One more night in Brevig

The blog posting keeps getting later and later. It's almost midnight and of course the ATVs (they call them Hondas) are cruising by and I hear kids shouting and laughing. A few members of my Anchorage team are visiting softly. The weather is mostly clear without a breeze and several mosquitos have snuck in and buzz near my ankles.

Today was our last day of VBS and we were pretty exhausted when it came time for evening devotions. Good thing no one got up until after 9 am. Well, I got up a little earlier and went on a run to the dump and back. Hey, don't knock in 'til you've tried it! It's also the only long stretch of gravel road. It's too difficult to run on the beach.

It was less windy this morning than yesterday so I got in about 35 minutes, maybe 4 miles. The hills behind Brevig were clear. I like my alone time in the morning with the land and with the sea.

The kids had another good day of crafts and coloring, skits and songs. I love hearing them sing "At the Cross" at the top of their lungs, though it's often more a scream than a song. We made fish and glued them to a mural to hang on the church wall. The kids got pretty creative with their decorations. It's a very good mural with a few starfish too.

Susan and I went visiting just before Bible school started. I went to visit a woman I have known from my years here. She was the mother of the baby who died earlier this year and who I had visited at the native hospital in Anchorage. What a lovely hostess and what a beautiful story of faith despite difficult times. I was blessed by her sharing her story of her baby's life and death and how her faith held her fast. I was moved by the experience and her honesty.

Speaking of being moved, I got a surprise when one of the older teens called today and offered to lead Eskimo drumming and dancing tonight. I had seen him earlier in the week and made the request but he seemed evasive. So he came, along with a bunch of others, some to drum, some to dance, many to to watch.

The drums are just circles of skin stretched across big wooden hoops. The sticks look so frail but the sound is powerful, intense. I love the sound of the singing. It's repetitive, booming, haunting.

I love watching the leader, Travis, sing and play the drum. I'm not sure how old he is now, but when I first came in 2004 he was a middle school-aged kid who followed us around like an eager puppy. Now he's a man, the leader of the drummers, and one of the VPOs (village police officers). I'm so proud of him and it moves me to see him as he is now.

I could mention we also had our VBS program and community meal. A good time, always, but a smaller attendance this evening. Pastor Brian's wife Ginger said there was another meeting in town at the same time. Also, we'd forgotten to put up posters. Still, we fed at least 75 (that's adults and kids) so word does travel fast in the village.

Enough for tonight. The house is finally silent and I'm ready to turn in.

A dark and stormy night

It's windy and cold tonight in Brevig, but of course not actually dark. There'll be no darkness here for weeks but the twilight is nice, too.

Today was day three of Vacation Bible School and we seem to be getting the hang of it. More kids today, since some have come back from the reindeer corral up river. I asked a few little ones if they'd helped and several said they had wrestled reindeer...hmmm. One told me they took the horns off some and put ID tags in others. It's an interesting world where you wrestle reindeer one day and go home the next to cable TV and internet. How do they toggle between two worlds?

Today's Bible story was the "lost and found" parables. Well, just the lost sheep and coin from Luke's gospel. The lost son is its own story. We acted out the skit to endless giggles from the audience. They liked watching the "shepherd" chasing the ever-evasive Lawrence (aka lost sheep). It's good to hear them laugh and hopefully get something out of the Bible story. Susan was played Jesus in the skit today and she said how good it was to get to tell the children many times that Jesus loves us and seeks out the lost. It is good. We (Christians) should say these things more often, I think, rather than trying to carefully outline the way others mess up.

Seemed like death became a topic of discussion again today but I don't mind. Helen is doing a paper for an academic program on the 1918 flu epidemic that struck Brevig (then Teller Mission). I had heard only bits of info on this in recent trips so I've appreciated learning more history.

In 1918 a flu epidemic swept through the Seward Peninsula, killing 72 of the 80 residents of Brevig. In 1951, a researcher from Europe came and dug up the mass grave to see if he could learn about the flu virus from the remains. Turns out permafrost preserves bodies and information was extracted from the lungs of the victims. Researchers returned in 1997 to dig again and isolate the virus from the victims. The name of the virus: H1N1. It's been said that perhaps the knowledge gained from the digs here can inform the researchers of the recent H1N1 outbreak. Pastor Brian was here during the 1997 dig and said, "I helped save the world!" One never can tell.

A few of us went to the school library to see some photos of the digs and learn more about the epidemic. Then we went to the cemetary to see the site of the mass grave.

