Through Stained Glass: A Lenten Word a Day Reflection-Walk

Remember the long way that the HOLY ONE your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness... Deuteronomy 8.2

My dogs teach me a lot about life.

They teach me about patience and the importance of rest. They teach me about listening and the importance of play. My dogs remind me to stop and smell the flowers while loving me with their entire being at all times.

Today my Golden pals taught me something about Lent.

The photo above is of two leashes but one dog. It tells the story of Chloe and Tecumseh—the former wise in her age moves a little slower, intentionally, and the latter full of spunk, eager to greet anything and anyone walking by us. Chloe saunters; Tecumseh sprints. Chloe smells those flowers, Tecumseh chases leaves. Chloe rests on her throne in the bedroom; Tecumseh wrings the bell to go outside 1000 times a day because he thinks the squirrels are mocking him!

Lent is here. We are six days into our 40+ day journey into the wilderness. As we enter deeper into the season of returning to Love, walking in the wilderness of liberation, remember to go at your own pace. Our spirituality and faith formation is not a competition. It is about naming what separates us from Love and then returning to our Original Name. If you gave something up, good on you! My prayer is one of strength for you in this journey. If you took something on, way to go! My prayer is one of courage for you.

Whether you took something on, or gave something up, or opting out of Lent altogether—my prayer for you is one of gentleness and mercy. It's like what mystic and poet Mary Oliver says:

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Finally, a word about opting out of Lent altogether.

We've been in this pandemic now for a year. As the covid related deaths near 500,000, it is a bleak reminder that over the last year—since last Lent—we've had to give up a lot. All of us have sacrificed so much of ourselves that the idea of taking on or giving up something seems more life-draining than life-giving. 

And that is okay.

Go at your own pace. Walk the wilderness path in your own time—resting on a bench when you need to, sitting beneath a tree to gain perspective, or letting the wild beasts and angels wait on you. Lent is a season first and foremost about reconnecting with the Divine and Her presence within you.

Right now, Tecumseh is outside looking up at those squirrels barking at him from the powerline. And Chloe, she is snoozing at my feet as I type this blog. Both doing what they need to do—while reminding me that life lived from a place of 'both/and' is far more entertaining and joyful than one lived from the false binaries of 'either/or.' 

Remember, you are God's Beloved...

Through Stained Glass: God Talk and Sippie Wallace

“We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously who we were born to be.”
― Anne Lamott

Outside, the wind whips wildly—rattling the beautiful stained glass windows.

On my record player in my study, Sippie Wallace is singing the blues. As Sippie sings, I hear the words of Black Liberation theologian James Cone in my head saying, "The Blues are made by working people....When they have a lot of problems to solve about their work when their wages are low, and they don't have no way to exist hardly, and they don't know which way to turn and what to do." (James H. Cone, The Spirituals and the Blues (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1992), 104).

As I prepare for my seventh Zoom meeting of the week, I take this moment to catch my breath. I have one window cracked, and the cold, February air seeps into the study. My fingers are freezing as I type, and my nose is getting that way too. After each sentence, I sniffle, hoping the heat kicks on soon.

Four o'clock. The bells toll four times over a now quiet Ottawa street. Just two hours ago, students were gleefully fleeing the school. Two students—one bundled head to toe with stocking cap and mask, exposing only their eyes; the other with a mask and their oversized winter coat unzipped—discuss the possibility of a snow day. "You're right," one says in defeat, "it probably won't happen." I walk up the stairs, and as I do, one of the students yell out, "Hey! We like your mask." Smiling with my eyes, I respond with an emphatic "Thank you!" I unlock the door, they start giggling and singing, and off we go to our next thing.

The wind is causing the smoke from my incense to dance. The candle flame flickers—I'm reminded that even in this space, by myself, the Spirit is with me. What is the Spirit up to, I wonder? As I read about the Trinity, as I prepare for an Administrative Team meeting, as I rest—what is the Spirit creating? My coffee is cold. My water is at room temperature. Three hundred and forty-two words into this post, I can feel my fingers again.

Today is my Friday, even though tomorrow is a full day. At 9:00 am, I have my first class of the semester. I'll discuss my 600-word essay on the theological background regarding the Trinity in the fourth century. As I reacquaint myself with words like hypostasis and ousia, I'm reminded once more that our words—especially those we use to talk about God—matter. We discuss this at Kirk Night, too. From Scripture to the theology emerging from it, how we talk about God does not occur in a vacuum. Our particularity in history shapes our story. From Moses to Methodius, Athanasius to Adam—we bring our lives with us in the conversations and discussions about faith.

