Apr 29 2020 Catherine of Siena Luke 12:22-31

He said to his disciples, ‘Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear.


Catherine of Siena was a medieval mystic. She had a vision of God when she was six and from that point, spent much of her life in prayer and devotion to God. She had numerous visions, prayed and fasted, eating little more than Eucharistic bread. She worked hard to bring unity to a church divided, writing tirelessly to kings and popes alike. She wrote many letters, and dictated a ‘dialogue’, a mystical work created during an ‘ecstasy’. She is remembered for her bold speech, not common among women during her time.

At the risk of heresy, I’m going to say that as I was reading about Catherine and her feats, it sounded strikingly similar to the symptoms of hebephrenia, also known as disorganized schizophrenia. She had visions, which the Diagnostical and Statistical Model of Mental Disorders (DSM) calls hallucinations. She heard God’s voices, which the DSM calls auditory hallucinations. She had a stigmata, where her hands bled where Christ’s hands were pierced. Except she was the only one who could see the stigmata. The DSM calls this delusions.

She wrote a lot, believing she could influence popes and kings alike. Also known as delusions. She believed Christ’s circumcised foreskin was for her wedding ring. Also sounds delusional, or like a word salad – a symptom where words are thrown together and once tossed like a salad, don’t make as much sense to the hearer, as they do to the speaker.

Given my world these days, I’m not surprised I saw this diagnosis in reading about Catherine of Sienna. I was surprised when I did a little research, that I’m not the first to have spotted this. Church resources go as far as to reveal that ‘Opinion was deeply divided about whether she was a saint or a fanatic’. They did not have the DSM at the time, to look at a cluster of symptoms and deduce a diagnosis from them.

To be clear, I am not dismissing Catherine of Sienna as a woman of God, or that it wasn’t God who was speaking to her, or that she didn’t have a stigmata visible only to her. I am wondering, however where the line is between mysticism and visions, and hallucinations and delusions. I’m also wondering why it even matters.

One book I read on the topic of schizophrenia discussed that in other cultures and other times, the minds and visions and thoughts of people exhibiting symptoms of what we know as schizophrenia are revered. Shaman, medicine men, mystics. In some cultures today, people with a different way of relating (again, people we’d likely diagnose as schizophrenia) are allowed to live in their world, without pressures to normalize or medicate. As long as someone isn’t dangerous, who are we to decide what’s ‘normal’? My perceptions are truly nothing more than solely mine. Who am I to say that Catherine didn’t have a stigmata visible only to her?

When you read Scripture from a DSM perspective there’s a lot that sounds like lunacy. I’ve heard people say things like I don’t need to worry about food, or covid, or housing, because Jesus said ask and ye shall receive. I’m protected by Jesus. It sounds crazy. And still I believe.

This morning, I’m thinking about our desire to diagnose and categorize and ‘normalize’. Catherine of Sienna wrote wonderful pieces about God’s love, and her deep faith. Does it matter whether she had a diagnosable illness? More importantly, why would it matter, even if she did? Maybe she was both a lunatic and a mystic. Why does the existence of any disorder like that seem to invalidate the other beautiful parts of people? Today, I want to think hard about diagnoses, and where they help, and where they get in the way of a person’s beauty.

Apr 27 2020 Luke 10: 38-42 Feast of St. Zita

‘Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?

Zita, a saint, I’ve never heard of, was born in Tuscany, and at the age of 12 became a servant of a family. She was humble, and worked hard, and had great faith. For years, she was unjustly and cruelly treated by the family and fellow workers. The description of her, however says that the “incessant ill-usage was powerless to deprive her of her inward peace, her love of those who wronged her, and respect for her employers.” Her persistent peaceful loving response eventually turned the hearts of those around her, and she became well loved.

To be clear, I am not suggesting that people who are mal-treated should always turn the other cheek. I can’t speak for anyone but me. But for me, I find great wisdom in Zita’s strategy. If I come into a situation with a peaceful heart, I am the only one who can give that peace away; I’m the only one who can deprive me of my peace.

I find this exceptionally relevant in my world. I have situations in my home that could create anything but a peaceful heart. I start most days with a very peaceful heart. I am peaceful in part because I’ve slept well, and generally have a positive calm outlook. And then the day happens. Sometimes, I’m able to conclude the day with the same peaceful heart. Other times, however, any number of things has gotten me wrapped around the axle, and peace is illusive.

The appointed reading for this saint, is a little ironic, especially for me. The story of Mary and Martha has always rubbed me a little bit the wrong way. Martha is preparing for Jesus’ visit, and doing all the work. Mary sits at Jesus’ feet. Martha whines to Jesus about her sister’s lack of work, and Jesus says that Mary is doing the better work. As a consummate Martha, I’ve always thought Martha got the short end of this stick. We can’t ALL sit at Jesus’ feet. Someone needs to get the table ready.

Paring this reading with the reflection about St. Zita, I’m thinking a little differently. Martha’s problem wasn’t that she was doing, instead of sitting. I think her problems were two-fold.

First, she was not doing for God; she’d gotten swept up in the tasks and neglected to connect them to Jesus, to what she was doing for Jesus. There’ve been times I’ve been able to be so focused on prayer, or gratitude, that something like chopping onions or sweeping the porch can absolutely feel prayerful. I am sitting at Jesus’ feet, while chopping, or driving. This is when I’m in the zone, and it definitely doesn’t happen all the time!

The other problem with Martha was that she was comparing her tasks with someone else’s. Her work was not better or worse, although her perspective was. Her work was not inherently worse. I feel like I know about this! I’ve joked that I’ve been on a very successful downward mobility career path for the past 15 years. I have less money, less prestige, but more time, and more clarity about my life’s purpose.

This reminds me of missionaries I’ve met. I can only imagine that they make less than they once did, are doing more ‘menial tasks’ than they once did, and may sometimes wonder about doing all the work, while others’ sit at Jesus’ feet. But it’s their God-focused mission about the work they’re doing that differentiates them from whiny Martha. I want to be more like that.

St. Zita turned her domestic chores in to a mission field, doing the work for God, and recognizing that all work is meaningful and can provide a peaceful heart, if we stay connected to God.