There were other graves too. There were graves of two elders I had met, who died a month apart in early 2007. There was a grave of man who committed suicide this past April. His kids are attending Bible school. Then there was a grave of a 4-month-old, whose mother I had visited at Alaska Native Medical Center in Anchorage last fall. I didn't know the baby had died.

It's all here, life and death. Tonight in devotions, Susan asked us to consider our losses. Then she asked us to consider what we had found. Life and death, lost and found. It is our story, these narratives make up our lives.

Now it's almost midnight and the house is quiet. The clouds drift quickly to the east. The seas are still choppy. I'm hoping for stillness that will allow us safe passage to Teller and back to Nome on Friday. It is, as always, unpredictable to live in the village.

On the beaches of the Bering Sea

I'm writing from Brevig Mission, a small Inupiat Eskimo village north of Nome. I come here, with members of my congregation, for a week each summer. We lead Vacation Bible School and generally hang out in the village. This is my fifth year doing the trip.

It's about 11:45 at night right now. The dogs are yelping outside and the sky to the south is all light pinks and blues. I hear an ATV cruising past and the blinds rattle when the wind blows through. I think everyone in this house is in bed or on the way. And the residents of Brevig are still moving about. Some will still be awake when I get up for my morning run. And there it is, a soft peal of laughter comes from outside.

Every year is different, and though I recognize the kids, they're getting older and taller. Some get more graceful, some a little more awkward, some get jobs and move away. I feel a little like I come home when I return to Brevig.

Bible school was quiet yesterday, day one. Some kids were gone fishing and others were helping with a reindeer corral up river. Today there were more kids and more chaos. We acted out the story of the Israelites and the Egyptians at the Red Sea. Then we helped the kids make instruments (shakers and tamborines and such) and did the skit again. The kids loved it both times; they were on the edge of their seats and then followed me (as Miriam) around the sanctuary with their instruments, praising God or maybe just yelling in a loud voice.

Yesterday I went visiting. I took a few oranges and bananas and one of our team members and visited an elder of the village. She welcomed us warmly and we chatted about this and that. As we chatted, her three greatgrandkids ran about, jumping and showing off. They were all under 4 years old. She's one of the primary caretakers. I wonder how old she is. People are younger than you think here. The lifestyle is wearing, it seems. What a fantastic woman.

The smell of salmon just hit me, full on. Pastor Brian, my collegue and friend here, just came into the kitchen to take a bunch of canned salmon out of the pressure cooker. He said he does about 60 jars a summer. Red salmon, with beautiful flesh. We ate one tonight, hours old. It is one of the best things about being here in summer. The day before yesterday, I saw Brian and an elder named Janie cutting fish and hanging it near the beach. She used only an ulu, sliding the tool through the belly with a steady hand and hanging the fillets over driftwood racks. It was so sunny that day and the fish swung gently in a light breeze.

So things are well here in Brevig. It's so peaceful just now that I'm reluctant to change the mood of this entry, but my heart is heavy for the folks back in Anchorage. A member of our congregation died this morning. I will miss Allan Tesche. He died a few days after major heart surgery. I'm aching for his wife and kids. I don't have many more words right now. Just that Allan was incredibly bright and cared about people. He was serving as church council president (no problem after serving on Anchorage assembly for years). He pushed our council to move forward with measurable goals that match our vision. He was a team player, a cheerleader and knew how to stir folks up to move an issue.

He loved his family and his work. I'll miss him.

I just looked out the window again at that pretty twilight sky. Right before it is a field of white crosses. Every time you look out the window of the parsonage here, there's that little cemetary, a constant reminder of our fragile lives and the presence of pain and grief. And just beyond, there's that beautiful, God-given sky, and mountains as far as I can see.

God must be doing something

I preached on Mark 4:26-34 on Sunday June 14 (Second Sunday after Pentecost). This gospel reading is two short "kingdom of God" parables of Jesus to his disciples (that's us too!)

I'm still thinking about them...and about how/if/when the kingdom (working) of God is moving in our world. Here's my sermon.

PS- If you don't want to read the whole sermon, skip to paragraph 5, which starts with "there's a story." It basically captures the essence of my thinking on God's kingdom these days :)

------------

I’ve been thinking about these parables from Mark all week. This is the question I’ve been pondering: What is God up to in our world? Put another way: Where is God working? Or, on a more basic (honest) level: Is God doing anything in this world where people fight, kids don’t get enough food or love at home and those darn prices of gas keep going up? What is God up to in our world?

