That They Might Have Lifestyle

How is everyone? Seriously. I’m wondering. If you want to comment here, or email me. Remember if you are one of those who receives this by email, if you hit reply it goes to everyone. Which might not be a bad thing. Unless everyone responds and some folks feel overwhelmed by the emails. But I really want to know. I promise to check the blog for comments, I promise to respond to your email. I just want to know how you’re doing.

We watched the “One World: Together At Home” concert event last night. We heard amazing stories, terrifying and wonderful stories. There were moments of tears and worry, alongside those of hope and amazement at the compassion of people. We know many folks in the medical profession and are worried about them. But then we also know folks in the food industry of all kinds (grocery, restaurants, farms), and those who deliver packages and mail, child-care workers, and service workers of all kinds. We know those who are suffering and those who are worried about the future, we know those who are safe and doing their best to follow the rules (anyone else tired of washing hands so much?). We know of those who have contracted the virus, those who have succumbed to it, and those whose lives will never be the same because of it. And we are concerned, but hopeful. We have faith.  Faith in the goodness of people. Faith in the strength of our humanity. Faith in decision-makers and leaders, scientists and researchers who are working for the good of all and not just for some. Most of all we have faith in God. God is with us. God’s body the church is with us even when the doors are closed. The church was never a building anyway, we just got confused at times. We love our buildings, but they aren’t the church. If there is one thing this time is reminding us, confirming in us it is that the church is more than a building.

We are the church. You are the church. Claim it and live it in whatever ways you can right now. And remember, as I and too many others have said, we do what we not just to keep ourselves safe, but for the safety of others. We do this because we were taught to love by the One who loves us unto death and rose from the grave out of love for us. So, how can we do otherwise? How can we not love one another as He loved us?

It’s easy to be frustrated. It is easy to think that this is all an overreaction. That, sure, a few might get sick and a few might even die from this, but the risks we take by this shut down are worse. We are, some have said, killing our lifestyle to save a few lives. The protests to open up the economy are making that argument. We want to save our lifestyle. 

No one appreciates our lifestyle more than I do. I like the stuff I have, I like the freedom that I have to just go and get something that I want, whether I really need it or not. I like having enough money in the bank so that I won’t worry about the future when I retire. I like the benefits and the privileges I have here. I really do. But, who am I willing to sacrifice in order to keep it?  Because that’s the culmination of the argument being made. Some lives are worth sacrificing in order to keep our lifestyle. 

Wait, some will say, we make sacrifices all the time. Someone, a “Doctor” with only one name, went on TV and pointed out that we don’t shut the country down because of the car fatalities, or the cigarette fatalities. He’s right, we don’t. But then as far as I know car accidents aren’t communicable. You can’t spread them by breathing. On the other hand, we have shut down certain facilities to smoking, and there were those who complained saying we were going to ruin the economy by declaring no smoking zones. But we decided that life was more important than lifestyle. So, we lost the smoke filled rooms, good riddance. We adapted, we adjusted. There’s a pub in our neighborhood that everyone was worried about, said it was a shame that it had to close. But now they are so busy we couldn’t place an order for take out. We adapt, we adjust. 

Because we believe life is more important than lifestyle. Someone taught us that. Here’s another of my favorite passages: John 10.

John 10:9-16  I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. 10 The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly. 11 "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. 12 The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away-- and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. 13 The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. 14 I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, 15 just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. 16 I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.

“I have come that they might have lifestyle,” no, wait, that’s not it. Oh, I know He says “abundant life.” And our image of abundant life is all the stuff we could want. But I don’t think that’s what He meant. I think He was offering us a life that meant something, to us and to everyone else. A life that was rich in love, that was spent in service not because it was what we were supposed to do, but because we couldn’t help it. Helping, serving, loving, caring just flows out of our heart like streams of living water. It isn’t what we do it is what we are. We are the ones who believe that life matters. Life, not lifestyle. We believe that all life matters.

“I have sheep that do not belong to this fold.” You’ve noticed that, haven’t you? Yeah, He meant the Baptists down the road.  He meant the Lutherans and Presbyterians, He meant all those who are just like us with a different label. Right? Maybe. But I don’t think so. I think He meant the ones we would least expect. The ones living in a care facility where a stray virus can run through like a tsunami. The ones struggling to breathe, carrying around oxygen in a tank, hooked up to tubes to bring air. He meant the ones who can’t shelter at home because they don’t have a home. He meant the ones who are crowded into inadequate housing, gathered into home unequipped to care for them, to feed them, to love them, or keep them safe. He meant the ones dumped into refugee camps and prisons and ships at sea. He meant the ones have suddenly become “essential” and yet still don’t make enough money to feed their children. He meant the ones across the globe who look to us to set an example of what it means to love our neighbor as ourselves. Those are the sheep of other folds. Sheep we may never see, may never love in person, and yet by choosing to do all we can, all we can including sacrificing some of our lifestyle, in order to love we bear witness that life is more precious than lifestyle. 

