Gratitude Journal - Day 2

I am grateful for a rainy Thursday morning spent grocery shopping. For flooded roads, muddy shoes, wet bags, and two flights of stairs to carry them up. Because I have the time and the energy to do all of this, and the money to buy what I need, and what I want.

Gratitude Journal - Day 1

Lent is typically about giving something up, but it also a good time to take something on. This Lenten season, at our pastor's suggestion, the members of our church have taken on the practice of gratitude.
We will all keep gratitude journals during the 40 days of Lent in an effort to be more mindful of the blessings we have received. My journal will be kept here.

Day 1 - Ash Wednesday

I am grateful for our church at night.
For Christmas Eve, Ash Wednesday, and Maundy Thursday services and for all those of all ages who interrupt their busy lives and come out on cold and windy and snowy nights to sit in a chilly sanctuary....to be together as a community and worship God.

In like a lion....

....out like a lamb.

I had to say goodbye to an old friend today.

Katie almost made it to her 18th birthday.

Truthfully, we don't know when she was born... "sometime in mid-March" we were told...so we picked March 17th as her birthday to make her a St. Paddy's Day kitty.

She was born on a farm in upstate New York and came to us in April of 1993, from a relative of my brother-in-law's who heard we were looking to adopt a kitten.

She was tiny, and much younger than the kittens you're allowed to adopt from agencies.

Which may explain why she was a little wild.

At the time I was living in Farmingdale, Long Island, renting a house with my sister and her husband. When Katie arrived in our home that day back in 1993 she trotted out of the cat carrier and went straight up the back of the couch.

"Mine," she said.

She was never a shy kitty. She was prone to making 5 foot leaps and attaching herself to the screen door.  She would hide under the kitchen table and wait for one of us to walk by, and then dash out, wrap her little paws around our ankles and bite down as hard as she could.

These weren't love bites.

These were, "take me back to the farm so I can play with my brothers and sisters" bites.

Katie had a brother who we met the first day she came to us. He was being adopted elsewhere.

He was all white, and big. Twice the size of Katie. In fact, Katie was the runt of the litter.

I imagine she had to learn how to defend herself against 'rough play' fairly early.

So our ankles were paying the price.

As she got older she mellowed a bit, but was still prone to whipping around and biting the hand that fed her, especially if you approached her the wrong way or were petting her a nanosecond longer than she preferred.

We made her an indoor cat, but that didn't stop her from trying to get out when she had the chance.

One winter's day I was holding the front screen door open to talk to someone outside and Katie came bounding down the stairwell that led to the second floor, and darted out the door, down the front steps and down the front walk, before she realized it was covered in ice and snow.

She tried to stop and did one of those cartoon style skids with claws and fur flying everywhere.

Right before she hit the street she was able to gain traction....she then did a 180 degree turn and ran at full speed back up the walkway, up the front steps, in the door, and up the stairwell back up to the second floor.

This all happened in the span of about 15 seconds. Hysterical.

She wasn't as eager to get outside after that experience.

Once I moved her up to CT she did get out one day in the summer when workmen in the house left the doors propped open. I came home from work four hours later expecting to be searching far and wide for her, only to find her sitting calmly in a patch of sun around the side of the house.

That's as far as she got.

I'm sure she inspected every blade of grass along the way.

She was reticent outside, but inside she was her usual crabby self.

My partner Stephanie took to calling her "the psycho bitch cat from Long Island" when we first started dating. Because of her Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality, and because whenever Steph stayed at my house and left her books on the floor Katie would throw up on them.

"Mine," she said.

Meaning me.

Katie did not like the fact that she was no longer the center of my universe.

But she adapted, as she did when I left her behind with my sister for a year when I moved to CT to an apartment that didn't allow pets. She put up with the grabby hands and running feet of my sister's little ones for a year until I moved her up to CT, and then a month later she got knocked off the top of the heap again when we adopted a kitten.

Kittens like to play.

And by this time Katie was old, fat and slow....the farm years and ankle biting of her youth long behind her. When the kitten jumped on her, Katie's strategy was to flop on her side, put her ears back and growl and hiss.

We named the kitten "Stalker" because she took to hiding out in the hallway or in shadowed rooms, just waiting for Katie to walk by.

Katie was like the LST ships my dad served on in WWII - a Large Slow Target.

But her last years were happy ones. She had a hyperthyroid, lost a lot of weight, and had to take medication twice a day, and she had never quite healed from a leg/back injury she suffered a few years ago, which caused her to walk crooked. She had arthritis and was unable to get herself in and out of the litterbox for #2 so she used the rubber mat we put down for our snow boots. We adapted. We think she had lost most of her hearing, and her eyesight was getting worse, but she was otherwise alert and purred up a storm whenever I came home from school for the weekend.

Three days ago she started to have trouble walking and was unable to make it more than a few steps without falling over. She had trouble getting to the litterbox and had more than a few accidents.  Last night I found her in the kitchen with a bloody nose. Did she fall and injure herself? Or was something else going on inside of her that was much more serious.

We could have spent a lot of money and put her through the misery of a bunch of tests to find out if she had something treatable.

We've done it before. We're still paying off the multi-thousand dollar bill from her back injury ordeal.

But no more.

Even the vet agreed that it was time to let her go. 

She went peacefully. Purring right up until the end as I stroked her head and spoke to her, telling her how much I loved her.

Surprisingly I did not cry until after she was gone.

I was smiling as she slowly drifted off to sleep, the life disappearing from her eyes.

I was happy for her. Happy that she was finally free and out of pain.

After the doctor left us to be alone with her one last time I had this horrific split second realization that I was responsible for this. I had taken her life.

This is a decision that no one ever wants to make.

And I think it's part of being human to feel guilt after it is done.

But I know in my heart that it was the right thing to do.

I imagine that she's in kitty heaven right now, running and playing and doing all the things she hadn't been able to do for so long.

She's up there with all the other kitties that I've lost over the years, but she's special... because she trusted me to be there with her when she passed.

I'm sure she trotted right in through the pearly gates, and launched herself onto the first comfy chair that she saw.