This morning, I’m thinking about my menial tasks. About how I am allowed to care for God’s sick child who lives in my house, regardless of the conflict they cause. About how I’m allowed to connect and support people of the church. About how I get to sweep and chop for God. I want this peaceful heart to stay with me always.

Apr 26 2020 Reflections on the Pandemic and My World

I continue to read and pray morning prayer each day. As I’ve said before, some days, I don’t find anything which conjures new thoughts worthy of writing. The past few days have felt like that. Today included.

The problem with today is that it’s Sunday. Sunday is the day many people, including clergy are fed spiritually. It’s hard to worship when you’re responsible for everyone else’s worship experience; I’ve accidentally gotten swept up in the moment, and forgotten what I was supposed to be doing. But it is a day to be fed spiritually, in communion, with communion. Not being gathered, not having communion. It’s hard.

For most Christian clergy, Sunday is THE day. It’s the culmination of a inward- and outward-focused efforts. Inwardly, it’s time spent in prayer, reflection, writing, practicing to deliver a message about God’s word, and the times, and the community. Outwardly, clergy manage the building, script Sunday, deal with stage directions, personnel and volunteer manager. It’s a big day. It’s exhausting, in a really wonderful way. When I was ordained, in response to be asked whether I was to be ordained a deacon, I repeated for hundreds of people to hear, “I believe I am so called”. We believe we are called by God to do this work, which has historically been largely Sunday focused.

I don’t mean to diminish anyone else’s calling, or job. I’m not in anyone else’s calling or job. All I know is mine. And for me, this pandemic time is hard because Sundays suck. I don’t get to gather in communion, for communion. I don’t get to do the job I am called to do, or at least the way it’s been performed in the past.

This morning, I’m thinking about my calling as a deacon for the church, as someone who’s called to motivate and mobilize people to be God’s agents in the world. In this time when we cannot gather as the church, it’s hard to bring those people into the world. I don’t see them to encourage them. And we can’t go anywhere anyway.

I’m quite sure the answer isn’t that I just hang up my collar. For one thing, this pandemic will end. But perhaps more important, there must be something to learn from this time, that we can bring forward. How is it I can bridge the world and the church, when neither are places I can go? 

I suspect the answer lies somewhere in the stubborn, yet mis-guided notion that the church is a place with bricks and mortar. I know in my heart that Jesus did not leave a building known as the church. Jesus left a group of faithful people known as the church. With the prohibition of bricks and mortar gatherings, maybe now’s the time to reignite the notion that the church is the people. As a deacon, I’m called to bridge the church and the world. My colleague priests and pastors are called to tend the flock, educate and spiritually feed the flock. What does that look like with no building? Perhaps, more importantly, what did that look like in Jesus’ time with no building? When they couldn’t all gather. When ‘the church’ was spread throughout the known world, with no way of quick or easy communication?

Today, I want to struggle with my Sunday doldrums, and perhaps find some pearls of wisdom in the midst of this day. We are called to be the church, not go to church. Pandemic or no, I will think about what that looks like.

Apr 23 2020 1 Peter 2:11-25

Conduct yourselves honorably among the Gentiles, so that, though they malign you as evildoers, they may see your honorable deeds and glorify God when he comes to judge.

This is a great passage about refraining from judgment, respecting authority, and behaving well, despite others’ behavior. These are all things that resonate with me. Given that these letters of Paul’s are written to specific people or communities with particular challenges, I’m inclined to learn more about these letters to Peter. He must have needed to hear about refraining from judgment, respecting authority, and behaving well despite others’ behavior. Those situations sound strangely familiar to today’s challenges with Christianity, in the US at least.

As I sit back and observe well intentioned, God loving Christians on all sides of the political spectrum, I see a blatant disrespect of positional authority, whether it’s the office of the president or various state governors calling for self-isolation. It seems to me that we are called to respect the office, and the work those in the office do, even while we disagree with the positions.

I see a huge amount of judgment, again from all sides. I am not talking about having opinions about policies or actions of our leaders. We are called to be engaged and absolutely have opinions about what’s going on around us. We are called to exercise our right to self-determination, when it comes to electing our leaders, or voting with our pocket books. However, I do not believe we are supposed to presume motive, or demonize anyone else. How can we judge the intentions of others? How can we judge, when we clearly don’t have the whole picture? But again, well intentioned, God-loving people of faith are incredibly judgmental, and they feel they have God on their side, so they’re also righteous. The problem is, some God-loving, loved-by-God, people of faith claim that God hates faggots, and others argue that God hates the 1%. It would be hard to paint a picture of God, if we used the opinions of the judgmental children of God. I don’t believe God hates anyone, even if I dislike someone’s policies.

Finally, this scripture calls us to behave well, even if others aren’t. Even if the other side, whoever that might be, is taunting, harming, name calling, disrespectful, or making false judgments about others, we are to love. When, in response to others’ bad behavior, we taunt, harm, name call, or make false judgments, or are disrespectful, aren’t we the same as they are? We don’t get to claim God is on our side – well, maybe we can claim it, but so can they. So who gets to decide God’s side?

I’d argue it’s back to that simple Love God, Love your Neighbor message of Jesus. I might be able to use that argument to discredit my opponent’s position; they are not acting in a way that loves God and loves your neighbor. But when I turn my argument about what my opponent does, and turn him into a judged enemy, I’ve lost my argument, because I’m not loving my neighbor. Love God. Love your Neighbor. My opponents should be doing that. And so should I.

This morning, I’m thinking about how we might begin to shed that sense of superiority that comes from thinking God’s on our side. I’m thinking about how easy it is to slip into demonizing others, and stop loving them, when we think they aren’t loving. We need to love. Regardless of what they do.

A simple perusing of social media shows how rampant this is, this disrespectful, judgmental, and badly behaved actions of God-loving, loved-by-God, people of faith. I wonder what it would look like and feel like if we started calling BS on any of that, or at least opted out from engaging. Love God. Love your neighbor.

Apr 22 2020 John 15: 1-11

Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit.