There are supposed shepherds who are running away because the wolf is at the door. Let’s admit it. So, let’s look to another shepherd. One who invites us to value life. Not just our lives, but life. (I wonder how many of those protesters at various statehouses also call themselves “pro-life”) I love too many people who are vulnerable to say we’re ready to go back to our lifestyle as we knew it. In fact, I would venture to say we will never go back. But we will go forward and live differently because of what we have learned and how we value life. We go forward and maybe even begin to understand what abundant life really means.  

And maybe that’s what we’re learning right now. Thanks be to God. And really, how are you?

Shalom, 

Derek

Living in Saturday

John 19:39-42 Nicodemus, who had at first come to Jesus by night, also came, bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. 40 They took the body of Jesus and wrapped it with the spices in linen cloths, according to the burial custom of the Jews. 41 Now there was a garden in the place where he was crucified, and in the garden there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been laid. 42 And so, because it was the Jewish day of Preparation, and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.

Luke 23:50-56 Now there was a good and righteous man named Joseph, who, though a member of the council, 51 had not agreed to their plan and action. He came from the Jewish town of Arimathea, and he was waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God. 52 This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. 53 Then he took it down, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a rock-hewn tomb where no one had ever been laid. 54 It was the day of Preparation, and the sabbath was beginning. 55 The women who had come with him from Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how his body was laid. 56 Then they returned, and prepared spices and ointments. On the sabbath they rested according to the commandment.

Mark 15:43-47 Joseph of Arimathea, a respected member of the council, who was also himself waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God, went boldly to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. 44 Then Pilate wondered if he were already dead; and summoning the centurion, he asked him whether he had been dead for some time. 45 When he learned from the centurion that he was dead, he granted the body to Joseph. 46 Then Joseph bought a linen cloth, and taking down the body, wrapped it in the linen cloth, and laid it in a tomb that had been hewn out of the rock. He then rolled a stone against the door of the tomb. 47 Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses saw where the body was laid.

Matthew 27:62-65 The next day, that is, after the day of Preparation, the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered before Pilate 63 and said, "Sir, we remember what that impostor said while he was still alive, 'After three days I will rise again.' 64 Therefore command the tomb to be made secure until the third day; otherwise his disciples may go and steal him away, and tell the people, 'He has been raised from the dead,' and the last deception would be worse than the first." 65 Pilate said to them, "You have a guard of soldiers; go, make it as secure as you can."

Twice in during this odd kind of Holy Week I heard a preacher say that because of the quarantine, because of the pandemic, we are Easter people living in a Good Friday world. That we usually are people able to embrace the possibilities of life and thus it is easier to proclaim hope and joy to the world and ourselves on a daily basis. But now, the shadow of death hangs over us like never before. We hide in the darkness of our homes, afraid of normal human contact because of what might overcome us or those we love, or the vulnerable among us. 

I understand their point, and might have made one like it myself had I been still attempting to preach to a scattered congregation through technological means. I agree that this shadow darkens our existence in such a profound way that we are not even fully aware of it until we find ourselves staring into space, or with an ache in our hearts that we can’t really explain even to ourselves. The symptoms of depression seem all too evident around us and within us. 

Maybe it is because of my new role, one that makes me an observer, a participant in worship rather than a proclaimer, but that didn’t ring quite true even as I heard it coming through my television on a livestream feed from my church here in Nashville. True, but not completely true. It wasn’t until much later in the darkness of the night that another metaphor came to mind. I was watching the news before going to bed on Good Friday night. The weather person was warning us about storms to come. Not the next day, but the day after that. Strong storms, bands of storms, three maybe four bands would roll through our area all day that day, starting early in the morning and then continuing throughout the day. The danger, she reported sternly, was that these bands were far enough apart that the temperature could begin to rise in between the fronts. When the temperature rises before a cold front, the air begins to circulate. If it rose enough before dropping in the trough of the front, tornadoes could form. High winds certainly, maybe hail, and lots of rain. Flood level rains. That’s our Easter forecast. Her advice? First decide where in the house we should go when it gets really bad. Second, have the egg hunt on Saturday, it’ll be a nicer day.

When I was in the parish, I struggled with local traditions in many places. Easter egg hunts are fun and active and a family occasion. I have no problems with egg hunts. Even enjoyed chatting with the Easter bunny in between her hopping around delighting children on a green lawn that sunny day. My problem was a part of me thought we shouldn’t have them until Easter. Not on Palm Sunday, or the Saturday before Palm Sunday, or, and this one was the hardest for me, on Holy Saturday. 