As I wrote that last line, Sippie went silent. I stood up and flipped the record over. She sings again, serenading me about her experience. She is telling me about the Divine spirit that gives her breath to sing. Her story—like your story—and my story—is God-talk.

Through Stained Glass: My Epiphany Star Word

God looks at us and says, "You are my dear, dear child: I'm delighted with you." ~N.T. Wright

Know what’s wild?

It has been almost one month since Epiphany!

And, want to know something even wilder?

We are 15 days away from the start of Lent.

Where has 2021 gone? Just kidding. But for real, time is flying by!

As we approach a new season in our liturgical life together, I want to share how my Epiphany Word practice is going.

Wait. Epiphany word? What are you even talking about, Adam?

On Sunday, January 10, the front of the bulletin had a star. At the end of the service, I invited you all to consider a word that will guide you towards the light and love of Christ in 2021. I then asked you to write down that word on the star and place it somewhere you can see it to remind you of the journey we are on this year. Do you remember? If not, go back and watch our Epiphany Sunday service! You can get to it by clicking here.

Similar to last year, my word came quickly to me. For whatever reason, the word that kept being revealed to me was the word realize.

Like many of you, I have dreams, goals, and hopes. However, I struggle with making these aspirations come to life. It is a growing edge of mine—to see plans through until the very end, which is why the word realize guides me this year.

The basic definition of realize I’m working with this year is this one: to make something real. 2021 is the year I realize my dreams:

• A new church directory and a renewal of our ministry teams.
• A doctorate proposal that gets me to the research and writing part of the program.
• The dream of implementing my rule of life, which will come to fruition during my sabbatical.

These hopes are the big ones in my life. I have smaller ones, too. Like making fishing a part of my self-care, walking the dogs 4 to 5 days a week, and teaching them new tricks; reading 52 books in 2021 [thank goodness for school!]; returning to the habit of making meals regularly. Ultimately, in all aspects of my life, I want to realize the love of God—to embody this love in all that I do.

For me, it is not enough to talk about my dreams, hopes, and aspirations. I must realize them!

Since January 6, we’ve been in the season known as “the time after the Epiphany.” All the Bible stories have been about revealing God’s love to the world—especially in the person and ministry of Jesus. Epiphany reminds us that we are a people of Light and of the Light. The star leads us towards becoming this Light in the world. When we allow the Divine's light and love to transform us, the Epiphany seasons move us—bring us to a different place.

So, friends, what is your word guiding you this year? What do you need more of this year to become the Light God gifted you to be?

Whatever your word is, know that you have a community of faith rooting you on, walking with you as you realize the Light that you are at your core!

Together we will be curators of epiphanic moments for Lincoln and beyond.

Once you have your word, let me know! I would love for you to share them with me. 

[It usually takes a couple days past the Epiphany for me to find mine. Thank goodness I have colleagues who make “star word Sunday” a practice in their communities and their own lives to help me along the way. If you need some inspiration, check out this blog by Rev. Marci Glass, the pastor of Southminster Presbyterian Church in Boise, Idaho. She has done this practice with her congregation for many years and has numerous posts to find what our star words could be. You can get to her website here.]

Through Stained Glass: Happy New Year!

Friends, Happy New Year! Or, as they say in the homeland, 'haud Hogmanay.' This is the Scottish way of celebrating the end of the old year. 

 We went through a lot this last year. Some bad. Some good. And a lot of in-between. 

We gave up a lot while embracing new ways of being in ministry together. 

Some of us are looking forward to the clock striking 12:00 am, while others know the grief, sadness, and hurts from this last year will still be there. 

Some of us are optimistic about 2021, and others are skeptical. 

Some of us have resolutions for this next season in life, while others resolve not to resolute...or are still working on some from last year. 

Some of us...

You get the picture. 

Wherever you fall on the spectrum of feelings for 2021, know that you aren't alone. If you are celebrating, I join you in your elations! If you are grieving, I sit with you in your lamentations. If you are tired, unable to feel either happy or sad, I'm with you. 

I guess what I'm attempting to say is what I've been saying all year--we are all experiencing this differently. And however you are feeling right now, it is okay! What matters is that you are honest with yourself and that you remain gentle attending to your spirit. Remember--you are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses who prays for you always. 

As I prepare to cross the threshold of this year to the next, I'm mindful of this poem by Rilke:

And now we welcome the New Year. Full of things that have never been.

