Lent 37

3. Woman, here is your son.

I spent a while in a hospital room today with a patient and her husband. When I walked into the room, I got my hand sanitizer and introduced myself as the chaplain. The patient, in a strained voice filled with tears said, "We need help." This moment of panic flashed in front of me because her plea for help seemed urgent and I immediately wondered what I needed to do. I asked her what was going on and she choked back tears and told me about her condition. She's a mess. She really is. I pulled up a chair so that I could sit close to both the patient and her husband. Her husband proceeded to tell me the story of his wife's accident and all about their lives and struggles. I responded politely through his stories with "holy hmms" and "that must be hard" and "oh, I'm sorry to hear that" knowing that I would eventually ask those spiritual assessment questions that ask about sources of strength and joy and faithful coping mechanisms. And then he got quiet, and said, "Ma'am, I need you to tell me why? Why would God, the God who this woman beside me has done nothing but love and serve all her life without ever saying an unkind word, why would God let this woman suffer?" My spiritual assessment questions which, I must admit, serve to distance me a little from the patient and his/her struggle at times went out the window. I snapped back to reality and I faced this man in a moment of pure human honesty and pain.

It's very easy to over-spiritualize the cross. The cross is a whole lot less messy if we keep it in view only as a corner of the screen that really centers on Easter morning and the Resurrection. Jesus suffered and died, BUT Jesus rose. Sure. But Jesus suffered and died. When Jesus scans the crowd from the cross, he notices his mother. "Woman, here is your son." To think of Jesus as a man, with a mother, is a lot harder to swallow. These words of Jesus bring to us a sense of horror about the scene because we are forced to see this torture and death through the eyes of his mother.

The humanness of Jesus is something that is so important to me that it's something I identify as a cornerstone of my own faith. Yet, somehow, even as I consider it so important, I seem to rush past it when it seems too tough to handle. So often when I sit with dying patients, their minds go to the loved ones they know they'll soon leave behind. This is a very human thing. "Woman, here is your son." As uncomfortable as it may be, I commit to take the next couple of days of this Holy Week to sit with the messiness of the man rather than rushing to the glory of the divine.

Lent 36

2. I assure you, today you will be with me in paradise.

I try so hard to find the right things to do, the right things to say, even the right things to believe. Every day is another day I struggle to live my life in a way that is pleasing to God and to be a faithful follower. The most difficult to understand of Christ's last words is the one that I strangely find the most comfort in hearing. The man hanging next to Jesus was not one of his followers. The one memorable thing that man said was, "Jesus, remember me." And scripture tells us that Jesus said, "Today you will be with me in paradise."

Jesus, remember me. I am reminded of a saying that I've heard quoted in at least a couple of places but have never found out who said it, precisely. A monk once said, "Father, I don't always know the right thing to do, but I think the fact that I want to please you pleases you." I still want to find the right thing to do. I still want to grow in holiness and to have the mind that was in Christ. But as I fail in my struggle, Jesus, remember me. And I find grace in the knowledge of God's transcendent grace, transcendent because it is freely offered and I don't have to earn it. Jesus, remember me.


Let the songs I sing bring joy to you.
Let the words I say confess my love.
Let the notes I choose be your favorite tune.

Father, let my heart be after you.

-Needtobreathe, Garden

Lent 35

Welcome to Holy Week, the week between Palm Sunday and Easter, the final week of Lent. There is a church tradition that honors the seven last words of Christ as he faced the end of his suffering, and in the spirit of that tradition, I offer these Holy Week reflections.

1. Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

Forgiveness. What a mighty and wonderful, good word. Jesus has been beaten, ridiculed, and now hangs on a cross, an instrument of torture and death. What are his first words from the cross? Words of forgiveness. Of course those would be his first words from what we now perceive as the very symbol of forgiveness. We began Lent with the dirt and ashes that reminded us to repent and believe the gospel. Here, at the end of Lent, we are offered this word of forgiveness for all those times when we've failed to do just that. I give thanks for the mighty and wonderful, good word that Christ offered to those who literally beat him and killed him and for me, a sinner in need of the grace of God.

I don't know who wrote the following litany, so forgive the possible copyright violation. I came across it a while back and return to it from time to time.

For those who have betrayed us...for those who have let us down...for those who have been indifferent to us...for those who have crippled our lives...for those who have doubted us...for those who have accused us...for those who have preferred others to us...for family members who have hurt us...for those who have denied us...for those who have walked away from us... We ask the power of your forgiveness, the gift of change and the grace of hope...

Hear our prayer, hear our prayer, God of mercy, hear our prayer.


For my own self pity...for my lukewarmness...for my times of despair and distrust... for my refusals to be hugged...for my disbelief in your love...for my searching everywhere but in your heart...for apologies frozen on my lips... We ask the power of your forgiveness, the gift of change, and the grace of hope...

Hear our prayer, hear our prayer, God of mercy, hear our prayer.