I pulled out all the Gospel descriptions of Holy Saturday. There isn’t a lot there. Most of them don’t even mention it. Because it was the Sabbath all the good Jews would have been at home. Not working, not preparing a meal, not planning a funeral, just being at home. So, after they got the body down off the cross and carried it to the tomb late on Friday, as the sun was setting and the Sabbath was rolling in the like the tide, they went home. They washed their hands. They sat down. They said their prayers and they tried to eat the ritual meal that was prepared to welcome the Sabbath. The candles they lit seemed dimmer somehow, as if even that flame couldn’t pierce the gloom that settled in their souls. The prayers they prayed from memory sounded like a language they barely knew. Then they waited. For a long sleepless night and a dim silent day. They looked at the walls of their house as if it had become a prison trapping their hopes inside. They kept their distance from each other, no doubt. Social distance. So that no one would see their pain. Their shame. Their doubt. And they waited. Though if you were to ask them what they were waiting for, they wouldn’t have had a clue. 

Matthew says things happened on Saturday. Those Romans didn’t know a Sabbath from a Saturday. And wait, there were Priests and Pharisees there too, breaking the law to make sure that the lawbreaker didn’t have an escape clause worked out with his followers. They were the essential workers of the society. Doing the work that had to be done. Maybe they wore a mask so as not to be infected by the gentiles they spoke to on the Sabbath. Maybe it wasn’t after dark, Matthew just forgot what time it was. Maybe it didn’t matter to them, or to anyone that day. Maybe it didn’t feel like Sabbath to them. Even them.

I think we are living in Holy Saturday. It is an in between kind of existence. And even though we know how the story ends, there is still so much uncertainty before us right now. We don’t know when this will end, maybe soon, maybe not.  Maybe it will end only to begin again as the virus takes hold when we step out of our tombs, out of our waiting to greet the Risen Son. And what will be like when it ends. We keep saying “when things get back to normal.” But do we know what normal is any more? Will normal feel normal, or will there be a new normal? When my neighbor coughs will I flinch? When your co-worker sneezes will you say bless you or rush to spay down the tables and chairs? What will community be after this?

We don’t know. And maybe we’re afraid. Afraid of the fallout, the collapse of the economy, which was much more precarious than we realized. Afraid of the other, not just those across the water or across the border, but those across the street, or across the hall. Will we trust again? Will we live again. 

Holy Saturday was a quarantine of earth shattering proportions. It was a hinge day around which all of creation swung. When the world started over the next day, there was fear and great joy. And a proclamation. He is going before you. When we reenter the world after this Holy Saturday time, we can be assured He will be going before us. Thanks be to God.

Shalom,

Derek

Fraying at the Edges

If I have to be on one more Zoom call I’ll scream. OK, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but nonetheless, I’ve had my share. We are working from home, these days, as are many. Those who can. Us non-essentials. Side note: liquor stores are essential? Never mind. I was talking about Zoom meetings. They are great. Really. It’s almost like sitting in the same room. Except for almost everything. No, sorry. It is a way to connect. To see the faces of those you work with. To be able to talk some instead of just sending emails and trying to have a conversation but feeling a step or two behind. My daughter Maddie started a Weber family WhatsApp group. We’ve got some of the family on it. Others are boycotting, I think. Anyway, La Donna and my sister Tricia were trying to do family genealogy through the app last night and it was hilarious. Losing the reference and answering questions two texts up and forgetting what the subject was and having to repeat yourself because it was too hard to scroll up and find the thread again. I don’t know if anyone was any wiser after that long text conversation, but it was fun to watch. 

Zoom meetings. That’s that I wanted to talk about here. Zoom meetings. How did I get to WhatsApp and email? That’s the big problem with this work at home thing. Too many distractions. I’m trying to write and the cat sits in the hallway and yells at me because if I’m going to be home and interrupt her nap time, then by golly I might as well be useful and feed her. And if I try to ignore her she beats on the door. Well, the big one does, Dora. The little one gets up and walks across my keyboard. Hard to type when a cat is walking across your keyboard. At least I’m not La Donna. When we’re down stairs reading or watching TV and the little cat, Cato, short for Catastrophe, will get up on the back of her chair and chew on her hair. I guess I don’t have enough to chew. She doesn’t do that to me. Just climbs up on top of me and sticks her face in my face. Which is also how Dora will wake me up if I’m sleeping past get up time. She’ll just get on the bed and stick her furry cat face in my face. Try to sleep through that. Can’t be done. Trust me.