My relationship with plants and gardens has changed over the years, and it’s different now than it’s eve been. Instead of 2 acres of nature to tame and plant, I have a relatively small city lot. Instead of long rows of mounded dirt for a wealth of produce, I have 4 raised beds. Instead of all my plants outside, because offices and the houseplants that lived there are unvisited and unmaintained, I have a collection of houseplants on many flat surfaces. Instead of an acre of yard to mow, my husband mows our little patch of grass in about 10 minutes.

With less volume of land to garden, with more precise gardening beds, and with plants actually in my house, I have a new-found appreciation of pruning. It’s easier to spot something that needs to be pinched off, cleaned up, or thinned. And it’s easier to do. I’ve found I actually like pruning. It’s mindless, therapeutic, and very manageable. I can’t prune all day long, because I don’t have that much to tend. But I could prune a little every day, or nearly every day. 

Pruning or thinning does several things. It takes off the errant branches, or shoots. It removes unhealthy or dead parts. Pruning also leaves the remaining plant better off – better off to grow as intended, to produce as desired, to remain healthy.

Because of my new-found relationship with growing things, I have a new-found appreciation for Jesus’ comments about pruning.

In a garden, you don’t bother pruning things that are dying, or unsalvageable. You prune what is healthy and producing to make it healthier and more productive. Likewise, we are pruned, even when we’re doing well. We are pruned to do better. Our errant shoots or misguided actions may be removed or thwarted. Branches of a fruit tree that are too productive and the fruit might damage the branch may be pruned back. Our overzealous productive areas might be pruned back, so we don’t become overburdened.

In my garden, I don’t prune, thin or pinch things off to be mean or for bad purposes. I do it to improve what remains. Likewise God prunes, thins or pinches off bits of our world not to be mean or for bad purposes. Parts of us are pruned to improve what remains.

To be clear, having part of my self or one of my ‘enthusiasms’ curbed is not pleasant, and doesn’t feel like a good thing. In the past twelve months, I’ve started and stopped singing in choir, moved three times, and returned to a car-owning, house-owning dweller. When one of my great ideas doesn’t pan out, I pout. But perhaps errant shoots are being pruned, so what remains is healthier.

This morning, I’m thinking about parts of my life that have been pruned, clipped, thinned or removed. More important though, I want to think about what remains. What part of me is healthier, tidier, more productive as a result of the parts that have been removed? God is the master gardener, not me. God has a better sense of what healthy and productive look like for my life, not me. God should prune those bits that aren’t helping me be what God wants.

I don’t always like it, and I don’t always see God’s hand in it. But today, I want to be aware of God’s providential pruning of my life.

Apr 21 2020 John 14:18-31

Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.

Jesus is telling his disciples that he’ll be leaving, but that God will send another advocate, the Holy Spirit, to remind them of all that Jesus said. Jesus leaves his peace, and God sends the Holy Spirit. After this, Jesus reminds them to not let their hearts be troubled, nor let their hearts be afraid.

As someone who normally thinks my way into problems, and thinks my way out, I appreciate Jesus’ reference to the heart. Don’t let your heart be troubled. Don’t let your heart be afraid. There’s something more viscerally innate about fear that comes from the heart, rather than the head. I can worry my way into all sorts of problems, imagining futures that are possibly worse than what will really happen. But when my heart fears, I’m gripped by something that’s hard to think my way out of.

It’s the difference between imagining troubling outcomes to a current situation, versus an actual call from the police. But Jesus reminds me that even that fear that comes from deep within, that fear is not something I should entertain. Do not let your heart be afraid.

Quite unexpectedly, yesterday afternoon, we heard from our loved one that they were being released from their fifth hospitalization since January, and were returning to our home. Although unanticipated, I didn’t feel the fear I’ve felt in similar past circumstances. My head may have conjured up all sorts of conclusions to this chapter, but gratefully fear was not a part of that narrative. Maybe it’s the practice we’ve gotten.

Or maybe it’s something more akin to Jesus’ peace.

In the midst of a persistent, significant mental illness, I have aborted the simpler prayer of ‘make this all go away’. While I fully believe God could heal this disease, it’s not the kind of thing you hear about. Miracles do happen. And maybe I’m faithless, but I am not holding my breath on the miracle cure for this insidious disease. But what I have prayed for, what I have asked others to pray for is peace. Peace for me, my husband, and most of all, for my loved one.

So maybe it’s prayer. Maybe it’s a change of heart in my world. Maybe it’s God’s grace, and the help of the Advocate, that let me actually do what Jesus is commanding. Do not let your heart be troubled. Do not let your heart be afraid.

This morning, I’m thinking about the fear and trouble that wells up from deep in my heart. I wouldn’t have thought that I have the power to do anything with that visceral, heart-aching fear and trouble that wells up from the heart. I wouldn’t have thought that I could think my way beyond or through that kind of trouble.

And as it turns out, maybe I, by myself, can’t.

Apr 20 2020 Another different kind of reflection

“We will not go back to normal. Normal never was. Our pre-corona existence was not normal other than we normalized greed, inequity, exhaustion, depletion, extraction, disconnection, confusion, rage, hoarding, hate and lack. We should not long to return, my friends. We are being given the opportunity to stich a new garment. One that fits all of humanity and nature.” ~ Brené Brown


This resonates with me. A lot. I cannot say that I’m enjoying this forced reset, but I do think there’s something to be learned from this time. I believe Brené Brown’s on to something here.

In January, I moved into a house, after 18 months in a downtown apartment. We moved because we couldn’t enjoy downtown living as much as we’d hoped, and be equipped to house and help our sick loved one. For the month of February, we worked in our offices, came home and incrementally got set up in our house. Since March, we’ve pretty much lived and worked in our house, and I really like it. I liked it before, but obviously didn’t see it as much as I’m seeing it now. I’m enjoying time home.

In January, our loved one was hospitalized. They’ve been hospitalized four times since then. In January and February, my husband and I juggled house, commute, job, care, hospitalizations, visits, anxiety, uncertainty. Since March most of those things are still there, but it feels much less like a juggling act, and more like binge watching a great mini-series. There is drama, characters and multiple plot lines. Sometimes I get wrapped up in the show, but increasingly, I’m watching it, a little distanced, and definitely not as anxious. I think that comes from the space and rest resulting from this self-isolation.