Looking back, I'm proud of us. We have adapted to the many changes in our lives. Some were smooth, and others, well, they were definitely learning experiences. If I have learned one thing about us this last year, we are a resilient people. Our resiliency, of course, comes from our deep faith in God and in each other. I gleaned a deeper insight into the Ubuntu philosophy, which is, "I am, because you are!" It has been a joy and a privilege to watch you all rally around each other and live into the call to be Christ's body to one another. As we've said from the beginning, the church has never been closed! We've been sent out to care for each other.

Finally, friends, I'm hopeful. Most of 2020 had us reading from the Hebrew Bible--specifically the stories in Genesis and Exodus. Reading and studying these chapters with you during this pandemic has deepened my faith. As God promised to be with Abraham, as God covenanted with the Hebrew people in the exodus, and as Christ promised the disciples never to leave them--so the Triune God makes those promises with us. We are traveling this wilderness season together--and with God. It is by God's mercy and love we have made it to this point, and it'll be God's mercy and love that will take us to the promised land. 

To you, church, I say Happy New Year! To you, beloved saints of the Living God, I say thank you. To you, fellow ministers of the Gospel, I say God loves you, this church loves you, and this pastor loves you deeply! 

Below are photos I've gathered from many of you as we prepare for the Incarnation. I say prepare because we are still preparing--making way for Love to dwell in our midst. I encourage you to remain watchful, keep praying, continue to check in on one another, and as one of you have told me from the onset of this pandemic--keep the faith. Together, with God's help, we will see the Glory of God in the year to come. 

Through Stained Glass: Advent Word a Day 22--Peace

• “Peace begins with a smile.” —Mother Teresa

Peace

Despite being in a pandemic, Advent has been busy. 

One of the pandemic gifts is the realization of how many meetings can actually be covered over email. Not everything coming out of this pandemic is terrible. 

Still, my study is in a state of disarray as I prepare for this coming week. Books on the floor, drafts on the desk, and clergy stoles draping over chairs--chaos is the best way to describe the spaces I occupy right now.

Despite the chaos, I wouldn't have it any other way. We are making our way towards the Incarnation--the event in history when the Love that hovered over the waters of creation takes on flesh and dwells in our midst. In Christ, we not only see peace, but we know peace. The Incarnation brings to reality, once more, that peace is ours if we want it. 

When life gets chaotic, I need peace. Usually, this involves turning off the phone and putting on a record to get lost in the soulful sound of Mahalia Jackson or the blues of Townes Van Zandt. Music is where I turn during the dark days of December. 

Except for today. 

Today I went outside, and with the dogs, we walked in the woods. The ground was soft, the setting sun was comforting, and the dogs' saunter was enthralling. Though the park isn't wild, it is outdoors. It has its own uncontrollable way of being. It is creation. It is life. 

I find peace watching nature be itself. The way the bramble weaves itself together to provide cover for critters. The pine trees stretching tall draped in the green gown of hope. When they are given some slack on their leash, the dogs sniff, roll, and romp in the glory of the prairie.

Wendell Berry was on to something when he wrote this poem, Peace of Wild Things.

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world and am free.

Through Stained Glass: Advent Word a Day 20 & 21-Anoint Conceive

 

Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins. - Anne Sexton

Anoint

One of my favorite stories in the Bible is of the woman anointing Jesus's feet with costly perfume. It is unexpected. It is controversial. It is vulnerable. It is intimate. It is a moment that is made beautiful by two human beings giving their presence to each other. 

I know that isn't the text for today. But it is the story that comes to mind when I saw the word 'anoint.' 

Part of the reason why I love the story of the woman anointing Jesus's feet is that it is about surrender. At that moment, she gives of herself and her gift entirely to Jesus, who in turn gives of himself entirely to her anointing. Imagine if we all lived from that place with the gift of our lives? Not stopping to consider all the ways that something could go wrong or what others might think of us if we risk being vulnerable. 

People will, too, just like the disciples did in that story. You know what, the money from that perfume probably could have fed a lot of hungry people. And there might have been enough left over to add a plaque to a window at the local synagogue in honor of some saint long gone. At that moment, though, that's not what was needed. What was needed was the communion between two people. In their connection, the heavens opened up, and the Divine's heart was exposed in the relationship between the woman and Jesus. 

Anytime we give ourselves completely in service to others, heaven opens up, and the love of the Divine pours out upon us. It is also when what we can't conceive with our logic emerges in our presence. We know that which is beyond our language and understanding. 

