The Last Day

Today is the last day of my sabbatical. That's it. It's done. Can't believe it. It went so fast.

As I think about the sabbatical, I think about page 56 in the old green (Lutheran Book of Worship hymnal). The confession is there, which we do every week, though often in a newer format. In our shared confession, we ask God's forgiveness for all that we have done and all that we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart, we say together, we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.

All those things are true about this sabbatical. There are things that were done (many good) and things that were left undone. Some may need confession, some are just simple regrets. Though I've taken time most mornings to pray, I've still not loved God with my whole heart and I have not always loved my neighbor (or even my husband) as myself. It is a journey, you know.

But here we are and the time is done and it is what it is. There is some peace in that.

There are many things to say to reflect on these three months. There are many other blog posts to write, including books I've read and things I've learned. And there is much more to say about my grandmother's faith and life story. But Holy Week is about to start and it's time to go back to my people. I have missed you.

So, today I woke up late. Erik made breakfast and we sat around and read, talked and surfed the Internet. We went over to Eklutna Lake and cross country skied for a few hours. Then we went out to dinner at Sack's Cafe downtown. It was a warm night; everything is dripping with early spring melt.

At dinner tonight, Erik and I talked about the sabbatical. We talked about our favorite moments. We talked about what I learned and how I might take sabbath into my daily life as pastor. I worry sometimes about my ability to slow down and really make space. It's more of a process than an event, it seems, and one to be lived into.

So, blessed Holy Week, to you. Talk to you again soon.

The Ties that Blind

For those of you who read yesterday's blog post about my grandparents, be assured that I listened to the CD (it was actually a DVD!). It was incredible; I'll tell you about it later. Until then, I wanted to pause and reflect on the conversations in the local and national news about what's moral, legal and right.

First, there's the Supreme Court argument about the Affordable Health Care Act and whether the individual mandate should be tossed, or perhaps the whole bill. People on both sides wonder how the other side can be so blind. How could they not see things the way I see them?

Then, there's Anchorage's raging debate on Prop 5, up for vote on April 3. For those outside of Anchorage, Prop 5 would add gay, lesbian and transgendered folks to Anchorage's current anti-discrimination policy for jobs and housing. The debating, advertising and rhetoric is getting hot and a little crazy. Those for Prop 5 cannot imagine why folks wish to deny gay and lesbians their rights. Those against Prop 5 worry that religious freedoms are in question. Both sides evoke God, Jesus and the Bible as proof that they're right.

It's frustrating, to say the least, especially for those of us who spend our lives grappling with the religious truths that come from this ancient book of narrative story, poetry, legal codes, household codes, apocrypha and persecution literature. The problem is, of course, that the Bible isn't a how-to manual, see http://www.theruthlessmonk.com/ , and is often used the way a drunk uses a light post - for support rather than illumination.

Regardless of my angst on this issue, perhaps the problem is deeper than religion. Perhaps the problem is politics, and the ties that bind and blind.

I heard a great interview this morning http://hereandnow.wbur.org/2012/03/29/morals-liberal-conservative with Jonathan Haidt, a social and moral psychologist who discussed how people in our country are growing more and more divided, living in isolated worlds where we seldom interact with those who differ from us. And why should we? It's so easy to go on the Internet, TV or Facebook, find people who support your side and just click (or think) "like." I confess, I do it too.

It's harder to really understand where the other side is coming from. It's harder to listen and to think about what is motivating the other side. Haidt suggested thinking about what is sacred to each side. So, for Republicans it might be the flag, the cross, personal freedoms and the importance of authority. For Democrats, it might be compassion, equality, fairness and doing no harm. These are broad strokes, but Haidt gave an interesting "for instance." When it comes to freedom of expression, he said, a Republican might be offended if the flag was desecrated. Perhaps a liberal wouldn't like it either, but might be more offended if the desecrated image was something that party had fought for, like civil rights.

Further: in the recent congressional debates about contraception, Republicans argued for religious freedoms and Democrats argued for women's rights.

Who's right? Republicans or Democrats? It's not an easy answer, and it wasn't the point Haidt was making. His point was that we don't understand the deeper motivations of each group. We think we are all operating an a level of moral reasoning, but we're really guided by those deeper values, those gut feelings, the mindset that we label each other with as R and D. The subconscious is like an elephant, Haidt said, and our intellectual reasoning is like a small boy sitting atop the beast, trying in vain to guide it.

Haidt blames, in part, the changing congressional schedule that allows congress folks to fly in and out of DC for a few days a week, rather than stay in the city and socialize over weekends. When you're only in town for a few days, you can hang with like-minded folks. But when you socialize, live and work with those of opposite opinions, strange but good things can happen. Haidt said that if a good friend share with you a difference of opinion, it's much harder to dismiss it as you might if you saw the same idea on an anonymous Internet post.

So, people, let's get together. Seriously. I commend Rev. Michael Burke, leader of Anchorage One movement for Prop 5 and Jim Minnery, president of the Alaska Family Council and opponent of Prop 5, for getting together and having coffee. I know this because one of them told me so. He said they prayed together and listened to each other and it was a powerful experience. We need much more of this kind of dialogue in every church, community and governmental organization. I'm pleased that two people of faith took this seriously. It gives me hope, more than anything else that I hear from liberal or conservative media.