In January and February, work was busy. Many big events and changes occurring in the subsequent twelve months. Since March, some of those events have been cancelled, some have been delayed, and some new changes have been introduced. But again, instead of being wrapped up in the anxiety of the pace, I ‘go to work’, do my best, and when I’m done for the day, I’m done. If, as an office, we can respond to ever-changing conditions and expectations with the grace we’ve exhibited since March, we can respond to changes and expectations when we finally return to the office – with grace.

This morning, I’m thinking about what’s normal. About how, as a society, we normalized a bunch of things that now don’t feel normal. From this point forward, I want to be really intentional about what my days look like, and feel like. I want to notice what feels good about this time and pace, and I want to try to bring those components forward.

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m sleeping more than I’ve slept, pre-corona. I’m getting out and enjoying walks in the neighborhood, bike rides to the grocery store, happy hour conversations with family and friends. In Portland, we’re relegated to more-or-less essential services, not unlike the majority of the world’s population is, all of the time.

It’s one thing to romanticize this time. It’s another to intentionally name and claim the parts you want to keep, when we return from this corona time. I think one thing I will think about is how to continue to balance my days, my time, and my focus. I have a wonderful and demanding job, a challenging family situation, a peaceful bike commute, and a restful abode. I want to be intentional about what takes my energy and what restores my energy.

Most of all, I do not want to return to that previous ‘normal’. And I’ve got no one to blame if I do.

Apr 19 2020 Apostle’s Creed

I believe in God

Interesting times. I’ve been getting up, like normal. I’ve gotten my cup of coffee, like normal. I get in my prayer chair, and open up the laptop to my morning prayer resources, like normal. And I’ve been underwhelmed.

I feel like I’d be faking it if I wrote something encouraging or insightful, as I don’t feel it. That’s not normal.

The pandemic rages on. I now know someone who died from COVID. I’m getting increasingly stir crazy, and I’m even contemplating jigsaw puzzles to pass the time. That’s not normal.

To top it off, my loved one is back in the hospital. They are clearly not interested in speaking with us, allowing us to offer support, or return to our home. And yet, they are likely to be released tomorrow. I understand the hospital staff are working to find appropriate housing. If the housing is not ready Monday, we are unclear what will happen, and we may not be informed if our loved one remains in the hospital, if they moved to the housing, wishes to return to our home, or is released to the streets. That’s not normal.

All of this makes me unsettled. And that unsettledness makes my thoughts and actions flit around, even when I’m sitting in my prayer chair, trying to make my way through morning prayer. To be clear, I am not seeking sympathy. My sense of unsettledness is no different than anyone else’s. These are universally abnormal times. We all are struggling with our own not-normalness.

This morning, I’m thinking about the normalness and routine of Morning Prayer. Day after day, I read the same prayers, and systematically make my way through Scripture. Some days, I find a gem because I am at peace and allow the gems to find me. Other times, I’m unsettled, and can barely make it through a sentence without something else crossing my mind. 

Today, as I read the Apostle’s Creed, I wasn’t feeling it. Some days, I’m struck by the depth and simplicity, that these words have been prayed throughout the world and for thousands of years. Because I know the words, I can make it through that prayer without too much distraction, even if I don’t dive deep into the prayer.

I was offered some advice at one point about prayers and liturgy. I was worried about my personal emotions getting in the way of a service designed and intended for many people. I didn’t want my personal emotions to distract others, which if you’re standing in front facing people, could be an issue.

The advice I was given was to relax into the liturgy. To imagine all the people through out time and throughout the world praying those words. The words become like a boat, carried by all the people. I can join the crowds carrying the boat, or when needed, I can rest in the boat, which is the unified prayers of all the millions of people who’ve prayed those words. Rest in the richness and unity of common prayer. Resting in prayer is good. We all need rest sometimes.

Today, I rest.

Apr 18 2020 2 Corinthians 4:16-5:10

He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee.

Paul is continuing his talk to the church in Corinth. Do not lose heart. We walk by faith and not by sight. All sorts of great supporting cheers. Those are nice to read. And I’m grateful also that he includes his explanation of why, why we should not lose heart. Why we should walk by faith.

God has prepared us. God has prepared us for this precise moment, these exact challenges. I’m not suggesting that Paul, in uttering these words, knew about our 2020 pandemic. He didn’t know about social distancing, or the crushing economic impact from shutting down the world wide economy. But Paul knows about God. He knows that God is bigger than all of our woes. God created everything that is.

God has seen the impact of disease, and economic ruin. And God has prepared us all. I definitely don’t always feel prepared, but I trust that I’m right where I’m supposed to be, doing my best – mostly.

God has also given us the Holy Spirit that dwells within each of us. The Spirit remains with us, in the midst of the mire. I can’t see the Spirit, any more than I can see God, but I do occasionally have a sense of the Spirit in me, or the Spirit in others.

We can do this because God has made us, God has prepared us, God is with us. With that knowledge, it’s easier to hear the encouraging words. Do not lose heart. We walk by faith.

This morning, I'm thinking about all those modern day pep talks I see. You've got this! Nurses, you're the best! I'm thinking about how we need to have those positive affirmations. I'm also thinking that I'm extremely grateful to occasionally be reminded why.  We’ve got this, because God’s got us.

Apr 16 2020 Psalm 146

Put not your trust in rulers, nor in any child of earth, for there is no help in them.
When they breathe their last, they return to earth, and in that day their thoughts perish.

If only it were that easy. Every day, we awaken to news of the pandemic’s toll. Even if we don’t seek out the news, it seems to seek us out. And every day, there are stories of leaders who seemingly cannot lead, of authorities with no authority, of fellow children of God who don’t seem to care about fellow children of God. It seems that we are held captive, first by the virus, and then by the humans we’ve vested to lead us out of this. We’ve pinned our hopes on the mortal leaders.

And when the mortal leaders fail to act in the ways we deem noble, we claim they’ve failed. We feel they’ve failed us.

What if we took this psalmist to heart? What if we did not put our trust in rulers at all? Not that we actively work against them, but that we didn’t pin our hopes, or place our trust in their solutions. When they breathe their last, their thoughts perish along with their body, and return to the earth.