Zoom meetings. I haven’t had a zoom meeting with my cats, or the dog for that matter. The dog has learned a new trick. Again, because we’re home all the time, he has to go outside more often. At least he says he has to go outside more often. But in fact he’s figured out that every time he goes outside he gets a cookie when he comes back in. But we’re now wise to his game, so we only give him a half a cookie. Which means he now does it twice as often. Who’s winning here, I can’t tell.

Zoom meetings. My original point, was that I thought the other day that someone should have taken a screen shot of our zoom meetings from the beginning of this quarantine thing. When we began it was truly like we were in our office, meeting in the little conference room night across the hallway. We were bright eyes and frankly a little excited about the change and the possibilities of working at home and yet still staying connected. Technology seemed like a gift from God that was here to make sure that we didn’t lose a sense of community, that we were reminded that we were on the same team, working on the same projects, a part of the same church body. We knew we were the lucky ones, able to take what we were doing and without too much upset and begin working remotely. It was a good thing. 

But then as the days and then the weeks progressed, it went from being a good thing, to being a necessary thing. We were trying to keep producing the content that pastors and churches were needing, some of which they asked for, some of which they didn’t know they needed. But we, and a whole lot of folks, just kept pushing out content. Articles, podcasts, reflections, liturgy, conversations, questions, lots and lots of questions. Some of them were of the “have you thought about this” variety, others were “are you sure you want to do that” and a few were “don’t you want to rethink this whole thing?” To make sure we were asking the right questions, we had to check in, with each other and with others. Zoom meetings.

Then other departments, other teams began making suggestions about what our team ought to be doing. They want to be helpful, of course. I don’t question that. But it seemed like the piles were getting higher and the requests were getting harder, and the list of things to do that I left the office with a couple of weeks ago have now been neglected in favor of a million other things, it seems. And when we log on to the Zoom meeting I sometimes have to wait for someone else to speak so that I can know what this one is about. 

Zoom meetings. I look into the eyes of my team members and the others who have dialed in or logged on and the eyes seem just a little more glazed, the smiles a tad more forced. I’ve had to start combing my hair, you see. That sounds odd, I know. I keep my hair short, what’s left of it, yes thank you, so that I don’t have to comb it. But now it’s growing out and needs to be cut, but there’s this quarantine thing, maybe you’ve heard about it. So after my shower, I actually have to find a comb and comb it. 

And here’s the thing with Zoom meetings, not only do you get to see you teammates, your co-workers, but you see yourself. Right there on your computer screen. I keep trying to adjust the little built in camera to make myself look like I think I look rather than what I really look like. But so far that hasn’t worked. We’re all fraying around the edges. The tension of this unusual situation is getting to us. I get wounded by email that aren’t personal, I feel burdened by responsibilities that are implied if not directly given. We started this thing thinking it was going to be a week or two, then we’d be back to the office, back to the restaurants, back to school, back to sports, back to concerts, back to life before we knew it. Now it stretches before us like an abyss and the other side is obscured by the gray clouds of unknowing. 

And we can’t feel too sorry for ourselves, not really. We’ve got it easy. There are so many other suffering much worse than I am, than most of us reading this are. Businesses that might not reopen, workers wondering if they’ll be recalled, those for whom the promised stimulus, should it ever come, might not make a dent in the debt accruing. There are those on the front lines of the pandemic whose lives are at risk daily. There are populations who are so much more vulnerable and for whom we worry. And all of that makes us reluctant to admit our own stress, our own fears and anxiety. And yet it is real. It isn’t a weakness to admit we’re all fraying around the edges. 

Which is why we need to turn to praise. Praise, really? What about lament, that seems more appropriate. Yes, certainly, there is time and space for lament. Let it out. Offer it up. But one thing I’ve learned from the lament psalms is that always, almost always turn to praise. We need praise. We can’t live in lament this whole time. We can’t let lament be our only word, as real and as necessary as it is. We need praise.

One of my supervisors sent this video today. I put it on my Facebook page. I link it here, if I can. It’s worth looking at, if you haven’t seen it. And if you have, then watch again. It’s done by a group called “the Work of the People” which is the definition of liturgy. It’s called “Praise Song for the Pandemic” and written and read by Christine Valters Paintner, from Abbey of the Arts, music by Giants & Pilgrims. Please take a look. https://www.facebook.com/theworkofthepeople/videos/2606014466331448/?vh=e

And to accompany that thought, I’ll leave you one of my favorite passages of scripture, a reminder that no matter how great the struggle, we are never alone in that mess. There is a presence, there is a living hope. Sometimes it is hard to sense, so that’s when faith kicks in. We know that God is with us. Even on zoom meeting. Even at home. Even apart. Even afraid. God is with us. We are not alone.

Isaiah 43:1-3a But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. 2 When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. 3 For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

Shalom,

Derek