My grandparents: a faith and love story

My grandmother, a young Catholic girl in Jasna, Poland, was 12 years old when the WWII Russian army marched through Poland, sending hundreds of thousands of people to Soviet work camps, including my grandmother and her sister. She never saw her parents again.

This is the beginning of the story about my grandmother's life. I heard it only a few times as a child and we were told never to ask Grandma about it because it was too painful. I know a few more details, which may or may not be accurate, but I wish I knew more. She died in 2007 from pancreatic cancer.

As part of my sabbatical, I've been focusing on faith stories. Which are also life stories. I've been reading books, talking to pastors, friends, family and writing about my own evolving faith story. I know that all of us are shaped by the stories of our ancestors. I wonder if knowing more about my grandma will help me know more about my family and myself.

In 1999, my grandma told her story on tape to a neighbor. My aunt had a copy. I always wanted to hear it, but after Grandma's death I was too sad to ask for it. Then I fell in love, got married, got busy. So now, while on sabbatical, I wrote to my aunt. She sent me the CD. It's on my kitchen table and I'm about to listen to it. I hope it works.

Before I hear Grandma's voice, I review what I know. I've heard snatches of the story from my parents and siblings. There's a collective knowledge in my family of the story, though I never heard Grandma speak of it. I did hear Grandpa speak about his part of the story, though, a love story both simple and moving.

When people think of the "bad guys" in WWII, the Germans and Japanese are quickly named. But for my grandmother, it was the Russians. It's lesser known that while Germany marched through Poland from one side, Russia marched in on the other. You can read about it here on Wiki. My grandmother, so I was told, was only 12 when the Russians came. The men went one way, the women went another way. She and her sister were sent to a work camp in Siberia. They lived on moldy fish and rotten bread. Her sister died there.

After several years, the camp was liberated and for some reason, my grandmother went to work at a Allied army base in Abadan, Iran, a major logistics center for lend-lease aircraft. My grandfather, Norman Smith, was stationed there as a technical sergeant. He was responsible for supplies for the kitchen. My grandmother was a server in the dining hall.

According to one version of the story, he was in charge of assigning kitchen and dining hall staff. My grandmother liked working the dining hall to chat with the men, but my grandfather wanted her in the kitchen so he could be near her. Somehow, they fell in love. The story goes that my grandmother was hesitant to marry but Grandpa promised he would take her back to Iowa and they'd buy a small farm and make a life. He wouldn't be rich, but he would love her.

She accepted and they married in Iraq (for reasons I don't know). Years later I was watching the evening news with them in Frederika, Iowa, and images of Basra, Iraq, came on the TV. One of them commented that it sure didn't look like it used to.

Grandpa brought here back to Iowa, and they purchased the farm where they lived until retirement and where I grew up when my dad took over the farm in the early 1980s. Grandma eventually became a US citizen, my dad remembers, when he was in college. She would go back to Poland several times and was reunited with two of her sisters there. She was also able to find a sister in Australia. Her only brother's grave was found in Italy.

I didn't realize it when I was younger but I see now that my grandmother didn't lose her faith (at least permanently) and my grandparents stayed in love for the 60 years of their marriage. Grandma always encouraged us in our church involvement. She kept a rosary on her desk and a picture of the Virgin Mary above her dresser. She and Grandpa became regulars at a local Methodist Church. Grandpa was finally baptized at the age of 87, I assume in part because she insisted. Sometime after she died, my grandpa showed me a dog-eared photo of grandma as a young woman. She was beautiful. He told me he carried it in his wallet every day of his life. He was inconsolable after her death and followed her into the beyond at age 90 in 2008. The photo below was taken at my ordination in Frederika, Iowa, on October 30, 2005, almost exactly three years to the date before my grandfather's death.

When I was in Iowa last week, my sister and I talked about how much we missed them. When they retired from farming, they moved to a town only 6 miles from our farm. They kept a garden there for as long as they could (grandpa into his 80s) and helped drive tractors and other farm work. In the summer, we saw them almost every day.

So, it's time to listen to the CD. I'll let you know what I learn.

Let your Life Speak: Book Review

While Erik and I traveled through New Zealand, I read (again) a small but insightful book by Parker J. Palmer, called Let your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation. I'd read this before; it was mandatory reading for our Christian Education class. Still, I thought I might hear the book's message differently after doing ministry for more than 6 years and as one interested in vocation.

Palmer is a writer, teacher and Quaker, not necessarily in that order. The small volume (109 pages) is a meditation on how to find one's true calling and how to live authentically. One of his main points is that instead of asking what to do with your life, one should "listen for what it intends to do with you." Vocation can't be forced by some moralistic idea of what one "should" be doing. Parker weaves general insights into the book and intertwines them with his story of trying to find his own identity and vocation.

To find one's vocation (which he seems to use interchangeably with calling), one should look back before one looks forward. Palmer believes that each person is born with "birthright gifts," some innate talents, abilities, gifts and leanings. He suggests thinking back to what you really liked to do (and did well) as a child. Think what you did before anyone told you what you should be doing, enjoying or striving toward. As people get older, Palmer says, they start to wear "other people's faces" instead of their own.

