could go that shame didn’t follow her. Without a husband she was financially destitute. She had no social status, no protection, and no power. She faithfully went to Temple to worship God but, unlike the man at Oakhurst Baptist Church in Decatur, Georgia, she received no grace. The gospel reading tells us that Jesus sat down in the Temple with his disciples and watched her. Just before this incident he had been teaching his disciples about religious hypocrisy. Now let me be clear, Jesus wasn’t saying the whole Temple was corrupt. But he did criticize the nature of giving within the religious legal system of the time. Jesus wasn’t concerned that religious law required people to give. He criticized a system that was using God’s law in a way that glorified some people while shaming others. So he took his disciples into the Temple for an object lesson. It’s a bit like an episode of Undercover Boss, where CEOs disguise themselves as trainees in their own company to get a true sense of how the managers run things. The Temple offering wasn’t taken up the way we take up our offering. The collection box at the treasury was a copper funnel shaped container which resounded according to how much was put into it. So when the wealthy gave, everyone gathered could hear the loud rush of coins echoing around. So when the widow put her two small coins in, the barely audible little pings resounded, not with sound, but with shame—the shame of poverty. The shame of belonging to no one.                            

 What Jesus points out to his disciples, in this painfully embarrassing moment, is not how ashamed the widow must be, but rather how ashamed the scribes and judicial religious experts ought to be. As he witnesses the widow’s giving, he shows the disciples that she is a hero—a shining example of faith. But she’s not a hero of the faith because she gives everything she has financially. This text is not meant to be a holier-than-thou stewardship plea romanticizing poverty. What makes her a hero of the faith in Jesus’ eyes is that she gives everything she has spiritually. She is not afraid to make herself vulnerable. People as poor as she was weren’t required to give. She could have avoided the public shame that rung out in the puny pings of her coins. But she didn’t avoid it. Faced with a worldview that offered her only two options—don’t fail, or have the decency to hide your failure—she showed the scribes, the judicial religious experts, and everyone in the Temple, that there was a third option—God’s abundant love. 

What was clear as a bell to Jesus, as she made her way back to her seat after making her paltry contribution, after those around her cast shaming glances her way, was that this widow understood God’s kingdom. All that Jesus had been trying to teach through his feedings, healings, and sermons, had just been embodied by this status-less, powerless, penniless, vulnerable woman: God’s love, the love that took on our human body, walked among us, ate with sinners, gave sight to the blind, mended the brokenhearted, and loved us enough to give His life, wants nothing to do with shame. The voice that uses God’s law to tell people they are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging does not reflect the voice of God. A church that is built on shame, ridicule, elitism, and exclusion, is not God’s church. God’s church is built by hands willing to get dirty, calloused, and worn; open, giving hands. God’s temple is built by ordinary flawed people who know what it is to fail. God’s dream is that churches are filled with people who walk to up to the altar week after week, not because they need to show everyone how holy and together they are, but because they know how fragile and vulnerable they really are; how aware they are of their need for God’s abundant and sustaining love.

The great good news of the gospel today is that God calls every one of us to be his church in the world. You are called, and I am called, to become a community of ordinary saints who are courageous enough to extend God’s extraordinary love and belonging to everyone we meet. In Christ, God has equipped us with every good thing that we need to be His temple of love in the world. When people show us their weaknesses—in their work, in their parenting, in their spiritual lives, in their friendships, or in their family’s life—we are called, not to shame them or turn away. We are called to claim them. As temples of God in the world, we are invited to run down the aisle to meet them; to look them in the eye, and to open our arms to them. Christ invites us to be the community the widow never had. He calls us to make the altar a place, not of shame, but of belonging. So when you come to the altar today, may you hear the invitation to come, just as you are, “though tossed about with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without,” the Lamb of God says come, just come. Be claimed by Christ’s abundant love for you, then go and carry it out into the world. Amen.