The problem with this is of course that our mortal leaders can cause all sorts of trouble while they’re walking this earth. We see our leaders act in ways that we believe do not help, and in some instances harm. They institute policies which harm the least, the lost, and the last. We are angered by our ‘leaders’ lack of moral leadership.

When that happens, I wonder if it’s because we’ve placed too much trust in those leaders. What if we’re crushed because we’ve placed the leaders in a position to disappoint?

Or stated another way, what if, when we find ourselves disappointed in our leaders, we tried to remember that it is God that saves, not mortal leaders. When we are deeply disappointed in our leaders, is it because we’ve somehow tipped the balance in who we trust, and we trust the leaders more than God? Even when we’re outraged on behalf others without a voice, does that say we trust the leaders to resolve things, more than God?

To be clear, I’m not suggesting we should passively sit by. But we can act, and love and help without the devastating and exhausting outrage, either for ourselves or on behalf of others.

This morning, I’m thinking about how my outrage in mortal leaders might be a handy signal that I’ve placed too much trust in them, and instead should immediately remember that it is God, not man, who will save me, and those about whom I worry.

Apr 15 2020 Matthew 28:1-16

Do not be afraid.

Mary Magdalene and the other Mary have gone to Jesus’ tomb, only to discover no body. They are met instead by an angel, who first says, ‘do not be afraid’, and then explains that Jesus isn’t there, but has been raised. I would likely be afraid if I even went into a tomb a few days after a person who’d died, and even more so if I encountered what they did. No wonder it’s the first thing the angel said.

So they go as requested to tell the other disciples. On the way, they encounter the risen Jesus. He offers his greetings, and like the angel, says “do not be afraid”. Now I’m certain I’d be frightened by that time.

I have been told, although I’ve never counted, that this is the phrase that Jesus repeats more than anything else in Scripture. As Jesus followers, that should greatly inform how we live. Shouldn’t we be a people without fear? Shouldn’t we at least try?

I think Jesus says this so frequently because fear grabs hold of us, and decimates all of our other good virtues. For example, love is sometimes conditioned or minimized, if we fear something about of for the person we love. I fear how a family member will behave, so my capacity to love is hampered by things I conjure up.

Hope is really messed up by fear. I have many hopes about what I’m going to do in the next decade. I have hopes about our country navigating this pandemic. At the same time, I am fear-full about my family and country. It’s hard to hold out hope, when it’s competing with gut-wrenching fear.

Charity is another trait that is hard to maintain with fear. For example, I generally don’t give money to panhandlers, even though I have enough and regardless of their motives, they do not. But I don’t do it, because I fear what they’ll do with the money, and then I’ll be testy about my charity. I’d rather not set myself up for that unChristain, uncharitable response, so the loser is charity. Fear wins.

There is a lot of Christian talk and songs and sermons about love. This morning, I’m thinking about refocusing my meditations and prayers around fear, since it is what Jesus said most. What would my life look like if I really could lose the fear? Fear about the future of my family, my job, my city, my country, my world? What if as Christians, we were known as a people without fear? Not that things around us can’t be frightening, but that we have a greater trust and faith in God’s mercy and justice and comfort, so the frightening things didn’t change our behavior.

The Marys who went to the tomb clearly must have been frightened, by both the angel in the tomb, and by Jesus’ appearance. But they did not let that stop them. They did not let fear take hold and change their beliefs or behavior. Today, I want to think about what that would look like. They will know we are Christians because we are not afraid.

Apr 14 2020 Mark 16:9-20

Now after he rose early on the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene, from whom he had cast out seven demons.

I’ve always liked Mary Magdalene. Maybe it’s her bad girl persona, or because she is one of the few who stuck with Jesus throughout his Passion. These days, I appreciate Mary because it’s reported that Jesus cast out seven demons that she’d had, prior to her joining his group. I’ve always been a supporter for the underdog, and it seems that Mary is portrayed or at least memorialized as one.

But Mary stuck with Jesus at the Cross. Mary was the first to see the risen Jesus, and I cannot believe that was just chance. First Jesus healed Mary, Jesus invited her into community, and trusted Mary, and eventually Jesus appeared to Mary, comforted Mary, called Mary’s name. Any woman who’s had demons, and hangs with a bunch of male-centric men, is quite a badass in my book.

I’m imagining that she was tenacious, faithful, humble, and in love with Jesus. I’m not going to get into the argument about whether she was romantically involved with Jesus. I don’t care. But as a woman, Mary’s love and devotion towards Jesus can provide me a model of how I should be thinking and behaving about Jesus.

In these days after Easter, we are called to continue to live in the glorious season of Easter, complete with Easter hymns, and greetings. As a woman, I want to be like Mary, undeterred in her devotion to Jesus – especially since she was devoted during that time between his death and her awareness of his rising. She was devoted when it was most difficult. Around people who’d given up. I want to be that person.

This morning, I’m thinking about how to eek out a little of the faith of Mary Magdalene, in all her brokenness. If Mary can go to the tomb out of love, if Mary can see the risen Christ from her faith, and if Mary can follow the directions from Jesus and go tell the others, only to have them not believe her (which I suspect she knew already), I want to be like Mary Magdalene.

Apr 13 2020 1 Corinthians 15: 1-11

But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace towards me has not been in vain.


Paul is writing to the people of Corinth, and explaining that Jesus has died and after that, rose and appeared to the disciples, and even to Paul – Paul who’d persecuted Christians before that time. But after Jesus appearing to him, he’s worked hard for the Church, not however because of anything he did, but because of God working through him. With this sentence, “I am what I am”, I think he’s explaining that God made him, God loves him, and despite his prior bad behavior, God loves him still.

Today, the Monday after Easter, I’m struck by the simplicity and humility of Paul’s statement. In normal, pre-pandemic years, I’d be exhausted from weeks of planning for Holy Week and Easter, and the glorious marathon of church gatherings – Maundy Thursday night, Good Friday day and evening, Great Vigil late Saturday night, and several services Easter Sunday. In normal, pre-pandemic years, my husband would make most of the Eggs Benedict brunch, as I was finishing up at church. But this is not a normal year.

Instead of planning for gatherings, I spent weeks helping others figure out how to gather as a community virtually, mastering both the content and the logistics of how that content was to be shared at the same time – building the runway as the plane is taking off. My little piece of that was to organize deacons from throughout the Diocese to sing pieces of the ancient chant that is sung at the Great Vigil. Nine voices, nine deacons offering their voices to this haunting chant.