I thought about my own childhood. I liked to read. I liked to write in my journal. I liked astronomy: reading and learning about stars and planets and looking through my small telescope. I liked learning about other countries and travel. I liked putting on plays. I would take books I liked, memorize the lines, create costumes and act them out as a one-woman show. I also liked memorizing the verses to favorite hymns, which I did in church instead of listening to the sermon. I also liked talking to adults and often found it easier than relating to my peers.

What did you like to do as a child?

After identifying what one liked as a child, Palmer suggests getting in touch with one's "shadow side" and learning how to embrace one's weaknesses. The premise is that it is just as important to understand your limitations as it is to know your gifts. Palmer says, "If you can't get out of it, get into it." Which I take to mean really examining your failures and defeats, heartbreaks and wounded-ness. I thought this was helpful, but I wish Palmer would have discussed exactly what that means. Should I think about my failures and wounds on a daily basis? See a therapist? I wonder what exactly he recommends.

One of my favorite take-away lines from the book was when Palmer described the Quaker notion that "way will open" when one is troubled by what direction to go. This is often revealed by quiet sitting and prayer. Palmer said he was struggling with this. So finally he went to a trusted Quaker mentor and asked what he should do if he didn't hear or sense a way opening. The woman said she seldom heard a direct way opening. Rather, she said God often spoke to her through noticing when the way closed. And that was just as helpful for discernment.

In this small book, Palmer also discusses his lengthy bout with depression and what he learned about himself in that difficult journey. While I couldn't related directly, I found it helpful from a personal and pastoral care point of view to hear what helped and what didn't. He said it wasn't helpful when people came to his room and said, "Hey, it's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, you should go outside." Rather, he said it was most helpful when people came and sat with him, saying little. One friend came every week, with his permission, and massaged his feet in silence, then left.

Palmer's point in this book, it seems, is to connect to one's gifts and wounds for the sake of personal growth, but also for the sake of leadership. He suggest that those who "lead from within" are better leaders. Not because they are necessarily "in charge," but because it is every one's vocation to simply "be here" and do what they are called to do. It's an interesting, if alternative, way to think about being a leader. It reminds me, in the end, of Luther's belief in the priesthood of all believers and in the vocational call of all the baptized.

Wood work, a day on the farm

I felt a sense of dread when my dad came into the kitchen last week and asked for my help. I was at my parents' farm for five nights last week and truly enjoyed the company of my mom, dad and sister; the latter drove up from her Waterloo home to stay with me on the farm. She and I shared the room and double bed just like we did growing up in the small farm house. This time, as then, we stayed up way past midnight every night, talking and giggling and pretending to be asleep when mom came in to tell us we better get to sleep. Some things never change.

It's good to be home. I still call it that, though I haven't lived there regularly since I left for college at age 18. The house is small, crowded and showing signs of wear. The yard is full of buildings and cars and half-finished projects that my dad means to finish. He likes help on projects, something I was reluctant to give as a teenager. I didn't like getting dirty or being outside (!) and the tasks were often tedious, dirty, time-consuming or physically challenging. Over the years I drove tractors (well, that wasn't so bad), unloaded hay bales into the barn, stacked wood, picked up rocks, pulled weeds and all manner of other small projects that required extra hands and bodies.

I think of that farm work as what my friend Angela calls “Type C” fun: an activity that isn't really all that fun when you're doing it but you're glad you did it. I remember how I longed to get to college and get an indoor job so that I could be freed from farm work. Of course I still helped during college and while I lived in Waterloo and ironically, when I visited my brother in Kazakhstan a few years ago (he was in the Peace Corps) we spent all morning hoeing potatoes in his host family's garden. My mom loved the picture we sent her.

So when my dad asked if I'd help stack wood on this trip, I groaned inwardly (maybe aloud) and started to cop a 16-year-old's attitude. But I don't see my family that often and he wasn't really asking for anything that difficult, so out I went, wearing old farm clothes that belonged to my mother.

Stacking wood might not sound like much, but it's an endeavor on my family's farm. They burn wood. To heat the house. That's the only heat there is. Wood comes from all over: from neighbors, from the woods near the farm (which belongs to my uncle) and from trees around the farmstead. This wood wasn't cut yet, so my sister's job was to drag the branches and piles that were stacked around the yard and bring them to my father, who was cutting them. He used a buzz saw, a blade mounted on a tractor. The blade was powered by another tractor; the two were held together by a quickly-spinning belt. We knew as children not to get too close to the belt, lest we lose a limb.

So dad sawed the trunks and branches into rounds to fit the wood stove. He threw them into a low-sided wagon, trying not to hit me, where I stacked them. I had to stop once to get some earplugs from the house to muffle the roar of the buzz saw. And after an hour and a half or so, we were all done. It occurred to me that the high temperatures this March meant they were done burning wood for the season. I was right; dad planned to cover the wagon and use it next season. After the roar of the buzz saw died down, we had a little time to chat about other things before he went on to his next project and I went back to the house.

As a child, I was a go-to-gal for stacking wood in the wood shed. Dad always said it was because I was the neatest and best wood-stacker in the family, fitting the wood logs snugly like so many puzzle pieces. I now realize there are all kinds of ways for parents to motivate their children to work, but it wasn't so bad. It wasn't so bad this time either, a way to feel closer to the father that I so often experienced as distant. It wasn't so bad to get a little dirty. There wasn't so much to dread, it seems.