Sometimes I ponder these things late at night, when the sky is dark, or not, and I wonder what’s in God’s heart as God looks upon our brokenness? Sometimes it seems like nothing is happening. Even more, if people of faith struggle with these questions, how do we proclaim a God of power and might to a world that, I’m convinced, is truly desperate for something in which to believe?

I wonder if Jesus can speak to our questions when he speaks of the kingdom of God. These kingdom parables are all over the place in the gospels and two of them are in our text from Mark today. If you’ve hung around Lutheran churches long enough, you might have heard that we understand the kingdom of God not just as a heavenly home by and by, but a reality that breaks into our world now and then. The kingdom of God is more about relationship that a geographic location. We get little glimpses of God’s kingdom from time to time. We sense the presence of God, we receive the love of Christ through another or we discern the Spirit working. Yes, the kingdom of God is here now, but of course not fully here yet.

So if the kingdom of God is breaking into our world, God must be working. But why is it so hard to tell?

There’s a story (this one borrowed from Pastor Karen) of a group of friends who found a bunch of wild mushrooms, prepared a feast with them and spent and evening eating their fill. They also fed some to the dog. Late in the evening of good food and wine, they noticed the dog looking sick. The animal looked sicker and sicker and the friends began to panic. They rushed to the hospital and had their stomachs pumped. When the ordeal was over, they came home to find the dog was doing well and had delivered a litter of puppies.

Why is it so hard to tell what God is up to? Why is it so hard to tell when God is working?

Jesus uses the parable of the growing seed to speak of the kingdom. It’s a simple story, really, and many of us have done just the same. We scatter seed (or maybe more carefully plant in furrows) and sleep and rise to find that it has sprouted and grown. And we do not know how. Oh yes, we understand there are complex biological processes at work, combined with soil conditions, water, sun and fertilizer, but really, do we really know how it works? Isn’t there some part that still is a wonder, that’s still a mystery? I don’t know about you but I marvel every time something green sprouts from earth. I wonder at every new birth. I stand in awe when some life situation that looked dead suddenly comes alive once more. Maybe this parable reminds us that God is God and we are not. When it comes to the working of God in this world, we really cannot know, plan, predict or dictate. The mystery will always be there, ahead of us and beyond.

Yet. Yet perhaps you want more of an answer to where God is working. Me too.

So then, we turn to the mustard seed parable, a more well-known parable. Jesus says the kingdom of God is like this: a mustard seed, the smallest of all seeds, grows to be the greatest of all shrubs and birds make nests in its large branches. Jesus is no horticulturist, we might argue, for the mustard seed is not the smallest and its branches don’t really grow large enough to support feathered friends. So why a mustard seed? Maybe because in 1st century Palestine, the hearty mustard seed grew everywhere, a common, ordinary weed. Think of it as the dandelion of the Middle East. The kingdom of God is like a dandelion? Maybe we’re onto something now: the kingdom of God might very well be as plain but ubiquitous as a dandelion. Everywhere, persistently growing no matter how much Roundup we squirt. Perhaps we sometimes look for God’s kingdom in the wrong places. Are we looking up for trees with large branches for nesting, or shall we look lower, in places more ordinary and plain?

Whether we see the kingdom of God working or not, the good news is that God has promised to move in this world and God is working. God is moving and working in all kinds of ways that are just not obvious to us right now. In our text from Ezekiel today, God says these four words: “I will accomplish it.” God, not us. God is working. God is moving. God keeps God’s promises, even when things appear to be in shambles. As a friend of mine once said: when everything is an absolute mess in your life, you can be sure that the Holy Spirit is working.

So, thank God, our job isn’t to usher in God’s kingdom or try to coerce its growth. God works and grows and moves very well in spite of our willingness to play director. We might ask ourselves: are we wiling to wait for God to do what God certainly will do? We might also ask ourselves: what keeps us from growing? What keeps our congregation from growing? Are we hindering the growth God has planned for us?

One more story. Two men are shipwrecked on a desert island. They wait several months; no one comes to the rescue. Finally, the first man pours his energy into fashioning a house. He works for days to engineer wood and weeds into a remarkable shelter and the two enjoy their new home. One night, the second man starts a fire that gets out of hand. The entire shelter goes up in flames. The first man is furious and yells all sorts of unkind insults to the second man. About an hour later, a boat pulls onto shore. “Hi there!” shouts the boat captain. “We saw your fire signal. We’re answering your call for help.” Amen.

Vines and branches

"I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit...Abide in me as I abide in you. just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me." John 15:1-2,4

This lesson from this Sunday's lectionary must have been in the back of my mind while cooking dinner later that night.