"Mine," she said.

And yes indeed, Katie, it's yours to enjoy for eternity. 

Rest in peace my sweet kitty.

What's next?

I love this picture.

My sister and I in our backyard pool in the summer of 1969. 
I was 3-years-old and my sister was 6-years-old.

I love the look on our faces.

That tiny little pool was barely big enough to fit one of us, let alone both of us AND that huge boat-like toy that my sister has, but neither one of us seems to care.

I am just happy as a clam to be standing in 3" of water, squinting into the sun with my hair a mess (as it usually was) and wearing a sundress that was probably passed down through 3 or more sisters before it got to me.

And my sister looks equally thrilled to be sharing that precious pool space with me. That's not a mischievous look on her face - that has never been in her nature. Instead I see it as amusement over my attempt to "smile for the camera" or some other silly thing that we did or said. 

I look at this picture and I see love.

And I see the unbridled joy of a 3-yr-old who has not yet learned any other way of being in the world other than to live in the moment.

Astute observers (my sister being one of them) may have noticed that I have changed the name of my blog from the 40-year-old Seminarian to the 45-year-old Seminarian.  I was 40-years-old when I started this blog (and envisioned the title as a takeoff on "The 40-year-old Virgin"), but I think it's time that the title more accurately reflected my age, especially since some of my newer classmates upon seeing the blog title assume that I am 40-years-old. As flattering as that is, I want those five years. I earned them.

Of course now that my age finally matches up I will need to come up with an entirely new name for this blog very soon anyway, for in a few short months I will no longer be a seminarian. 

I've considered changing it to  "The 45-year-old Seminary Graduate Who Has A Few More Hoops To Jump Through With The Committee On Ministry Before Getting the Go-Ahead To Enter the Search-and-Call Process and Actually Look For a Job" .....but that seems a little long to fit at the top of the page.

But back to the age thing....Those of you who know me well (again, my sister being one of them) have asked why I changed the title of my blog with my birthday still two weeks away. 

Technically, I am still 44-years-old.

OK - so I jumped the gun. 

I've been doing a lot of that lately.

I decided to give up Facebook for Lent, but I started my sabbatical last Thursday....two weeks before Lent actually begins.

And my brain has whizzed right past graduation and is already obsessing over my chaplaincy internship this summer and the 100-mile bike ride I plan on taking right before it begins. 

Right now I am the Queen of premature-actualization.

I keep willing things to happen before they're ready to happen.

Remember that Paul Masson commercial from the '80's with Orson Welles?

"We will sell no wine, before its time."

Yeah right, sorry Orson....I'm selling the wine.

I don't know why this is.

Perhaps I've been on this journey for so long that finally being within sight of the finish line has me sprinting for the tape.

I'm no longer taking the time to enjoy the scenery and "live in the moment" - I'm anxious to see the results. And I'm anxious to discover what is going to happen next.

But in my anxiousness, my restlessness, my eagerness to keep hitting the fast-forward button, I'm letting a lot of moments-to-be-savored pass me by with hardly a recognition. 

I started this blog four years ago as a way to keep my family and friends informed of my progress as I finished up my undergrad degree and headed off to seminary. 

I also intended it to be a kind of "online journal" - a record of my journey that captured the events and the emotions in a form that I could look back on in the years to come.

I've moved away from those intentions in recent years for reasons that I've already blogged about back in September.

But this has been a week worth documenting.

For those following my progress back home and for myself, as I try, try, try to slow down and savor the good moments as they come, and restrain myself from leaping ahead prematurely.

Moment #1

Last Monday I had an interview for my CPE placement this summer (chaplaincy internship) at a hospital in Derby CT. The interview went very well and I was offered one of the last remaining slots in the program right there on the spot. The hospital is small (160 beds) and I can choose my own area in which to work for the entire summer, so I anticipate getting to know the patients well, which is what I wanted. The hospital follows the  Planetree model, which honors the mind-body-spirit connection of patient care, and I love the fact that the interior space looks more like an upscale rehab center rather than a hospital, with carpeting, natural wood finishes, plants, waterfalls, and family lounges and kitchen facilities. The community the hospital serves is primarily blue collar and Catholic. I got on well with the two supervisors of the program and I really think I'm going to enjoy my time there. Imagine that. I'm actually looking forward to doing CPE. Will wonders never cease.

Moment #2

On Tuesday I was notified that I am being inducted into the Jonathan Edwards Society, the seminary's honor society, which is for "students who have established a distinguished academic record and exemplify the highest qualities of character and a demonstrated capacity for leadership in church and community." - - Or, as one my fellow students called it, "the smarty pants club."

The grade geek in me will admit to feeling pride over keeping my GPA high enough to get into this select group, but I know it is my work as a Spiritual Formation Group leader that ultimately got me in. And I feel uneasy about that. Working with the SFG takes time and prep work but I get so much out of it that I feel strange accepting any honors for doing it.  I feel as if I should be the one honoring the members of my group for being full and willing participants, and the school for giving me the opportunity to be a part of the program.

Moment #3

This is a big one. I finally got my graded Ordination Paper back from the UCC Polity class that I took last fall, and the comments the professors wrote on my paper just floored me.  This is the paper that I will be presenting to my Committee on Ministry as the next step in the ordination process. It's a 24 page paper that details my spiritual journey, my Christian theological viewpoint, and my understanding of UCC polity and history.

My professors said that my paper was "exceptional" and was "one of the two or three best papers we've seen in the last ten years."  They recommended I make no changes, other than a few terminology clarifications, and they asked if they could use my paper as an "example of an excellent paper" in future polity classes. Apparently students always ask to see an example of one but they've never had one to give them before. Wow. Wow. Wow. 

I have nothing more to say about this other than I am amazed and grateful.

My Committee on Ministry may have different things to say about the paper, and they may want me to make changes or edit its length.  But it feels wonderful to have impressed my professors, one of whom I know very well and greatly admire. She's tough to impress. This one is definitely going in the "win" column.