Callings and community, a day at Wartburg College

All is well here in heaven (Iowa), where I've been since last Friday. I arrived to temperatures in the low to mid-80s, breaking records from the early 1900s across Iowa these past few days. Why go to Hawaii on spring break when you can go to Iowa?

I have about a week here, which goes too fast when I'm visiting family, extended family, friends from college and friends from high school. So much of my world is nestled in about 50 square miles here.

I spent most of the day today at Wartburg College, my alma mater, which is only 20 miles from my parents' farm. I had emailed two religion professors I knew, plus the dean of the chapel, and told them I was on sabbatical and studying vocation and could I please talk to them about that? My favorite response was from Ramona Bouzard, dean of the chapel, who said if one wishes to speak of vocation, there's no better place than Wartburg. I knew it was true. Wartburg has made a concerted effort, especially in recent years, to connect and engage students in the life of the community and intentional service. They have an extensive Center for Community Engagement and an office for Career and Vocation Services.

So I only asked to speak to Ramona and two professors, but I got a whole lot more. Ramona paved the way for me to sit in on the senior religion class "Church in the Modern World," asked me to preach at mid-morning chapel, and invited other students, faculty and staff to join us for lunch to discuss call and vocations. Later, I went to visit another professor 1-1. It was typical Wartburg goodness and hospitality.

The religion class met at 9:00 am not in a classroom but in a student lounge in one of the dormitories. This sounds odd, but wait. The dorm also has two classrooms and the faculty offices of the religion and philosophy departments. Apparently it's a new trend in academia to connect learning to living in community. One professor said it's pretty good overall except for seeing the occasional young man in a towel.

The class was working through Marcus Borg's The Heart of Christianity, which I haven't read but will soon. Led by Old Testmament professor Chip Bouzard, the class was mostly senior religion majors, about 12 or so students in all, which some going to seminary or considering it. The discussion flowed as students discussed whether God was a distant or involved creator. Do we have free will? Does God have an exact plan for our lives? Does prayer work? Does God make some things happen while letting other things go? Does God help you get a parking space? Why do we pray? Does God know if I'm going to have beans or broccoli for lunch next Tuesday? Does God care?

I was impressed with the depth and thoughtfulness of the students' insights. Many articulated a deep sense of God's love and presence with them, while allowing that perhaps God has more important things to worry about than what they have for dinner. They shared observations about what friends or family or culture have to say about God's plan or God's involvement in daily life.

At one point the Chip turned to me and said, "Pastor, what do you think about prayer? Should we do it? Does it work?" I talked about how prayer doesn't necessarily change God, but that it changes us. Prayer is also an act of worship, an act of admission that God is God and we are not, and an act of community. We also pray because Jesus said it was a good idea.

Before the class was over, Chip shared a few images about God's plan that he liked. He said perhaps God is like a parent, who wants generally good things for his children (health, solid relationships, meaningful work) but doesn't care as much about the details. Another image: God paints with broad strokes, we paint the finer details.

After class I went to morning chapel, where I preached about the sabbath. Read it at http://www.centluth.org/wartburg.pdf, if you like. I got to pick the text, theme and songs. It wasn't the same as preaching at Central, where I know and love the folks in the pews, but it was fun. And I did know a few people there.

At lunch, Ramona had gathered a student, some administrative and support staff, another campus pastor and a couple other professors to chat. I asked them how they understood their call/vocation and how that had changed. I loved the images. One person said he felt like he was "firing on all cylinders" when teaching about the New Testament and it's original context and current application. So, however and wherever he could do that, no matter if it was paid work, that would be his vocation. Another said being a pastor was not so much finding a call but embracing his joy. Another said she struggled to know how her work was a vocation because it could seem tedious.

We talked at length, then, about what it means to live your vocation if you are unemployed, under-employed or don't like your job. Pastors can't exactly drip sentiment about vocation bliss from the pulpit when this is the reality of many of those in the pews. One person suggested the answer lies in community. To paraphrase, she said that communities of faith must bind together to listen to each others' stories, to support each other and to identify ways that vocation is lived outside work hours. Another person added that we do a dis-service to vocation when we imagine that we only have one. We have many vocations and they change over time (which sounds a lot like what we talked about in adult education at Central last fall).

It was a delicious conversation, full of people who had really thought about what it meant to follow their call and how they could live out the gifts that God gave them.

After lunch, I spent some time working out in Warburg's enormous fitness center, "The W," and then met Kit Kleinhans, religion professor, for a chat in her office. She was a good choice for a chat, as she's also the director of a campus initiative called, "Discovering and Claiming our Callings," a grant funded by the same Lilly Endowment that funded my sabbatical.

Kit and I covered a lot of ground, including time spent discussing the changes in church over the years. When I mentioned how it's frustrating sometimes to be in a secular place like Alaska where many people don't know about church or Lutheranism and school sports are played the whole week through, Kit suggested it sounded like a good opportunity to define who we are instead of living with assumptions that may or may not be true. True.

We talked about vocation, churchwide concerns, sabbaticals, life in the parish and what happens when pastors try to change things in a parish. I learned about Kit's passion for and call to teaching. We talked about how people of faith can be more bold to live their faith in daily life, like telling someone you're praying for them, or saying a quiet prayer in a restaurant.