Conceive

Mary will conceive a child. This child will grow to bear witness to the liberating love of the God of his people. He does this by being nothing other than who God created him to be. He lives into his humanity by a pathway of descent. Jesus will empty himself out for the sake of the poor, the downtrodden, the least of these, and especially the little ones. Jesus will stand and see these people's hopelessness and act--he will do more than provide charity. He will struggle for their freedom, and it will cost him his life. In dying, we walk into a living--an abundance of God's love right now. 

For the last 48 hours, I have been writing. At the current moment, I've written close to 5000 words over those couple of days. My mind is pretty spent. My fingers are stiff. And my hands ache. The work, though, is satisfying. I write to process what I'm learning. I'm learning because I never want to fall for the trap that I know everything. The moment I'm comfortable is the moment my attention turns away from God and towards my ego. Suddenly my concerns become about how much I could get for my gift rather than enjoying it. 

Want to hear something...silly? One of you gifted me with a delicious fruit basket. In this basket is my favorite fruit--a pear. That's not the silly part. This is: 

I began my writing by eating a pear. As I ate, the juices ran down my fingers and onto the back of my hand. Some even dripped onto the desk. I was annoyed. Until I went to the sink to wash my hands. As the water ran over them [y'all know where this is going, don't you?] I remembered my baptism, and while looking in the mirror, I gave thanks. The dam holding back the content I wanted to put on the page broke, and for two hours straight, I wrote. 

When I returned to my writing later that day, I finished my pear. Again, the juices ran down my fingers, onto the back of my hand, and then the desk. This time I didn't immediately wash my hands. Instead, I sat with the pear core and my sticky hands, gazing at my writing. It became a sacred moment, an unexpected moment, and one I couldn't intentionally conceive on my own even if I wanted to. The goodness of the pear dripping onto my work opened my eyes to the gift before me--my work...my life. 

A daunting task became a holy work. I wasn't simply doing homework, but I was writing my story. I stumbled upon an opening of heaven right there at my writing desk. Were my words divinely inspired? Not at all. But I was fully present to the call God has placed on my life. 

The woman anointing Jesus was a moment that further enfleshed the reign of God. It was costly. It was vulnerable. It was risky. It was intimate. It was all she had at that moment. It was everything Jesus had at that moment, too. The fragrance of love filled the room. The people were changed--the woman, Jesus, and me. 

In these long nights, be like this woman. Give your gift to Christ, and don't worry about what others think. Allow the good gifts in your life to anoint you and conceive in you the Incarnation. We are the messengers of Christ's love. We are the authors of God's story. 

Anoint.

Conceive.

Give. 

Through Stained Glass: Advent Word a Day 19–House

Nature is a haunted house—but Art—is a house that tries to be haunted. ~Emily Dickinson

House

This is my study at my house. That is Tecumseh in his usual spot whenever I spend a substantial amount of time in this room. Of which I’ll be doing tonight, tomorrow, and through the weekend, as I finish my final paper for the fall semester. 

Since my attention is already focusing on writing about James Cone, I share with you one of my favorite poems, The House of Belonging by David Whyte.

May the darkness bring with it a peace to your house tonight. May the morning light flood your house with joy. 

“The House of Belonging”

Written by David Whyte

I awoke
 this morning
 in the gold light
 turning this way
 and that

thinking for
 a moment
 it was one
 day
 like any other.

But
 the veil had gone
 from my
 darkened heart
 and
 I thought

it must have been the quiet
 candlelight
 that filled my room,

it must have been
 the first
 easy rhythm
 with which I breathed
 myself to sleep,

it must have been
 the prayer I said
 speaking to the otherness
 of the night.

And
 I thought
 this is the good day
 you could
 meet your love,

this is the gray day
 someone close
 to you could die.

This is the day
 you realize
 how easily the thread
 is broken
 between this world
 and the next

and I found myself
 sitting up
 in the quiet pathway
 of light,

the tawny
 close grained cedar
 burning round
 me like fire
 and all the angels of this housely
 heaven ascending
 through the first
 roof of light
 the sun has made.

This is the bright home
 in which I live,
 this is where
 I ask
 my friends
 to come,
 this is where I want
 to love all the things
 it has taken me so long
 to learn to love.

This is the temple
 of my adult aloneness
 and I belong
 to that aloneness
 as I belong to my life.

There is no house
 like the house of belonging.