I ‘attended’ several services online, including our own Great Vigil, and then the Easter morning service at the National Cathedral. That was especially nice, as Presiding Bishop Michael Curry preached, the music was beautiful, and I simply got to worship. Not only that, but I put my headphones on, and took a walk during the service. Beauty abounded.

And in the midst of novel online tools, novel online worship, novel remote working, we have a novel virus, and I continue to manage a novel significant persistent mental illness in my loved one. This was definitely a novel Holy Week and Easter. Maybe it’s that novelty that is exhausting. All I know is that I’ve slept well and abundantly – 10 hour nights, and 2 hour naps.

And as I navigate through the rest of Easter season, I am mindful that I am what I am. I cannot do more or less that God’s grace allows. Just like how I’ve navigated Holy Weeks in the past, as well as this current one, I do my best, mostly.

This morning, I’m thinking about how to give credit where credit is due. True, I am what I am, and I do what I can. But it’s only by God’s grace that I can do anything. And in those moments when I’m not at my best, when I don’t do what I know I should, or do what I know I shouldn’t, God’s grace abounds anyway. My ability to navigate exhausting times is not of my own doing. It’s not even because I’ve been sleeping well. It’s because God’s grace allows me to do well, and God’s grace let’s me sleep well. It’s God’s gentle nudges to redirect me.

It’s when I think that I, myself, am to receive the praise for navigating this world, or I, myself, have witty things to write and say – it’s then that I veer off the path towards God. As it turns out, my plans and my abilities are nothing compared to God’s. True, I am what I am. There’s some humility in acknowledging that. But more important, I am God’s.

Apr 11 2020 Holy Saturday Hebrews 4:1-16

So then, a sabbath rest still remains for the people of God; for those who enter God’s rest also cease from their labours as God did from God’s. Let us therefore make every effort to enter that rest.

Today, in the church life, has always felt like a suspension, or the penultimate bar of a big piece of music. We’ve made it through Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, and the big emotions resulting from the last supper, foot washing, betrayal, reading of the passion and execution. And now, we wait.

We know this isn’t the end of the story, and we’re eager to rush to the ending, to Easter’s glory. And because time marches on, there’s a little bit of that Easter sense that creeps in to today. Plans for brunch are being made and Easter eggs dyed. In normal years, churches are readying their spaces for Vigils or Easter day services. Flowers arranged, pews dusted, choirs practicing, and sermons finished.

In normal years, it’s very easy to skip right over Holy Saturday, and not rest at all. But in our creation story, God rested one day out of seven. And today, Holy Saturday, Jesus rests.

In this weird pandemic year, it might be easier for us to rest, if we think about it. We can’t busy ourselves with many of the things that we normally do. But we are called to rest. Every Sabbath day, rest.

I am definitely not any good at that. But if I cannot rest, I cannot be rejuvenated. I’m not talking about binge watching TV, or mindlessly scrolling through social media. Rather, Sabbath rest is doing something that connects you with God. Sitting silently. An intentional holy yoga practice. A walk in the neighborhood. Even a intentionally prepared meal.

And if we cannot rest one day a week, we should at least try to rest today, one day a year. This year, it should be easier to find rest, although it’s getting harder to discern rest from boredom.

This morning, I’m thinking about today’s rest. About being present in today. Not worrying about yesterday’s pain, or tomorrow’s joy. I’m thinking about that penultimate bar of music in a beautiful arrangement, where the expectation and pause are critical, and often held just a little longer. That’s where we are today. Rest. And wait for it . . . . .

Apr 10 2020 – Good Friday

Gracious God, the comfort of all who sorrow, the strength of all who suffer: Let the cry of those in misery and need come to you, that they may find your mercy present with them in all their afflictions; and give us, we pray, the strength to serve them . . What a strange Holy Week and season this has been. Pandemic, illness, quarantine. I’m sitting at my home desk, and it is unbelievably blue and beautiful outside, and still, it’s Good Friday, there’s a pandemic, illness, and quarantine. It seems ironic or cruel.

In normal years, I must admit that Good Friday is one of my least favorite services. It’s such a downer, commemorating Jesus’ torture and execution, and then we leave the church in silence. I’ve known many wonderful and faithful people who love Good Friday, and I’ve never really understood it. Perhaps I do a little more this year.

Of course, I have always known that bad things happen, and there is unspeakable sorrow in the world. I suspect it’s people who’ve experienced that sorrow and grief that find more meaning with Good Friday. I suspect that because in the past year, I’ve had more sorrow and grief than in previous years, and I am finding more meaning in Good Friday. It’s one thing to believe that Jesus suffered, and can meaningfully suffer with us now; it’s another to be the one who’s suffering.

Maybe I’ve been oblivious to my own suffering, or the suffering of those around me. Or maybe I have had an extra dose of optimism, that’s carried me through. Or maybe the world’s sorrows, coupled with my own, are greater than they’ve ever been. For whatever reason, I’ve got increased insight into the power of Good Friday.

I remember as a kid sitting in the chapel of my parish growing up, with its distinct smell, and crying, thinking about Jesus dying. I remember praying with others the Stations of the Cross, thinking how horrible it would have been for a mother, and crying. But today, it’s not a sense sorrow or tears that I sense. But rather, it’s an acknowledgment that there is pain and sorrow, and in the midst of that, Jesus abides. It’s not that my Christianity indemnifies or protects me from sorrows, but I have a deep faith that I am neither the first to have experienced sorrow, nor alone in it.

One of the many prayers included in the Good Friday liturgy spoke to me today. God is the comfort and strength. And that those who are in sorrow may know God’s mercy. Not that God removes the sorrow, but that God is with them in the midst of it.

And as Christians, it’s not enough to feel comfort from God, or to get strength. As the prayer concludes, give us the strength to serve those who suffer or grieve.

This morning, I’m thinking about the honor of grief. How it changes the perspective of the griever. And about how today, Good Friday, we sit in sorrow commemorating Jesus’ greatest sorrow on earth. It changed Jesus. It changes me.