Earlier in the week, I'd bought some tomatoes on the vine from Fred Meyer. Saturday, I found luscious, organic basil at the farmer's market. Add a some fresh mozzerella, ground pepper, olive oil and salt and the result is truly divine.

I noticed, as I prepared to chop tomatoes, that one had fallen off the vine. I chose that one first, then gently eased another off the vine. I put my fingers to my nose. I inhaled. I know of few sweeter smells than fresh tomato vine. It is the smell of my Iowa childhood and the promise of flavor.

I must digress here to say that I find it difficult to buy and eat tomatoes here in this frozen state (corn too!) The red orbs are just not the same as those heated by the hot Iowa summers. So I settle for those on the vine from Freddie's most of the year and then wait anxiously for local heirlooms later.

Anyway, I cut into the tomato that had fallen off the vine. It yielded to my knife and I diced it into the waiting bowl. I slipped a small sliver into my mouth. It was okay, nothing spectacular, a tomato-in-waiting. It would have to do.

I cut into the second tomato, the one that I had to pull from it's vine. It too became a diced pile in my bowl. I tasted one of the segments. Of course it wasn't garden fresh, but it was good. Very good. Full of flavor. It was (or at least close enough) to what at tomato should be.

Then I thought of that passage from John again. "Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me."

What was Jesus talking about? Some might say that those who aren't connected to the vine deserve nothing more than a toss into the fire (see John 15:6). That's one way to read the passage.

But perhaps it's not so much that those fallen-off-the-vine tomatoes (er, people) are worthless. I did still use that tomato. But it just wasn't what it could be. It wasn't its full tomato-y self. It wasn't all I knew the tomato could be. Sure, you can eat a tomato long since disconnected from the vine. It's just not the way a tomato was intended to be used.

Perhaps that's true of us. Lots of people live long lives and experience happiness apart from the vine of Christ. But it's just not the way we were intended to be. There's a certain sweetness missing, a certain fullness and ripeness.

The salad tasted good, by the way. As summer unfolds, I have faith it will get even better.

Spirit, spirit...

As the warmer winds of spring swirl through the Anchorage Bowl, I've been thinking about the Holy Spirit.

Most Lutheran churches don't say much about the Holy Spirit, or raise a suspicious eyebrow at those who would mention her movement.

Early Christians had fewer reservations. A walk through the book of Acts shows time after time how the Spirit shows up and invites early Christians into places they could not have imagined. The Spirit breaks the rules, blows down dividing walls and welcomes those deemed unwelcome-able.

Then sometime during the Enlightenment (this info courtesy of Pat Keifert, Luther Seminary) intellectuals became suspicious of the Spirit. She wasn't rational, couldn't be proven or tamed into submission. We're still in this post-Enlightenment attitude. We distrust this Spirit that we cannot understand.

Yet the Spirit keeps moving, breathing life into us, when we let her. What if we opened ourselves to the movement of the Holy Spirit? What if the Spirit has already given us all the gifts we need?

This summer at Central, we move to one worship service, 9:30 am. It's a good time -- the church is (usually) full and we move into a more relaxed worship setting. Before we worship, we'll host a Bible study of the book of Acts, starting at 8:15 am. Will you join us? I look forward to learning how the Spirit will lead you...and all of us at Central.

Easter Message

Easter's a season, you know. We hear about post-resurrection appearances in our lectionary readings and consider how we might, like the earliest Christians, go and tell the good news.

I'm still pondering some of the themes I talked about in my Easter sermon. So I'm posting it here, if you're interested.

-----------

Easter Sermon, Rev. Lisa A. Smith, April 12, 2009, Central Lutheran Church

Easter Joke: Ole died. So Lena went to the local paper to put a notice in the obituaries. The gentleman at the counter, after offering his condolences, asked Lena what she would like to say about Ole. Lena replied, “You just put ‘Ole died.’” The gentleman, perplexed, said, “That’s it? Just ‘Ole died.’” Surely, there must be something more you’d like to say about Ole. If it’s money you’re concerned about, the first five words are free. We must say something more.” Lena pondered for a few minutes and finally said, “O.K. You put, ‘Ole died. Boat for sale.’”
I had two choices for sermon texts this morning. I could have preached the Easter story from John’s gospel or the one we just heard from Mark. John’s version is the one where Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb, mistakes Jesus for a gardener, Jesus says her name, she rejoices and goes and tells everyone. And they lived happily ever after.