As I drove away from Wartburg, I felt renewed by the time with familiar colleagues and new friends. I felt hopeful about the future of the church and renewed with energy for my role in it.

Skiing. Resurrection.

Erik and I returned Tuesday from a four-day trip skiing the Resurrection Pass, a 39-mile trek through a mountain pass between Hope and Cooper Landing on the Kenai Peninsula. The Resurrection Pass was my first big Alaska hike; I did the traverse in 2004 when I was an intern at Amazing Grace Lutheran but hadn't skied it. Erik had run and skied parts of the trail but had never skied or hiked all the way through. So it was a first for both of us and something we wanted to do together.

We booked cabins for four nights but planned to stay only three if the conditions were good. They were perfect. Temperatures were in the 20s-30s during the days and colder at night. We've had so much snow this season that the trail had a great base but not much snow in the last few days, so there was a good snowmachine/ski trail.

We skied 7-11 miles each day. Erik pulled a sled of gear and food, God bless him. I tried pulling it for awhile and it was difficult. I have no idea how he lugged it up the hills.

We saw very few people on the trail. It was mostly just us, brilliant blue skies, endless fields of snow, a few startled ptarmigan and a bunch of tracks. We saw moose, lynx, wolf and hare tracks. including what seemed to be tracks of a lynx chasing a hare. We wondered if he got his prey.

It's hard to have a conversation when you're skiing single file, so I had a lot of time to think, to enjoy the scenery and to notice God's presence. I love that the trail begins in a place called Hope and then you follow the Resurrection Pass. So I thought about resurrection.

I thought about how poet/farmer Wendell Berry tells us to practice resurrection. I thought about what that means, especially as we wait in the season of Lent and Easter is still a few weeks away. What does it mean to practice resurrection? It's hard to describe, but it feels like something Potter Steward, a supreme court justice, once said, "I know it when I see it." (I don't think he was talking about resurrection, though!)

The thing about resurrection is that even if I can't describe it, I do know when it's happened. Looking back I remember several times in my life when I thought something was the end of the world. Someone I loved died. I failed at something I desperately wanted. A friend betrayed me. A boyfriend left without warning. Somehow, life goes on. People cared for me. I felt God's presence and there was resurrection. I thought about some of those times as I skied on the resurrection trail.

I've said it in a sermon before (maybe on this blog) but that's why I can believe in the resurrection, because I've already experienced it in small ways in my life.

The problem with resurrection though, is that something has to die. I thought about that as I skied. What has to die? What do I have to let go? What do I have to relinquish in order for new life to begin? It's a question for relationships, for work, for the inner life.

Practice resurrection.

To do or not to do for Lent

My Lenten guilt started early the morning of Ash Wednesday, as Erik and I flew from Queenstown, New Zealand on the South Island to Auckland, on the North Island. Then we drove two and a half hours to the Coromandel Peninsula and, after being turned down twice, finally found place to lay our heads.

So, while we found food and lodging, we didn't find a church where I could get the ashes upon my brow and hear the words: "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return." I wrote about this already in a past blog.

I didn't get the ashes, though I still remembered that I was dust. And I felt guilty that I didn't do anything to mark the start of Lent, and I still haven't done much for Lent, other than going to church once and reading (most days) the devotional from PLTS/Luther seminary for Lent called "Water Marks."

Even though I'm on sabbatical, I feel like I should do something for Lent. Do you? Or don't you?

Given my protestant-midwest-farmer's daughter-mentality on doing, I was especially taken by a blog post on the Sojourner's website (God's politics blog) today that suggests doing nothing for Lent. Read it here.

You can ask my husband for verification, but I would say I'm just about the biggest loser when it comes to doing nothing. Can't do it. Gotta do something. All the time. Doing nothing is lazy and leads to failure. That's the tape that runs in my head.

The blog author for Sojourners (Cathleen Falsani, don't know her but like what she says) reflects on doing nothing for Lent. She didn't get the idea on her own. She heard it from Eugene Peterson, the author and pastor who did The Message Bible paraphrase (and who's latest book I reviewed in my last blog post). She attended a lecture where Peterson talked about doing and not doing.

Peterson quoted early monastics who said: "Stay in your cell. Your cell will teach you everything." Falsani took it further: "Stay in your life. Your life will teach you everything." Be here now. Be present. Quit planning and thinking about what you don't have yet or what's missing. Notice the blessings of what is, right now.

I saw a man wearing a T-shirt in New Zealand that said: "I'd rather be here now."

Yes, yes I would. And perhaps I could.

Book Review: Eugene Peterson on pastors, work and butcher shops

There are probably more glamorous and professional ways to write a book review. But since I'm on a sabbatical journey of vocational and self reflection, I'll do it from a more personal point of view.

I actually read The Pastor, a memoir by Eugene Peterson in January, but didn't get a chance to post about it before we left for New Zealand. I thought about many of the themes of the book while I traveled, though.

Church nerds may recognize Peterson from his "Message" paraphrase version of the Bible. I like the Message, though I recognize it's more a paraphrase than translation. Peterson's paraphrase so often makes Jesus into the radically welcoming and status-quo wrecking figure that the gospel authors likely intended. Check out this excerpt from John 2 for a sample.