Moment #4

I was asked to participate in yesterday's Community Chapel service here at school. The service celebrated the Border Crossing experiences that we as students are required to participate in to get us outside of our comfort zones and interacting with people and environments that are unfamiliar to us. We had students sharing reflections about trips taken to China and Mexico, work done with the homeless and interfaith projects, and I shared a story from the trip we took to the Appalachian region in eastern Kentucky last May. Everyone did such a wonderful job and it was such a moving service. The affirmations that we all received after the service, and that I've received from random people coming up to me since then has been wonderful. That's what it's all about. Reaching people where they are and inviting them to shift their perspective....and having them confirm that you've helped them to do just that. 

(a full video of the chapel service is available  HERE. My part is towards the end at 42:35)

These are just four of the positive affirmations that I've received this week. There were many others both small and not so small.

In reality, my anxiousness, my restlessness, my eagerness to hit the fast-forward button is tied up with my desire to move beyond a major struggle that is going on in my personal life right now. 

I am growing and I am changing.

And my world is shifting around me. 

And God keeps sending me these signs of grace, in the form of people and events, to let me know that it's going to be okay. 

I'm moving in the right direction.

All I need to do is to keep putting one foot in front of the other and I will get where I need to be. 

In the meantime I need to stop trying to get where I'm going BEFORE I'm supposed to get there.

I need to take a long hard look at that little girl standing ankle-deep in the pool and rediscover what it means to find joy in the moment. 

I have much to feel blessed about, this week and every week.

God is good, all the time. 

Writing

In her memoir, At Seventy, poet and novelist May Sarton wrote:

"Writing for me is a way of understanding what is happening to me, of thinking hard things out. I have never written a book that was not born out of a question I needed to answer for myself."

Writer Anne Lamott echoed these words in her book Bird by Bird:

"Good writing is about telling the truth. We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not share this longing, which is one reason why they write so very little. But we do."

I have kept a journal in some form or another since I was 10-years-old.
Early on, my "dear diary' entries focused on rock star obsessions, social anxieties and unrequited crushes. In my twenties my focus shifted to job frustrations and real-world relationship angst, and in my thirties my journaling became focused on all things spiritual. God. Religion. The Universe. What did it all mean....and what part was I meant to play in it.
In reality, every journal entry I've written since I was 10-years-old has been about one thing.

Longing.

A longing to fill an empty space inside of me, a longing to figure out where I belong, a longing to know the will of God.

This is why I write.
Journal entries. Essays. Poems. Sermons. Blog posts.
Chicken scratch handwriting on the back of envelopes, on pages torn out of notebooks, on whatever scrap of paper I find stuffed in the door pocket of my car.
An idea, an observation, a wondering, a frustration, a struggle.
The primary way I know how to work it out of my system is to write.

If I feel it's a universal observation, wondering or struggle, and I think someone may find some use in what I have to say, it finds a home here, or in a sermon.
If it's too private, too embarrassing, or too hard to talk about outside of my own head, then it stays confined within the pages of my journal.

I've been doing a lot of journaling of late.


Every now and then I'll pull out one of my old journals and snicker at what I once thought was too private to share. I'll look back at my 15-year-old self, my 25-year-old self, my 35-year-old self and laugh with a tinge of embarrassment, at what once caused me untold anxiety and fear. All along saying to myself, "Oh how ignorant, and insecure, and foolish I was."
The job that I wanted so much because I was convinced it was perfect for me. What a disaster that would have been if I had gotten it.
The person/relationship that I had convinced myself I could not live with out. Is now but a memory filed under the heading, "What was I thinking?"
The understanding of God, religion, and/or the workings of the universe that I once held as core to my belief system. Now seem silly, trite, or unbelievably naive.

It's perfectly normal to look back at one's life and laugh at who we once were.
Those of us who have kept journals for years have a slight advantage in that regard. 
It's kind of neat to have a record of exactly what I was thinking on a Tuesday afternoon in July of 1984.
It's also strangely surreal to be able to step back in time and see oneself through ones own eyes in that moment in time. This is me (now), looking at me (then), looking at me then (who am I and how did I get here?).

I'm hoping that my 55-year-old self will one day pick up the journal written by my 45-year-old self and say:
"My, how foolish you were. Why were you so worried about that? Everything worked out for the best in the end."

But I can't laugh at the past, in the future, if I don't write about it in the present.
So write I must.
The words pour out of me onto the page because to not let them loose is to lose them to time.
 And worse....to keep them inside is to keep them unexpressed, unexplored, and unresolved.
To not ask the questions, to not examine the longings, is to keep them chained in the dark, allowing them to pull incessantly against their restraints as they tear me up from the inside out.

Some day, even the darkest entries in my journal, the words I was once too ashamed to share, may find their way into a blog post, or a sermon.
And while some frown upon this practice of public sharing as being too narcissistic and self-focused - and point to it as further evidence of our crumbling me-centered society.....I share these words of mine for one reason alone.
Because every time I do, someone reads these words, or hears these words, and makes it a point to say to me, "I thought I was the only one who felt that way. Thank you for helping me to realize that I am not alone."

This is one of the primary reasons why I feel drawn to ministry.
Because I discovered that unchaining the longings of my heart, my mind, and my soul, and letting them flow out of me in words, loosens the chains of others.

Toni Morrison wrote:

"The function of freedom is to free someone else, and if you are no longer wracked or in bondage to a person or a way of life, tell your story. Risk freeing someone else."

Thank you, Toni. For writing.
And for freeing me to do the same.

Still waters run deep...

 In my Grounded in God class last semester we learned how to practice discernment processes in a group setting. It's one thing to be able to talk to God and to listen to God on one's own, it's another animal all together to do it in the company of others.
The truth is that we cannot and should not function in a vacuum. God speaks to us using the voices of others, and often when we feel as if we've reached a stalemate talking to and listening to God on our own, we will receive new and clarifying insights from the people around us. When a thought or direction has become muddled in our own mind, God may use the mind of another to untangle that knot for us. Sometimes it takes a change of perspective to realize that we had the answer all along.