Apr 8 2020 A different kind of reflection

Thanks to everyone who’s been reading and sharing my musings. I’m genuinely humbled. I like to think of myself as private and introverted, which mostly I am. But here, I’ve been sharing the highs and lows of my heart and mind. I wanted to explain a little about my situation, for those who don’t know. I share this with some trepidation, as I do not want to break anyone’s confidence, or tell stories out of turn. What I share here is entirely factual, and entirely my perception. I apologize in advance if my perception differs from any reader’s.

In December 2018, my husband and I visited our loved one, who was moving very, very slowly, looked different than previous visits, and when they spoke, we didn’t understand what they were trying to say. We took them to the hospital, where they were kept for observation, and eventually held for 5 days on a ‘mental health hold’. We were not living in the same town at the time, so we left them at the hospital.

Five days later, we realized they’d been released, when they’d posted information on social media. The following week was Christmas, and we visited them. Their behavior, language and appearance remained concerning, so the following weekend, I returned to take them back to the hospital. They were given a diagnosis that is a persistent, significant mental illness, with no known cure. To be clear, I am not stating they have this disease. Diagnoses like these are just a way to describe and contain a bunch of symptoms, and they may help narrow down treatment options.

This time, they were held for 14 days, at the end of which there was a painful court hearing, to determine whether they should be ‘committed’ to the State’s care. The standards for such commitment are very high, because people’s civil liberties are taken away – something our Constitution takes very seriously. To be committed, someone needs to be a serious risk to themselves (think suicide), to others (think homicide), or unable to meet basic needs (think likely to die within 24 hours on their own). Our loved one was committed for 6 months. All that means is that the State makes decisions.

After another week, or for a total of 21 days, they were released to the care of my husband and me, with all of the oversight and requirements still retained by the State (think medical parole). For the following 5 months, we cared for our loved one, and got them to appointments, and dealt with temporary setbacks.

When the commitment was over in July 2019, compliance with the now-not-required treatment plan waned. Some of the treatment requirements significantly affected their previous life choices (think about what 22 year old’s do for fun). Some of the other treatment requirements left them feeling badly, as the medicine that had been prescribed wasn’t entirely effective, and had crappy side effects. Add to this a complicating side effect of the disease which is an absolute lack of awareness. The disease actually affects the part of the brain that gives us understanding of our own behavior, thoughts, and relative normalness. For more about this symptom, I’d encourage you to look at this fantastic Ted Talk, by Dr. Xavier Amador. All of this created an increasingly stormy summer and fall.

By December, our loved one wanted desperately to move out of our home (like any 23 year old would). Shortly after Christmas, they ran away, and eventually were picked up by the police for erratic behavior downtown, and taken to the hospital, where they remained for nearly 2 months. Since that release in the end of February, they have been in and out of the hospital three times. Currently, they’re living with us, and extremely dissatisfied with the arrangements, and my heart breaks for them. 

One of the complicating factors, I believe, is social media. Currently, my loved one has nearly 80,000 followers on Instagram, and videos of them have circulated on Facebook, one reaching nearly 3 million views. They desperately want to be rich and famous, and through social media, they’re approaching famous. I don’t anticipate riches will come, but stranger things have happened. The comments from, and influence of these social media followers and fans is significant, uncontrollable, and wildly varied.

In response to the illness, and in attempts to care for our loved one, we’ve cancelled vacation plans, moved 5 times, and bought a house. I say this not for sympathy, but because their illness affects us all. What I share is my story, not theirs.

For everything I’ve experienced, for all the emotions I’ve had, for all of the questions and fear about the future I’ve voiced, I am certain they pale in comparison to their experiences, emotions, questions and fear.

This morning, I’m thinking about story telling. About how we all have stories. Our stories influence everything we see and think. Scripture is full of stories from people who had a particular perspective and experience. And interestingly, our stories overlap with others’ stories. We can look at the same event from very different perspectives so our stories about that same event will be very different, just like the various recounts of Jesus' life. Stories are powerful, and speak a new thing into the world. 

Today, I want to remember that I have a story, and so does my loved one. Our stories about the same events may not look or sound the same. I have no business telling anyone else’s story, and I hope I have stuck with telling my story, not theirs. And I hope that others who know their story refrain from judging anything – about their behavior, actions, intentions. Their story is solely theirs to tell. I honor and support that. And in a strange and exhausting way, I’m genuinely honored to be a bit player in their story.

Apr 6 2020 Monday of Holy Week 2 Corinthians 1: 1-7

Blessed be God … the God of all consolation, who consoles us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to console those who are in any affliction with the consolation with which we ourselves are consoled by God.

This is Paul’s initial greeting to the people of Corinth. Paul is explaining to the people who, what and how God is. This particular illustration focuses on God the consoler.

In these weird pandemic times, I like the idea of God the consoler. Who doesn’t like to be genuinely consoled? I’m not talking about disingenuous platitudes, but the kind of consolation where we can release that breath we’ve been holding. That hug from a loved one, or just a truly empathetic friend’s ear. To be consoled is to receive a moment of peace, in the midst of turmoil.

With our sick loved one, consolation is a challenge. Most people, while well intentioned, don’t know what to say or how to respond. Some offer advice they think will be helpful, but isn’t. Some don’t know what to do with the heavy response to the light hearted, “how are things going?” All of their efforts are greatly appreciated, and not necessarily consoling.

It’s equally challenging for us to offer our loved one consolation. Comments intended to be consoling seem to have the absolute opposite effect. Instead of bringing peace and comfort, they bring contention and turmoil. Like well-meaning friends, our intent is genuine, as is our effort. But the circumstances between the consoler and the consoled are so vastly different, it’s hard to translate.

In my experience, the consolation that works best comes from one of two places. Either it’s from someone who acknowledges they are not in the same place, don’t try to fix, but just sit with me in the muck, unafraid of the pain and drama of my world. The other effective consolers are those who are actually in the same spot, people who are trying to support a loved one with the same challenges. They offer a knowing smile, and don’t get ruffled by the details.

Paul, in this writing, is saying that we are consoled by God, and therefore need to turn around and console others.

Given my experience in that consolation sandwich, between people consoling me, and me consoling my loved one, I’m wondering if there’s something that’s so easily lost.