Before he was a Bible paraphraser, Peterson was a pastor. He started a congregation in suburban Maryland and stayed there for almost 30 years. He did stints teaching at universities before writing The Message. Though he was a teacher and scholar, Peterson's memoir suggests at his heart his deepest vocation was to be a pastor. He traces his growing-up years and the ways he learned about the faith and gradually grew into his vocation. Peterson talks about his time and transitions from parish ministry to academia to writing. He tells funny stories, touching stories and personal stories about his family and internal life.

Peterson puts his finger right on the heart of one of my sabbatical themes: the Biblical world is a world of story. Being a pastor (and a Christian!) is about listening to stories, sharing them and seeing how they fit in the larger Biblical narrative. Peterson tells stories from his youth and how they fit into the Biblical world, like how he got a new apron every year to work in his father's butcher shop. He recalled how the boy Samuel went to work in the temple (where there was lots of animal killing) and got a new linen ephod (robe) to wear every year. Peterson saw the holy in the midst of the meat market.

About storytelling, Peterson writes: "Americans are not used to taking stories seriously as a way to deepen our participation in the communities where we live and as a way to expand our participation in what God is doing." Yes. Amen.

Speaking of stories, when Peterson asked a pastor-mentor how to prepare to preach a sermon every week, that pastor said that for two hours every Tuesday and Thursday morning, he walked through the church's neighborhood and made home visits. The peoples' stories became embedded in his mind and heart. The better he knew his people, the better he proclaimed a word of hope and light to them. I took notes.

It's obvious that Peterson loved being a pastor. But he got tired too. He had doubts. He wondered how to connect his work on Sunday with what he did the rest of the week. He was conscious of tending to his marriage. He took long walks in silence with his wife every Monday, and then they prayed and talked on their way back. He worried about the life of a pastor taking its toll.

Peterson told a story about an agnostic friend who was an artist. When Peterson was in seminary, the friend, Willi, painted a portrait of Peterson. In the portrait, Peterson was wearing a black robe, his face gaunt and grim. His eyes were dull, his complexion sallow. His friend said that would be Peterson's future if he stayed with the church. "The church will suck the soul of of you." Will said. "Please don't be a pastor." Well, Peterson did and apparently he never looked so bad as the portrait. But he kept the artwork, as a reminder to keep the sabbath and to keep his focus on vocation instead of job and success.

Speaking of vocation, Peterson discussed the vocation of laity, too. He talked about a time when he realized he was overworking and not tending to his family. Peterson said he wasn't able to fully listen to people because he was always thinking of the next thing. His spiritual life was nearly non-existent. He said he wanted to be an "unbusy pastor" and I think I'd like that, too. He said he wanted to be a pastor who:

* prays and relaxes in the presence of God
* reads and studies
* has time with parishioners in leisurely, unhurried conversations
* leads the church in worship, preaches accessible sermons, gives language and imagination to be a Christian in the world

When Peterson went to his lay leaders to say he was burning out, they asked him why he couldn't do what he listed above. He said he was too busy running the church. The lay leaders said they would do it. They excused him from most committee and planning meetings. He said this continued for the remainder of his call. He said they did a great job, better than he could have done. He said that when he let them help out in his workplace, he was free to pay more attention to them in their workplaces. He was a better pastor, and they were empowered that they weren't "just" laypeople. They were living out their calls in myriad ways.

Here's an excerpt Peterson wrote on the topic of work. If I learn nothing else from sabbatical, I wish to know this, and that folks at Central would know it too:

"Most of what Jesus said and did took place in a secular workplace: in a farmer's field, in a fishing boat, a wedding feast, in a cemetery, at a public well asking woman he didn't know for a drink of water, on a country hillside that turned into a huge picnic, a court room, having supper in homes with acquaintances or friends. In our Gospels, Jesus occasionally shows up in a synagogue or temple, but for the most part he spends his time in the workplace. Twenty-seven times in John's Gospel, Jesus is identified as a worker: 'My father is still working, and I also am working' (Jn. 5:17). Work doesn't take us away from God; it continues the work of God. God comes into view on the first page of our scriptures as a worker. Once we identify God in his workplace working, it isn't long before we find ourselves in our workplaces working in the name of God."

We all have our work to do, for God's sake.

I enjoyed Peterson's memoir. His transparent story was touching and inspiring. I felt I was journeying with him. I thought a lot about my own journey, vocation and call. There are a lot of things to do as a pastor. Toward the end of the book, Peterson talks about one of the most important things that pastors can do. We can be the one person in the community who is free to take men and women seriously, just as they are. We can appreciate them, and see them as a God-created being, with a dignity that comes from being created in the image of God. Amen.

A pastor walks into a church (again)

A couple of Sundays ago (Feb 26) I worshipped with the folks at St. Mary's Episcopal Church, over by Lake Otis and Tudor Road. This was my second intentional visit to a non-Lutheran church in Anchorage. I was excited to be in church that Sunday. We'd just returned from New Zealand (the night before!) and I was ready to worship and mark the transition into Lent.