In our Grounded in God class we participated in "Clearness Committees." The class was divided into groups of 4-6 members, and within each group one person was designated to be the "focus person" each week. The focus person is given 3-5 minutes to share a concern or situation that is in need of discernment, the other group members are given 1 minute to ask clarifying questions, and then the focus person remains silent for 8-10 minutes while the other members of the group offer up comments or possible questions for the focus person to consider. It is all done in a very contemplative, prayerful manner. After each session my classmates often expressed amazement at what had come to light within their groups. The focus person came away with a new found clarity and those who acted as listeners and commentators felt as if that their responses were coming from not just from within them, but from somewhere outside of them. It was often said that the Holy Spirit was present in the room.

Over the course of the semester the members of our group got to know each other fairly well. On the last day of class our Professor asked us to take some time and to turn to each person in our group and tell them what gifts they have to bring to ministry and what gifts we had seen them bring to our group. One member of the group wrote down each gift that was mentioned and each person received a written list of their gifts, along with the suggestion that we pull out the list and read it whenever we begin to doubt that we have what it takes to do this messy work that is ministry.

My list looked like this:

Stability
Never Flustered
Contagious Smile
Sense of Humor
Anchored & Steady
Grounded
Strength
Very Loyal
Intelligent
Peaceful & Loving

I had a very strange reaction to receiving this list. While my classmates spoke of coveting their lists and made plans to refer to them for years to come, I wanted to hide mine away.
I hated it. It made me cringe.
All I saw was what wasn't on there:
Good listener. Insightful. Inspirational. Helpful. Kind. Compassionate.
Others in our group had been told they had these gifts, and I've been told in the past that I have them, but for some reason I wanted them to be on this list.
This list that I'm supposed to keep for prosperity.

And, moreover, I found myself cringing over what WAS on the list.
Grounded. Anchored. Stable. Steady. Loyal.
When I hear these words I think of only one thing: BORING.
Blah. Blend into the background. Forgettable.
The words on my list are often used to describe the strong silent types who are hard to read.
In fact, earlier in the class one woman took the time to thank each member of the class individually for what they had to contribute during the semester, and when she got to me she said, "Maureen, you're so quiet, I feel like I never got to know you, yet I feel this amazing power, energy, and strength coming from you."
What a wonderful thing to say.
And yet all I heard was, "You're so quiet, I feel like I don't know you."

This is the anchor around my neck.
The persona that I'm trying so hard to let go of.
I've always been the quiet one. The reliable one. The grounded and predictable one.
The one that very few people have the opportunity to truly get to know.
I am an enigma to many, and to myself.
I stand up in the pulpit or in front of the congregation and a switch gets thrown inside of me and suddenly I am a preacher.
I lob witticisms on facebook and participate in online conversations that allow me to channel the creative and silly side of me that many never see in person.
People come up to me at school and express surprise at something I've written - a sermon posted on my blog, a funny crack on facebook. "I would never have expected something like that to come out of you," they say, "You're so quiet and reserved most of the time."

This is the person I want to let go of.
Oh how I envy those who carry these words around with them: spontaneous, adventurous, dramatic, expressive, unpredictable, fun-loving!
Exciting.
Instead I am grounded, anchored, stable, steady, loyal.
Boring.

Now I fully realize that these gifts that others see in me are an asset for one seeking to enter the ministry. I have often been told that I embody the idea of a "non-anxious presence" - that I can get mixed up in other people's stuff and let it roll off of me without reacting to it and becoming a part of the drama myself.
And I can also see how being spontaneous, dramatic and unpredictable could be a detriment for someone entering the ministry. As these traits can often lead to flightiness, disorganization and unreliability.

So what am I whining about?
Why am I so bugged out because my classmates described me as being grounded and steady?

Because I keep letting my ego get in the way.
Because ever since God started leading me into the ministry and I discovered that I had a voice I've been fighting against my proclivities to use it.
My instinct is to be fearful. To run. To clam up. To withhold. To stay in the background.
And I am so proud of myself whenever I overcome those instincts and stand up and speak.
Whenever I muster the strength to stick my hand up in a crowd and dare others to pay attention to what I have to say. 
To be labeled as quiet, steady, reliable, predictable is to take a step backwards.

It pushes my buttons.
The buttons that say, "I'm not special."

It's a funny thing to be a preacher.
To listen to others tell you how "wonderful" your message was or how "gifted" you are at writing and delivering a sermon....And all the while trying to keep forefront in your mind that it's not you.
The words don't come from me. The message doesn't come from me.
Yes, I'm in there somewhere. My experiences. My perspective. My love of metaphor and storytelling. But the message comes from somewhere outside of me. There's some Holy Spirit mojo going on that causes my jumbled mess of stories, observations, and exegesis to coagulate into a coherent and effective sermon, often at the eleventh hour.
There's some divine force that causes me to step into a pulpit, look the congregation in the eye and dare to speak what I have written when I've spent most of my life staring at my shoes and keeping my mouth shut.

I keep running from myself.
I'm running from who I was, and who I still am in many ways.
But when my classmates hold up a mirror and those words that I've rejected are reflected back at me I have to accept that there's a message from God in there somewhere.
Perhaps I'm meant to discover that being grounded and reliable does not automatically mean that one is boring and forgettable.
That being the quiet one does not mean that one does not have a voice.
That being the strong silent type is not a negative personality trait, it's just one of the many paths that God created for us to walk in this world.

I'm taking a second look at that list that I was given.
And noticing that it is written in the wide, looping handwriting of a classmate whom I respect and love.
She added "Peaceful & Loving" at the bottom of the list even though it wasn't spoken aloud.

We cannot and should not function in a vacuum.
We may tie ourselves into knots trying to discern what it is that God is trying to tell us when we sit down and have a one on one conversation.
What we --- I ----need to keep in mind is that God speaks to us through others.
Sometimes I need to set my expectations and my ego aside - and just listen.

Sermon: "In the Name of Love"

King Street UCC, Danbury CT

January 16, 2011

John was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by, he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus.

John 1:35-37

“In the Name of Love”

John 1:29-42

A name can be a powerful thing.