For my words of love unspoken...for greetings and embraces ungiven...for compliments never offered...for a heart closed in self-centeredness...for my own unforgiving postures...for not believing in your forgiveness... We ask the power of your forgiveness, the gift of change and the grace of hope...

Hear our prayer, hear our prayer, God of mercy hear our prayer. AMEN.

Lent 34

I bet on a horse today, sort of. We put in a dollar a race and you drew your horse's name out of a cup rather than picking on your own. It was a just a way to get excited about the race, but I can tell you, it worked. I was super excited about my horse Waracha, #6 with the jockey in an argyle sweater. When Waracha came out cantering to warm up, everyone made fun of my horse and ribbed me about the bet because Waracha was having to be escorted because he was antsy and fighting against his reins. While all the other horses were showing off, cantering with heads held high, my horse was trotting sideways. You know, though? When the gun went off and the race started, Waracha kicked it in gear and took off, straight as can be, a full 4 lengths ahead of the others. When it was all said and done, Waracha didn't win. Another horse pulled ahead, but Waracha ran the race well, despite what everyone thought of him before the whole thing started.

When Jesus selected his disciples who would follow him, he didn't pick the ones who walked well. He didn't pick the desirable ones. He picked from the low class and the unpopular. Jesus didn't pick for status. Jesus used some folks who society didn't really care much about and he worked with them. God has a habit of taking what's broken and using it. It doesn't always shine or win, but God also has a habit of never giving up and never ceasing to love and offer grace.

Lent 33

In CPE this week, we were asked to reflect on one significant "encounter with the holy" and I found that it is so typical of me to encounter the holy this way (posted below). How do you encounter "the holy" and how or what do you perceive "the holy" to be?

On a Wesley Foundation retreat in college, we traveled to the Methodist summer camp, Asbury Hills. Because a storm had come through recently, a bridge was washed out that meant we couldn’t use the regular indoor meeting facility. This meant we hiked up a mountain trail to an outdoor shelter for all of the Bible study and worship events of the weekend. The guest speaker was a campus minister who had never done one of these events before and found herself a little unprepared for the amount of programming she had to fill. As a result, we spent the entire weekend reflecting on one Bible passage, two short verses. 1 Kings 19:11-12 was the passage she chose. There was no big lecture and no in-depth Bible study. When we gathered the first time that weekend on the side of a mountain in the midst of nature, she read, “He said, ‘Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.’ Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.” We spent the weekend in quiet reflection, on a mountain.

After one of the sessions, we were challenged to go off and spend some time alone, seeking the silence and stillness that the outdoor setting offered. I wandered down the hill a little ways and found a nice spot away from other students. It was a very spiritual experience for me. I reflected upon God and God in my life. I got this sense of being so small, yet I experienced a great sense of peace. Silence and stillness is something I crave, something I long for in life. My life is always so busy and hectic that sometimes I feel disconnected from everything, a rag doll bouncing around. To refill my cup, so to speak, I seek God in the quiet space, the sheer silence. What that encounter with the holy taught me is that I have to find space and time to get out of the way. Sometimes I, and the busyness of life, get in the way and I don’t recognize God’s presence. The fact that the speaker wasn’t prepared and thus kept us from being overprogrammed, meant that nothing was in the way.

May we all find the holy in our lives, however God comes to us.

Lent 32

You have heard it said...But I say... - Jesus

I'm working on putting together a case study at the hospital about a situation that came up recently. This little project is requiring me to talk to a whole bunch of people and get their various perspectives on a case. Last week, when this whole thing came up, it seemed so cut and dry. The case was presented to me by one person and I heard her viewpoint and I thought, well, that's it then. But then today, I talked to another person involved in the case. And it was almost like she was describing a completely different situation. The perspective changed and it seemed the whole thing changed all together.

I've done a lot of talking about sitz im lieben lately, which is a super cool sounding German epistemological term that basically means that you can only know what you know from where you are sitting. Basically, I KNOW something, but I know it through the lens of a middle-class, white, Southern, theologically trained, Christian, female eyes. Likewise, someone else might know something through poverty stricken, non-English speaking, immigrant, Asian, male eyes.

Scripture is a little like that, I suppose. For one thing, I am going to read the text differently than someone else, but there is also the gospel lens. I've been arguing, quite spiritedly, with one of my peers lately about interpretation of scripture. He considers biblical "commands" compulsory if they appear in both the Old Testament and the New Testament. His interpretation of scripture seems as simple as that. For me, I read everything through the lens of the love ethic of the gospel. That is my lens. That is how I know what I know. God loves us. God wants us to love God and to love one another. We are created, redeemed, and sustained by God's grace. But, I have to also recognize that how I understand this lens is through my own sitz im lieben. I don't know how we come together. I don't know how the gap gets bridged, but for sure, the place to start is to recognize that we know what we know in different ways for different reasons.

Lent 31

Someone at work shared this poem with me today. It's called The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. I'll let it stand alone as today's entry.

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to
be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can
disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.