Erik chose to rest up before going back to work the next day, so I went solo to the 11:30 am service. I felt less anxious about walking into this church alone, for a couple of reasons. One was that I know the pastors at St. Mary's and one of them knew I was coming. I've been to St. Mary's before, so I knew the layout of the building. The welcome was friendly but gentle. A couple of people said hello but no one was overly friendly (which I prefer).

There was an adult forum before the service that ran late so we started a bit late, too. There was a band playing hymns in the corner but with guitar and drums, up-tempo. I recognized the music, which made me feel at home. Then, the pastors found me and gave me handshakes and hugs (Michael Burke, Ted Cole and Sara Gavit).

The congregation gathered that day was a mix of ages. Several gray heads but a few families with school-aged children too. It seemed like there was a diversity of socio-economic stratas but little ethnic/racial diversity (like a lot of mainline churches I know!)

The songs were mostly familiar and I didn't mind that they were played on guitar instead of organ/piano. The priests were vested and the acolytes and crucifers were middle school kids with sneakers and robes. I never thought I cared either way about robes (aka albs) but my tradition uses them and I felt myself relaxing inside when I saw the host arrayed in white descend the aisle.

St. Mary's uses a liturgy, like we do at Central, and it wasn't too difficult to juggle the hymnbook, the Book of Common Prayer (where the liturgy was) and my bulletin, though I think it was easier because: A.) I'm from a liturgical tradition B.) I wasn't also juggling a small child. I wonder if St. Mary's has thought of using one bulletin or project to cut down on the multiple books.

Nonetheless, the liturgy was comfortable and familiar to me. I remember a seminary professor joking that Lutherans have theology and Episcopalians have a Rite (and good scotch) but I know deep down the comfort that a liturgy brings and I felt at home at St. Mary's. And after all, we are in full communion.

The sermon, given by lead rector Michael Burke, was the highlight of the service for me. He didn't preach much on the text, which was a little disappointing for me, since I hadn't been to worship in a few weeks. But I was taken by his conversational style and the later content of the sermon.

Michale started with a joke about a guy in a bar who drank three beers. I'm not going to tell it now because I may want to use it in a sermon later. Anyway, it reminded me of an Episcopalian joke: Wherever four or more are gathered, there's always a fifth. I digress. The joke was funny and it led into comments about the meaning of Lent and how we mark the season.

Michael explained that people in his parish come from many backgrounds and mark Lent in different ways. He said there wasn't one right way to do it, but it is an important time and spiritual disciplines are important. He said his recent spiritual practice has been working on the One Anchorage campaign. This is an effort by numerous clergy and lay leaders to ask the assembly to put a non-discrimination policy for gays/lesbians in Anchorage's housing/hiring policies. It's become Prop 5, on the ballot April 3. It's been an on-going hot issue in our city after the Assembly voted for it and the mayor gave it a veto.

I knew the background and knew where Michael stood and agreed with him. However, I'm sensitive to pastors talking about very specific politics/candidates/propositions from the pulpit. I try not to do it. It doesn't seem right. I can't tell people how to vote. I won't.

So, I was all ears and quite tense, wondering what else Michael would say.

What he did was confess. He said that he apologized, on behalf of himself and the church, for all the ways he has ignored or made too little of the challenges and discrimination faced by gays and lesbians. He confessed, to those who are gay and lesbian and to those who have gay and lesbian friends or children. It was powerful and it was beautiful. And he didn't tell us how to vote, only about his own work on this and the spiritual connection.

Then he acknowledged that some may not agree with his work on this issue. He said: "You don't have to agree with everything your pastor says. I might be wrong. But I might be right."

Wow.

Then he told about a coffee he'd shared with a man who is the head of a conservative Christian group in town. I knew the name; we share a mutual friend. I was deeply humbled by Michael's description of this coffee time. He and the man discussed the issue, shared their beliefs, prayed together and learned they had some things in common. They did not change their beliefs, but indeed the encounter did change them.

Wow.

I wish that every politician who works on controversial issues would take Michael's example. We as a culture and I'll blame politicians especially, don't take time to listen and really hear the other side. We vilify and we de-humanize. The church can be the place where we learn to talk about our differences and recognize our common humanity. Imagine, the church leading us into a more civilized and loving world. It could really happen.

The service continued with prayers, communion, announcements and blessings. I was greeted again by the clergy on the way out and spoke with a few people that I recognized. Before I left, Michael gave me this "goody bag" for visitors. There were many brochures with helpful topics like Episcopal terms defined and information on local ministries and services. There was also some candy; food is the universal language.

I was deeply grateful for the experience I had at St. Mary's. I felt comfortable and challenged, in ways that resonated with me. I also felt hopeful for the way God moves in the world and the way God's followers can and do make a difference.

Getting things done, or not

Today is March 1, which means I'm two months into the sabbatical and one month to go. I have deeply appreciated this break and time of rest and play. I've loved it so much and I feel sad when I think about its end. I'm anxious that I haven't gotten as much done around the house as I'd hoped. I did get some shoes fixed and bought a new desk lamp, but I still have a mountain of photos from the early 2000s to go through and we still don't have a wedding album. Ugh.

I was worrying aloud about this to Erik yesterday, wondering how much I can do in the next month, especially since we have a 5-day ski trip coming up and I'll be in Iowa for 7 days after that. It doesn't leave much time for domestic tasks.