My father was christened Nicholas Augustus F******.

He was named after his father and his grandfather and his great grandfather before him.

As the fourth generation first born male to be given the name Nicholas, my father had big shoes to fill.

To be called Nicholas he had no choice but to walk in the shadow of the patriarchs that came before him.

Three strong willed, hard working Italian men who expected their sons, their namesakes, to follow in their footsteps and to do them proud.

But my father never had the chance to be a Nicholas.

When he was a baby, his mother took to calling him “Bubby” – a nickname that sprung from her southern upbringing – and she and the rest of the family continued to call him “Bubby” for the first five years of his life.

When it came time to register her son for school my grandmother inadvertently reversed my father’s first and middle names on the registration form.

But when his teachers called him by his middle name "Augustus" - and his friends started calling him "Gus" – my father didn't correct them because he didn't know that his given name was actually Nicholas.  

At home he had always been Bubby.

At five years old my father had been given a new identity.

And he was Gus for the rest of his life.

In many ways my father was spared the pressure of having to live up to his name. When he heard the name Nicholas spoken in his house there was no confusion as to whether it was he who was being referred to, or his father.

As Augustus he was allowed to forge his own identity rather than have one thrust upon him.

In the end he did turn out to be a strong-willed, hard-working man just like his father but he did it without having to drag the weight of a name that tied him to those who came before him.

My father did name his first son Nicholas, and he in turn named his first son Nicholas as well, so the tradition has continued.

But my father will never be a Nicholas to me or to anyone who knew him, he’ll always be Augustus, grandpa Gus, Gus the WWII Navy vet who married Ruth, raised ten children and lived 79 happy years in this world.

A name can be a powerful thing.

A friend of mine from seminary told me a similar story of having been named Jennifer at birth but not realizing it until later in life because her parents always called her by her middle name, Anne. She went through most of her life as Anne until one day as a middle-aged, recovering alcoholic she decided to reclaim the name Jennifer in an effort to create a new identity and leave her past behind.

But when she stood up in her AA meetings and introduced herself as Jennifer she said it didn’t feel right.

She explained, “Anne had this rich history, but Jennifer did not.

At the AA meetings I couldn't introduce myself as Jennifer because Jen wasn't the drunk, Anne was.”

A name can be a powerful thing.

As Anne’s story demonstrates, “Names have memory, history, a story behind them” and it’s hard for us to peel off those layers once they’ve been applied.

Our names become a part of who we are.

With this in mind, imagine what it must have been like for Jesus, when he stumbled upon John the Baptist – a crazy eyed preacher who was dunking his followers beneath the waters of the river Jordan - proclaiming them to be baptized in the name of God.

Jesus was a carpenter’s son from a backwater town called Nazareth.

His family and friends knew him as Yeshua.  

A fairly common Hebrew name which means “God saves.”

The Nativity stories in the gospels of Matthew and Luke tell us that Mary and Joseph were instructed to call their son Yeshua, for he was destined to save the people of the world from sin.

The gospel of Matthew also tells us that in fulfillment of the words of the prophet Isaiah Jesus would be known as Immanuel – meaning “God with us.” This was not intended to be Jesus’ name but rather it was a description of the role that Jesus would fill during his time in this world.

But how many people who encountered Jesus in his time knew the true meaning of his name?

For those of us who have the benefit of hindsight, and 2000 years of Christianity under our belt, when we hear the name Jesus we think of only one man, a man whom many of us believe to be fully human yet fully divine. A man whom many of us believe was God incarnated.

But for the first 30 years of his life, Jesus was just another devout Jew, who studied at the feet of learned Rabbis and who most likely drove his elders crazy with his constant questioning and his tendency to push against the boundaries that held him in place.

To everyone apart from his parents, those present at his birth, and a few prophetic voices, Jesus was Yeshua.  And he was no different from the many other Yeshuas that they undoubtedly encountered in their daily comings and goings.

But that changed when this particular Yeshua crossed paths with John the Baptist.

John the Baptist claimed that he had received a revelation from God and in sharing that revelation he applied names to Jesus that must have shocked those standing before him.

When he saw Jesus coming toward him, John declared,

"Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!

I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Son of God”

The Lamb of God, the Son of God.

What thoughts must have run through Jesus’ mind when he heard these names being applied to him?

After John’s proclamation, John’s disciples approached Jesus and endowed him with more names – Rabbi, Teacher, the Messiah, the anointed one. 

For centuries theologians have debated whether Jesus knew who he was when he walked this earth. Did he actually believe that he was the Messiah, God incarnated, THE Son of God, or were these titles thrust upon him by others, in particular by his later followers, and by the authors of the Gospels, who wrote their Jesus stories 40-70 years after his death?

Thankfully, regardless of what WE believe about Jesus’ identity or what we THINK he believed about himself, the story that we heard today from the Gospel of John is not just about that.

This is also a story about naming.

It’s a story that reveals the names that were given to Jesus, and sets the stage for further stories of how he came to live into those names.

It’s a story that lifts up those who became followers of Jesus right there in the flowing waters of the river Jordan simply because they heard those names and believed them to be true.

It’s a story that invites those who still doubt the validity of those names to dig deeper and discover what truths may be revealed about the man we know as Jesus, and what truths may be revealed about ourselves.

A name can be a powerful thing.

As we heard in the text from the Gospel of Matthew that Pastor Cindy preached on last week, like Jesus, God calls us each by name and says,

“This is my child, my beloved, in whom I am well pleased.”

But too often we fail to hear God calling our name because our ears are resounding with the names called out by others, and the names we call ourselves.

St. Teresa of Avila wrote,

"A thousand souls hear God's call every second, but most every one then looks into their life's mirror and says, I am not worthy to leave this sadness."

For most of us, the name we are given at birth is the one that we carry with us throughout our lives.

We had no say in its choosing.

But there are other names that we willingly take on throughout our lives - nicknames, pet names, derogatory names, hurtful names.

Some we have chosen for ourselves, others have been given to us.

Some we joyfully embrace, others cause us to cringe every time we hear them. 