Few people are in the same position I am. From those who aren’t, consolation comes from empathy and companionship, not from people trying to fix or offer advice for a situation they cannot know. Perhaps I can learn something from this about offering meaningful consolation for my loved one. I cannot know their situation. I am not in their situation. And yet I offer loads of ‘helpful’ advice and suggestions. I’m imagining it’s off the mark for them, if nothing else because I’m not in their situation. Note to self: try consoling others in a way that works with me.

Jesus was God’s secret agent to be able to console in a way that works. Jesus was fully human, and after living a tumultuous life on earth, God gained first hand knowledge of what our human experience and life is like. God can console from a place of first hand knowledge of what our pain and suffering is like; Jesus experienced it all.

Paul concludes his greeting with explaining that since we are consoled by God, we should turn around and console others.

This morning, I’m thinking about offering consolation to others, particularly my sick loved one, in a way that works with me, in a way that God consoles me. Comfort, listening ear, empathy. God, like the most helpful friends, doesn’t necessarily try to fix my problems. But God listens, and God is present. That’s my goal.

Apr 5 2020 Palm Sunday Luke 19: 28-40

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord”.


Some of my earliest confused memories about church come from Palm Sunday. The music and readings star all exuberant. “All glory, laud and honor to thee redeemer king. To whom the lips of children made sweet Hosanna’s ring!” People waving their palm fronds, laying their cloaks in the road for the king to come in. In church, we’d wave our palm branches, or tickle the person in front of us, or make them into the tiniest palm crosses we could.

But then.

But then, we’d read the Passion, the story of Jesus’ betrayal, trial, torture and execution. Wait, what? As a kid, I didn’t understand how we could go from one to the other so quickly.

It turns out, the blistering pace is a little contrived. It used to be that the faithful would gather on Palm Sunday and celebrate Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem with processions, palms, and sweet ringing Hosanna’s. Then they’d proceed to church at least two other times before Easter Sunday morning, with a Thursday night service commemorating the Last Supper and Jesus washing the feet of his disciples. At the end of Thursday, the altar is stripped, and people would sit vigil in a chapel overnight, as Jesus had asked his disciples to do. Friday, was the somber service of his death on the cross. After all of that, people would arrive to Saturday night or Sunday morning to celebrate his resurrection.

But modern life got in the way, and people would go to Palm Sunday, waving palms and cheering, and not see the church until Jesus’ resurrection a week later. Without having gone through the full darkness of the week’s story, the thought was that people we missing the full light of the resurrection. So the church appended the passion reading on to the Palm Sunday service. That way, if people only came Sunday and Sunday, they’d at least get the whole story once.

While it’s a constructed one-day pace, even when it’s drawn out over the whole week, this final week is tumultuous, with very high highs, and very low lows. It could make your head spin.

And while Jesus’ last week was pretty extreme, life is also full of tumultuous highs and lows, too. Covid infections and deaths are growing exponentially. The damage to the economy and social systems is unspeakable. Spring flowers are blooming, and we’re all stuck inside. In my house, I’ve driven to the psychiatric hospital three times in the past five days, and my sick loved one is miserable.

I had a friend who handled life’s highs and lows with a simple clause: for now. Covid is scary, for now. My loved one is horribly unhappy, for now. It is beautiful and sunny outside, for now. In my better moments, I remember her phrase. It moderates the high-highs and low-lows, by reminding me that whatever it is I’m going through is not forever, and makes the hard times more bearable, and the wonderful times more cherished.

Jesus cam in to Jerusalem to wild cheers. The people were happy with him. For a time. Then they were very angry with him, he was tortured and laid in a tomb. For a time. He returned to earth after his resurrection, for a time. And eventually ascended to God.

This morning, I’m thinking about the impermanence of everything on earth, compared to the eternity of everything holy. God always has been, and always will be. Forever. My life is sometimes hard, for now. And glorious, for now. Jesus’ time on earth was ever-changing, and impermanent. Palm Sunday and Holy week are full of extreme events resulting in extreme emotions. So is my life. I just need to remember that it’s all fleeting and impermanent. But God’s love is not.

Apr 1 2020 The Lord’s Prayer

Save us from the time of trial, and deliver us from evil.
Every day at least once, I pray this prayer. During these strange times, it takes on a more urgent nature.

The pandemic rages on. Schools are expected to be closed through the end of the school year. A doctor predicted that the peak of cases and deaths in Oregon will be early May, and people are resorting to bandanas as make-shift face masks. Save us from the time of trial.

My sick loved one will be returning to our home today, after nearly three weeks in the hospital. Since January 1, they’ve been hospitalized all but 18 days. They have refused what the doctors believe would be a better course of treatment. Their illness is persistent, insidious, and cruel. Save us from the time of trial.

We are stuck in the house and trying desperately to live normal lives. All we’re doing is working from home, right? Nope. This is not the same as normal, but at home. We’re effectively under house arrest, and when we leave our homes, there’s fear of catching a crippling virus. Save us from the time of trial.

And today, I’ll be adding someone to my quarantined house who has a persistent, significant mental health diagnosis. It has always been challenging to provide adequate separation, and concurrent support. That will be harder. It has always been challenging to provide meaningful opportunities for social interaction for our sick loved one. That will be harder. In the 18 days they’ve been at our home, they’ve struggled to feel safe, make forward progress in their life’s plan, and stay out of the hospital. That will be harder too. Save us from the time of trial.

It feels like the trial is upon us.

So what do we make of this prayer? Is God not listening? Maybe it’s about the trial, how we define the trial, and all of the trials we are saved from that we don’t even know were averted. The pandemic could be worse, I could be still in a small apartment, my loved one could be on the streets or they could be violent. I’m not suggesting that this is the time to look on the bright side. But there is something to the idea that we should be grateful for the blessings we have, even in the midst of trials.

Or maybe we are supposed to continue to pray to be saved from trials, even when we’re in the midst of them because in prayer, we join our voice with others, and with God. To pray while in this hard place is to acknowledge that God is with me; I am not alone.

This morning, I’m thinking about trials, and whether to prayer to be saved from them is about being entirely protected from trials, or acknowledging that we’re sometimes in trials, but never alone.