My husband gently but firmly said something like this: "Maybe you should think about how to arrange your regular life so you have time to do things and not wait for every seven years just to get projects done."

Ouch. He nailed it, even if I don't always like to hear the truth about myself.

New Zealand Photos

Here are a few more photos of New Zealand and our adventures. I'm not quite skilled at massive upload of photos to this blog, so I'll post more on Facebook.

The photo to the left is from our 4-day backpack on the Kepler Track, south island. This is one of 9 New Zealand "Great Walks," and includes huts along the way; hikers must register and pay in advance during the summer. We stayed in huts two nights and camped one night, since there was one campground halfway. The Kepler Track travels up through forests to this amazing ridge and follows it back down in a loop -- 62k over four days. We had rain the first day and some fog/clouds the second day on the ridge but it cleared around the lunch hour. This is the hike I did on Transfiguration Sunday and, like Peter, I wanted to build a dwelling and stay put!

The photo to the above right is of Erik and I at the Key Summit of the Routeburn Track, one of the most famous multi-day hikes in fjordland, southern part of south island. We didn't do this whole hike, just did a day hike to this summit. The views were 360 and incredible.

The photo below was taken on the north island during the last few days of our trip. We were on the Coromandel Peninsula, a about two hours away from Auckland. We went here for some beach time and some quiet after weeks of hiking. Unfortunately, it was rainy and cloudy, especially the first day. We hiked to this tiny beach called Stingray Beach. It was too cloudy/rainy/cold for snorkeling, but we walked along the beach and enjoyed the views anyway.

The photo below is the view from the front seat of the kayak during our three-day paddle in Able Tasman National Park, northern part of the south island. We camped at the same place both nights and took day paddles and hikes each day. The beaches were lovely and full of beautiful shells. The weather was just about perfect and we had the chance to paddle by some seal colonies and see moms with pups.



The photo to the left is the view from the campsite we had at Nelson Lakes National Park, south island. This is a less-touristy area and the nicest campground I've ever seen (laundry, showers, cooking shelter with stove, etc). We camped here two nights and did long day hikes (6 miles the first day and 9 the next). The hikes took us above the lakes and onto ridge lines that seem to go on forever. There were only a small number of people around, peaceful and serene.

This last photo is taken on a cruise on the Milford Sound. I don't know what to say about this place. The sound is actually a fjord (glacier carved) and has some of the the world's highest mountains than end in the sea. Breathtaking (and a bit Alaskan, we thought).

New Zealand wrap up

We're back from New Zealand and catching up with bills, home, life and people, not necessarily in that order. We could have stayed much longer; we loved New Zealand. I've so often found a deep spiritual connection in the earth's open spaces and I was so taken and moved by the diversity and wonder of the geography there. God is everywhere, of course, but so apparent in the rolling green hills, rocky coastline, white beaches, alpine lakes and mountain ridges. Perhaps I just pay more attention to God when I'm outside.

I wanted to share a few pictures from NZ (N-Zed as the Kiwis say) and comment a bit more on our visit to Pastor Chris and his parish in Upper Moutere, South Island.

Chris and his wife Haidee were the only NZ Lutherans we met. I'd hoped to connect with one more pastor but our schedules didn't match. Also, we were in rural areas much of the time and churches were more often in cities. By the way, there are only 9 Lutheran churches in New Zealand, so I think my percentage of visitation was pretty good!

As I mentioned in a past blog, Chris was young: just one year into his first call. I can say that's young after 6 years of service! He was energetic about his call to ministry and offered thoughtful reflections on the life of a young clergyperson in a small town (most people knock before coming into the parsonage where they live, but not everyone!) We talked a lot about work, too. When is it work? When is it social? How do you find balance?

The church (St. Paul's) is an older-style church building with the cemetery plot around the building. I always like this model, though some may find it antiquated or spooky. It reminds me of the country churches around Decorah, Iowa, and, perhaps more importantly, it reminds me of the communion we share with all the saints, those here and those who have gone before us.

Inside the church, it looks old-school, too, with pews and traditional chancel area. But there's also a carpeted play area with toys. And a screen. And a large blue arm chair. Chris says he sits in it during the children's sermon and he let me sit there too.

The village of Upper Moutere is pretty small. Besides the church there is a tiny general store, an elementary school and a bar that boasts it is the oldest one in New Zealand. Outside of town are a few wineries that make good use of the dry and hot climate. The elementary school is right next to the church and Chris goes over there during the days sometimes to connect with youth. There's something in me that really likes this old "parish" model, where the church makes connections with a whole community, whether the community comes to them or not. It's a bit harder to do that with all of Anchorage but I wonder again about connecting in our neighborhood near Central.

I remember hearing the term "ancient-future" to describe how some churches keep the old traditions but embrace new ideas too. I kept thinking of this phrase when I was inside St. Paul's. I wonder how other churches (like ours?) honor this ancient-future tension. I also keep thinking about how we can use screen and projector to enhance worship and not detract. It's funny - for some reason the screen in that old-school sanctuary didn't really bother me.

It was great to meet Chris and his wife. Maybe we'll do that pulpit exchange someday. Apparently, the last time the Australia/NZ Lutheran church voted on women's ordination, the "yeas" were more than 50%. Someday.