Some lift us up - others tear us down.

Many of us carry the scars of names bestowed upon us through childhood taunts, but just as many of us continue to taunt ourselves whenever we fail, make a mistake, or fall short of the mark that we were expecting to hit.

Like the proverbial playground bully we call ourselves names like “Stupid” “Loser” “Fatso” “Know-it-all” “Ugly” “Weakling” or “Crybaby”

And when we become accustomed to applying those names to ourselves, it becomes much easier to apply those same names to others.

We look in the mirror, and we look at each other, and see not a beloved child of God, but a hated child of God.

We may accept that we are children of God and that God loves us just as we are, but we have such a hard time extending that love to ourselves, and to each other. We find it so much easier to hate.

As the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. wrote in his book, Strength to Love:

Like an unchecked cancer, hate corrodes the personality and eats away its vital unity.

Hate destroys a man's sense of values and his objectivity.

It causes him to describe the beautiful as ugly and the ugly as beautiful, and to confuse the true with the false and the false with the true.

When we become obsessed with naming all the deficiencies that we see in ourselves and in others we leave little space for naming the good that we see.

And regardless of what we believe about the Divinity of Jesus, this is the one thing that we can glean from our Gospel text today.

We are called to name what is good.

We are called to notice what is good.

We are called to celebrate what is good.

In ourselves and in each other.

Because the more good that we see and name in this world, the less time we have to name what it is that we hate.

I invite you to take a moment to remember some of the more difficult names you have been called in your life, the names that no matter how long ago they were uttered endure in your memories, weighing you down during the day and haunting you at night.

I ask you to call to mind these names for one painful moment so that you may truly embrace the voice of God when God says, "No! That is not your name. For you are my beloved child, and with you I am well pleased."

John the Baptist encountered Jesus and named him the Lamb of God, the one who takes away the sin of the world.

Jesus then turned to John’s follower Simon and named him Peter – Cephas in Aramaic, Petra in Greek. Both of which mean Rock.

Jesus said to Simon, a mere human being who lived with constant doubt in his heart, you are a rock, and upon you I will build my church.

John the Baptist looked at a lowly carpenter’s son from Nazareth and saw in him the Son of God.

Jesus looked at a doubtful disciple who would one day deny him three times, and saw in him the foundation of his church.

What do we see when we look at each other?

What do we see when we look in the mirror?

Do we see the deficiencies? Or do we see the promise?

The names that we apply to ourselves and that others apply to us become a part of who we are.

A name can be a powerful thing.

The names we are given or take upon ourselves,

the names that arouse pride or shame,

the names that build us up or tear us down.

But the promise of the Gospel, the good news, is that no matter how powerful our earthly names, they do not define us. What defines us is the name given to us by God alone: the name of beloved child of God.

"A thousand souls hear God's call every second, but most every one then looks into their life's mirror and says, I am not worthy to leave this sadness."

The message of the Gospel is that we ARE worthy to leave that sadness.

The message of Psalm 40 is that God CALLS us to leave that sadness.

For upon hearing our cry God will draw us up from that desolate pit, and set our feet upon a rock, making our steps secure.

 God will put a new song in our mouth and a new name upon our lips.

And as we stand in cold flowing current of the river Jordan, watching the Spirit descend from Heaven as Yeshua receives the name Son of God, we too are called forward to receive our new name.

Child of God.

Disciple of Christ.

Purveyor of the Holy Spirit

Given to us all, by God, in the name of love.

Amen.

Sermon: "Merry Little Christmas"

King Street UCC. Danbury CT

January 2, 2011

Matthew 2:1-12

“On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”

Matthew 2:11

“Merry Little Christmas”

Christmas 2010 is over.

Many of us have already taken down the decorations,

packed away the ornaments, and either dragged the tree out to the curb or stuffed it back in its box for another year.

We’ve stopped wishing each other “Merry Christmas” and instead have switched to wishing each other a “Happy New Year.”

The colored lights, the swatches of red and green, and silver and gold that have decorated our landscapes since Thanksgiving, will soon disappear, leaving behind the whites and grays of just another winter’s day.

That giddy feeling of anticipation that prevailed in the weeks leading up to Christmas has dissipated.

The magical spell which leads strangers to smile at each other, hold doors for one another, and to actually be civil to each other in their daily interactions, has worn off and soon we’ll be back to the standard exchange of impatient glares, judgmental comments, and general crankiness that we reserve for those who invade our space, cut us off in traffic, or keep us from getting where we need to go as fast as we’d like to get there.

Yes, Christmas 2010 is over  - according to our cultural calendar.

But according to the Christian calendar the season of Christmas still lives on.

The celebration of the birth of Christ does not end on Christmas day.

It continues right through to January 6^th, the day we traditionally set aside to commemorate the arrival of the Magi – those wise visitors from the East who came bearing gifts for the child King whose birth was announced via the appearance of a guiding star in the heavens.

But in reality since our cultural Christmas begins earlier and earlier each year, with sale ads appearing well before Halloween even arrives, by the time December 26^th rolls around we’re ready to have it all over and done with.

We’re ready to pack the whole thing away and get back to our normal routines.

But not everyone is in such a rush to put Christmas behind them.

While we in the Western Church celebrate the birth of Christ on December 25th, many Eastern Orthodox churches still follow the older Julian calendar and celebrate Christmas on January 7^th. 

So while we’re packing away our decorations and returning to work and school, their celebration is just beginning.

In Ireland, January 6^th is known as “Little Christmas” – in recognition of the fact that this is the day the wise men arrived marking the end of the Christmas season.

Also known as “Women’s Little Christmas,” the Irish celebrate this day by honoring the work that women do to prepare for the Christmas holiday.

On January 6^th it is the tradition for Irish men to take over all the household chores while the women spend the day in the pubs with their friends.

Alas, we have no such traditions in our country; in fact January 6^th often passes by unnoticed even among those of us who attend church on a regular basis. When I was growing up, January 6^th was the day that we took down the Christmas decorations, but few of us honor that tradition any more.