We like happy endings: like the happy ending of the final episode of “Friends” over the controversial-left-you-hanging end of “The Sopranos.” I know people who only go to movies with happy endings.

I considered that but then I thought about you. I saw your faces as I stared at the blank computer screen. Some of you are living some happy endings but most of you are struggling and waiting and see how it all turns out. Some of you are trying to get over some very unhappy endings. I thought about you and I thought about Mark’s gospel story that leaves us hanging: They went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

Of what the women were most afraid? After all, they were standing in a cemetery (a good start) and the body of their friend had gone missing. If you showed up at Anchorage Memorial Gardens in the same situation, you’d be afraid too. Perhaps they were afraid because they just met a talking angel. Or maybe they were afraid because they had just been given a job to do (go and tell) and that seemed like more work than they were up to on a Sunday morning. After all, Sunday is a good day to sleep in, maybe do the crossword or get coffee.

Whatever those women feared, it had something to do with resurrection. It certainly wasn’t part of their plan. Even though Jesus in Mark’s gospel makes three clear passion predictions (I will suffer, die and be raised in three days) none of Jesus disciples really get it. They didn’t count on Jesus death so they didn’t count on a resurrection. Now the women make the best of what they think is all that’s left: they go to anoint the body.

The problem with Easter, aside from too many Peeps, is that it asks us to believe the fantastical: God brought his crucified Son back to life. The resurrection happened. It’s hard to believe something that we can’t prove. When we hear about resurrection, we too might react by being afraid. Or skeptical. Or indifferent.

One of my running buddies pulled me aside recently religion chat. He said he wasn’t sure if he believed in the divinity of Jesus anymore. He listed the broken places in his life: divorce, children in crisis and financial concerns. I didn’t say much, just listened. Later I kept thinking, gosh, if Jesus isn’t divine, if there wasn’t a resurrection, none of us have any hope. The question we can ask ourselves is this: what is God’s deepest desire for us -- despair or hope? And then how shall we live?

Online recently, I came across a blog by a woman living in Los Angeles. She blogged about getting a tattoo of a phoenix on her right arm (www.drybonesdance.typepad.com) The phoenix, as any good Harry Potter fan knows, is an ancient, mythical symbol of resurrection. After a time, the bird is said to burst and burn into flames, nest included. A new bird soon rises from the ashes.

The woman gets the tattoo because she says it symbolizes a re-birth in her own life and gives her hope for the future. She also notes she’s almost 40, a professional, listens to NPR and must be out of her mind.

When she gets home from the tattoo parlor, only then does she notice the date on the calendar: Ash Wednesday. She writes: “I don’t know if Jesus died on the cross for me or for anybody or if he just died. I don’t know if I am saved but I do know that I believe in death and resurrection. I believe that sometimes you have to live as if something is true before you are entirely sure about it.”

We have all been there. We have all, like the women in Mark’s story, stood in the cemetery, afraid and not entirely sure about it.

Yet we have heard the good news, the words spoken to the women at the tomb by the young man dressed in white: He has gone ahead of you, to Galilee, there you will find him, just as he told you. This is the good news: the resurrection means that Jesus is on the loose and has gone ahead of us. Galilee was the hometown of many of Jesus’ disciples and probably the place they fled after Jesus’ death. So the angel is saying, “Go home, Jesus is there!” And he’s waiting for you. And you will see him, just as he promised. If the angel wanted to be snarky, he would add: just as he promised in Mark 14:28, which you clearly haven’t read.

The good news is this: Jesus goes ahead of us. Not just to our homes in Anchorage or wherever, but Jesus goes ahead of us into the future. We need not fear the future in life or in death. Jesus goes ahead of us. He is waiting there for us. We will see him, just as he promised. This is what the resurrection means: he is with us, ahead of us, always.

One more thing about the woman with the phoenix tattoo. When she and her friend were looking at designs, the friend came upon the winner and said: “That’s cool. The phoenix is coming from the flames and it is the flames.” And in the picture I could see it was true. You could barely tell where the bird ends and the flames begin.

The woman also about how much it hurt to get the tattoo. Which I would say is the same thing about resurrection. You don’t get it without the crucifixion. The blogger writes: “Transformation doesn’t mean that the pain all goes away. Bad things happened. Bad things still do. Some things that are lost are never found again, and I will always have a few broken bits in my psyche. I have holes and scars, but those can be a part of me, and even made beautiful, until you can’t really tell the flames from the feathers.”

May we live in the hope of the resurrected Christ – loose in the world, ahead of us now, with us always. Amen.