Some of us may know that January 6^th marks the first day of the season of Epiphany, the season that celebrates the revelation that the human Jesus was God made manifest in this world.

Yet because January 6th often lands in the middle of the week, many churches choose not to recognize it at all. The story of the Magi is wrapped up into the Nativity story on Christmas Eve, and the season of Epiphany begins instead with the story of Jesus’ baptism.

Before we know it Christmas is over and the next time we encounter Jesus he is a full-grown adult.

But we’re not there yet.

On this day, January 2^nd, we’re still waiting for the Magi to arrive.

We’re still living in anticipation of the gifts they have to present to the Christ child.

In a way it’s fitting that we’ve already moved on from Christmas Day.

It makes sense that we’ve already packed the decorations away, including the Nativity Sets that adorned our tabletops.

Because those Nativity Sets complete with adoring shepherds and the baby Jesus lying in a manger often contain one glaring inaccuracy.

They often contain the figures of the Three Wise Kings arriving to present their gifts to the newborn Jesus.

But according to the gospel text that we heard today, that’s not how it happened.

The Nativity story that we all know with the pregnant Mary, the overcrowded inn, and the baby Jesus lying in a manger is from the Gospel of Luke.

The story of the Magi is from the Gospel of Matthew.

And Matthew makes it clear that the Magi arrived to visit not the infant Jesus, but the child Jesus.

They found him not in a manger, but in a house.

And it is soon after their arrival to visit this new child King, that King Herod ordered the killing of all male children under the age of two.

Because these Wise Men arrived not at the time of Jesus’ birth, but nearly two years afterward.

I had to laugh when I heard one pastor admit that at Christmastime when he enters the homes of his family, friends, and parishioners he takes note of whether they have a nativity set.

And if the nativity set contains the figures of the Magi, he immediately removes them and places them across the room, or in another room entirely, to symbolize the time and distance that separated them from their actual arrival.

In fact, the children in his congregation have now made a game of “finding the missing Wise Men” who inevitably disappear whenever their pastor visits their homes.

But the timing of the Magi visit is one of those details that we tend to take liberties with, just as we do with other aspects of the story, as the children discovered earlier.

In reality, we don’t know how many wise men there were, where they came from, or whether they were kings, astrologers, or philosophers.

But we like to place crowns on their heads, gold chains around their necks, sit them on camels, and give them names because it helps us to visualize their role in the story. 

But there is one detail of the story that we do find in Matthew’s gospel:

We know that the wise men brought gifts - and that detail fascinates us.

Much has been made about the meaning of the gifts and what they symbolize, and how the rareness and assumed high value of the gifts made them all the more special when presented to the Christ child.

Just like those television commercials that try to convince us that no one has ever asked for a smaller less expensive gift at Christmas  – and thus we should be buying each other cars  – we tend to equate monetary value with meaning.

If the Wise Men had brought Jesus a simple clay pot, a pair of homemade sandals, and a handful of mustard seeds, the gifts probably wouldn’t have even garnered a mention in the story.

This would be the first century equivalent of getting socks and underwear for Christmas. I can just see two-year-old Jesus ripping open the packages and glaring at the Wise Men with a look on his face that says, “C’mon guys, where are the real presents?”

So we’re happy to read in Matthew’s gospel that the Magi brought Jesus some good stuff: Gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Even if we’re not exactly sure what frankincense and myrrh are, they sound exotic so they must be expensive.    And actually they were.

But the reason why these gifts are mentioned in the story has more to do with their symbolic meaning then their monetary value.

Gold was a gift that was often given to Kings, thus the implication was that even as child, Jesus was to be worshiped as a King. 

Frankincense was incense that was burned by the priests in the Temple, thus the implication here is that the boy Jesus was being recognized as a revered religious leader. And Myrrh when combined with oil was used to anoint the bodies of the dead before burial.  

This gift was meant to be a foreshadowing of Jesus’ death and resurrection. 

Ironically, with our focus landing so solidly on the gifts that the Magi brought we tend not to notice that the presentation of these gifts is the last thing that the Magi do in the story.

The gifts are mentioned in a single verse, almost as an afterthought.

Because the reason why the Magi came from so far away to visit this boy King was not to present him with gifts, but to pay him homage.

The word “homage” is mentioned not once, but three times in this passage.

In the original Greek the word used is proskuneo, which literally means to kiss the hand, and in common usage meant to prostrate oneself at the feet of a king, to lay oneself down, to give oneself over out of respect for another. 

When the Magi first entered Jerusalem, they asked, “Where is the child who has been born the King of the Jews, for we have come to pay him homage.” 

When King Herod summoned the Wise Men, in his deception he asked them to return to him and reveal the location of the boy king, so that he too might pay him homage.

And the first thing the Magi did upon entering the house and seeing the child Jesus with his mother Mary, was to kneel down and pay him homage.

Only after this act of worship – the kneeling down, this payment of homage - only after giving themselves completely to Christ, do the Magi present their material gifts.

And oh how I wish it were our tradition to do the same.

I wish we could separate December 25^th from January 6^th.

I wish we could keep December 25^th as the day we honor the birth of Christ, the day we pay him homage by giving ourselves completely over to him and pledge to live our lives just as he did.

And I wish we’d come to celebrate January 6^th as the day that we emulate the actions of the Magi by exchanging gifts and paying homage to the image of Christ that we see in each other. 

Because the way it is now, we get so caught up in the gifts that we miss the part about paying homage.

We are so enamored with the gold, and the frankincense and the myrrh we forget that the first thing we’re supposed to do is kneel.

At no time is this more evident then when something happens to disrupt our idea of what Christmas is meant to be.

A working father of six spends his entire paycheck on gifts for his children only to have them stolen out of his car, “I guess my kids won’t have Christmas this year,” he says dejectedly.

A woman in a refugee camp in Haiti cries out in anguish, “We're not having Christmas this year ... The children have no toys. If we don't have money to buy them clothes, how could we have money to buy them toys?”

The message that we are sending to our children, and that we have internalized ourselves regardless of our social standing, is that there is no Christmas without the gifts.

But the message of the Gospel is that the hope and they joy of Christmas is not found in the material gifts that we give each other, it’s found in the gift that God has given us by becoming human in Jesus.

God became human in Jesus to show us that we have the potential to do so much more than we think we can do, that we can be so much more then we think we can be.

The Magi prostrate themselves before the child Jesus and give him gifts that honor who he is and who he has the potential to become – a king, a spiritual leader, a servant to all.

The Magi represent the wisdom that recognizes that every human life is a journey taken in search of the One who calls us beyond ourselves into faithful service – the One before whom we are prepared to kneel, and to whom we offer the best of our gifts, flawed and unworthy though they be.

We encounter these wise men, as they kneel with supreme grace and dignity before a child who represents to them simplicity, vulnerability and poverty. They are prepared to kneel, for in their wisdom they discern the glory that is hidden in this child.

And so we too, as we’re engaged in our own human journey, search for the One who would have us be so much more than we are.

And bearing our unworthy gifts, we kneel on the dirt floor beside these Magi, and worship the child who calls us to live our lives in love rather than fear.

When we encounter the story of the Magi, once we strip away the things that come from our memory but are not in the story itself  - the crowns, the kings, the baby Jesus lying in a manger - we’re left with the image of human beings giving themselves completely over to Christ.

Laying their bodies down on the cold, hard ground while saying, “We offer our lives to you.”

And we do this by asking God to help us to discern what it is we are called to do, who it is we are called to be. 

As we begin this New Year, ask yourself, “Who is it that I am called to be?”

What is it that you are being pulled towards?

What is tugging at your soul and won't let go?

What keeps you awake at night, as you wonder could I, should I, how will I?

What is God asking of you, and are you willing to take a leap of faith to get there?

This Thursday I hope you’ll remember to celebrate January 6^th by paying homage to the Christ child.

I hope you’ll take the time to commemorate the arrival of the Wise Men and the beginning of the season of Epiphany.

I hope you’ll keep that Christmas tree up just one more day and hang a shining star upon the highest bough,

And have yourself a Merry Little Christmas, now.

Amen.

Christmas Eve wishes...

Packed away in the box that holds my Christmas decorations I have an old dog-eared copy of the 1976 Sears Christmas catalog.
The people at Sears called it the "Wish Book" - which is a very appropriate name given that there was no way my parents could afford half the stuff that was in there. As a child all I could do was "wish" when I poured over its pages.
Now, when I take it out at Christmas time and flip through its slick pages the images of Sunshine Family accessories, Johnny Bench catcher's mitts, and life-sized play kitchens bring back all the longings I once felt during Christmases past.
If only...

If only I had that doll. That baseball glove. That guitar with the flames painted on it...
Then I would be cool.
Then I would be happy.
Then I my life would be complete.

This craving for completeness didn't go away when I became an adult.
But the things I wished for could no longer be contained within the pages of the Sears catalog.
If only I had that job. That car. That house. That person whom I had fallen in love with...
Then I would be cool.
Then I would be happy.
Then my life would be complete.

Thankfully I no longer have much of a craving for "things" -
I don't have a longing for top-of-the line computer, a nicer car, or a closet full of designer clothes.
I don't even have a longing for a 5-bedroom house with granite counter tops or a $80K job with a pension plan.
And I don't envy those who have these things, or the pressure they must feel to obtain and maintain such things.
But I still have my longings.

For security. For health. For happiness. For wisdom. For compassion.  For love.

These are the 'things' that top my Christmas list.
Because I am human, and it is a human failing to want more than we have.
But these things also top my Gratitude list.
Because they are already present in my life, in many forms.

So, this Christmas Eve, as I remember Christmases past when I was disappointed because I didn't get the gift I wanted, or couldn't spend the holiday with the person I wanted, or couldn't fathom entering yet another year not living the life that I wanted, I feel the need to move away from "wanting" and to instead focus on what I have already received. 

I am thankful for my health.
For having the ability to heave myself out of bed every morning and move throughout the day relatively pain free. To be able to not just walk, but to run.

I am thankful for the home that I have.
For the roof over my head, for a warm bed to sleep in, and the food that sustains me.
And for the people and pets within it that make it a home. 

I am thankful for the opportunities that I've been given to grow.
To get an education, to do work that I love, to minister to and with others as we do God's work in the world.

I am thankful for the love that has come into my life.
In the form of family, friends, lovers, mentors, and animal companions.

I am also thankful for all the disappointments and losses in my life that have left me broken, but enabled me to grow stronger in the broken places.
For lost jobs, missed opportunities, unrealized dreams and unrequited loves.

And I am thankful for the "conditions" that I have had to overcome in my life to move in the direction that God has called me to go.
For the cleft palate that I was born with and lived with for 16 years, that taught me what it is like to not have a voice.
For the debilitating shyness of my youth that taught me what it is like to live in fear.
For the depression of my teen years that taught me what it means to have no hope.
For the gender and sexual orientation issues that I wrestled with as a young adult, which taught me what it is like to live on the fringes of what society deems "normal."
For the broken pelvis that laid me up for 5 months as an adult and taught me what it is like to lose one's independence and to have to ask for help with even the most basic things.

Most of all, I am thankful for the experience of being human - with all the joy and pain, ecstasy and grief that comes along with it.

Isn't that what Christmas is really all about?
Celebrating God becoming human.
God becoming one of us.
God being born into a creature that is completely helpless and dependent upon the love and support of others to survive.
God experiencing what it means to be one of us, so that we may move closer to God, and trust that God understands our suffering and our rejoicing. 

This is the gift that God has given us, and it is the gift that we open anew every Christmas Day.

We might not find it in the pages of the Sears Wish Book, or stare longingly at it through the glass of a shop window, but we desire it all the same.
We desire to be close to God.
We desire a God that knows what its like live in our skin.
We desire a God that so loves us SO MUCH that He/She is willing to become one of us, and live and die like one of us, to save us from destroying ourselves.
That is our desire, our wish, whether we know it or not.

So, Merry Christmas Eve.
Tomorrow, our greatest wish will come true.