Christmas Thoughts

Christmas is a time of expectation and joy. It falls within a few days of the winter solstice, the time when the darkest days are over and the earth awaits the slow return of the sun. We celebrate the rising of the Sun of Righteousness, we sing carols about joy and hope, and our children do pageants remembering the joyful birth of a baby two thousand years ago. Advent reflections are full of thoughts of birthing new life and looking forward in our lives. But, I wonder, how often do we reflect on just how painful birth can be? The picture above reminds me of just how difficult and bloody birth can be, and reminds me just how lonely and isolated the birth of the Bethlehem babe must have been.

It also reminds me of how painful the bringing forth of new life can be. When we allow ourselves to be pregnant with possibilities, with life, with hope, we also invite pain and birthing. It is not always a fully pleasant experience. We experience waiting and pain and labor in both our personal and collective lives.

I think about what the journey has been like for women seeking equality in a patriarchal world and, pertinant to my context, seeking the right to preside at the table, to re-present Christ at the altar.

Susan Ross quotes Frances Frank in her poem on this struggle;

Did the woman say,
When she held him for the first time in the dark of a stable,
After the pain and the bleeding and the crying,
"This is my body, this is my blood"?

Did the woman say,
When she held him for the last time in the dark rain on a hilltop,
After the pain and the bleeding and the dying,
"This is my body, this is my blood"?

Well that she said it to him them,
For dry old men,
brocaded robes belying barreness,
Ordain that she not say it for him now.

For a better part of my life, I struggled with a call I was told could not exist because I was a woman. There was much pain in the birthing of new possibility in my life. I have faced and continue to face the angst and the pain of birthing new life, new possibilities. I am grateful to have found competent midwives-- in the church, in seminary, in all the friends who have supported me through this time of new discovery. It may be painful, but it also wonderful to bring new life into the world.

A Country Girl’s Meditation in the City

When I walk in the city I am afraid. Not of the cars or the people or the culture I don't always understand. I'm afraid of losing what I love. When I walk past the homes of the wealthy with BNWs parked in front, I see the bags of good mulch leaves left out for garbage pickup. The roots of an old oak still push up the concrete and asphalt, pushing down below the ground where everything is still free, its last remaining leaves dancing in the road. A pine tree rustles up ahead, but its whispering voice is overcome by the sound of sirens rushing past. When I finally reach the river—that beautiful running water that runs through Boston, I see the sun reflecting on the little waves and the geese flying low, staying for the winter because they know there will be enough food. Runners pass me constantly, their iPods to their ears, blocking out not only the traffic, but also the soft lapping of the water on the bank. Garbage floats in the corners and I turn into the little patch of woods that reminds me that nature still exists. The trees are young and small, growing on the roots of the large trees that once towered over the place and are now probably a rotting boat somewhere on the harbor. Robins and jays pick their way through the leaves, rustling and calling each other until a car horn drowns their voices.

And then I am really afraid. I am afraid that there are no wild places left, that since my leaving, the open places and the forest places have been swallowed up by concrete and asphalt, that all rivers are running with sewage and pollution, that every place is now full of the sound of cars and the smell of fumes. I try to smell the crisp autumn air full of the tangy smell of rotting leaves, but I catch only a whiff beyond the exhaust and the lady's perfume up ahead. I can't feel the soft spongy earth beneath my feet because nearly every inch is covered in walking trails. A few old trees are left in that corner, to be sure. What have they seen? Have they seen the demise of the forest and the fishing grounds that these places once were? When I look, I can see no place to retreat. There are just miles and miles of concrete jungle and brick building, concrete sidewalks and traffic jams.

I am constantly reminded in the city how important our countryside is, how important the wild places are, how important it is that we learn to live with and on the land in a way that will allow future generations to not only survive but thrive. I am reminded that we are all interconnected—human beings and the cycle of life, the wild animals and the farm creatures that feed us, the forests and the rivers.

Perhaps what scares me most in the city is that it is hard to find God. I can see God in the faces of the people that I meet and in the little cracks of nature that appear in broken sidewalks. But I always hear God's voice best in the wild places.

Wendell Berry shares my fear in his poem, A Timbered Choir.

Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling,
for I saw the last known landscape destroyed for the sake
of the objective, the soil bludgeoned, the rock blasted.
Those who had wanted to go home would never get there now.

I visited the offices where for the sake of the objective the planners planned
at blank desks set in rows. I visited the loud factories
where the machines were made that would drive ever forward
toward the objective. I saw the forest reduced to stumps and gullies; I saw
the poisoned river, the mountain cast into the valley;
I came to the city that nobody recognized because it looked like every other city.
I saw the passages worn by the unnumbered
footfalls of those whose eyes were fixed upon the objective.

Their passing had obliterated the graves and the monuments
of those who had died in pursuit of the objective
and who had long ago forever been forgotten, according
to the inevitable rule that those who have forgotten forget
that they have forgotten. Men, women, and children now pursued the objective
as if nobody ever had pursued it before.

…the once-enslaved, the once-oppressed were now free
to sell themselves to the highest bidder
and to enter the best paying prisons
in pursuit of the objective, which was the destruction of all enemies,
which was the destruction of all obstacles, which was the destruction of all objects,
which was to clear the way to victory, which was to clear the way to promotion, to salvation, to progress,
to the completed sale, to the signature
on the contract, which was to clear the way
to self-realization, to self-creation, from which nobody who ever wanted to go home
would ever get there now, for every remembered place
had been displaced; the signposts had been bent to the ground and covered over.

Every place had been displaced, every love
unloved, every vow unsworn, every word unmeant
to make way for the passage of the crowd
of the individuated, the autonomous, the self-actuated, the homeless
with their many eyes opened toward the objective
which they did not yet perceive in the far distance,
having never known where they were going,
having never known where they came from.

Seasonal Thoughts

Time goes fast in seminary and this first semester is no exception. At the same time, I have been very aware of the changing season. Fall is a beautiful time of year here in Massachusetts, with the trees vibrant with orange, red, and yellow. As the last day of October comes to a close, it makes me think about life's journey. Fall is a time that I think about rest and about the cycle of life. It is a time when the earth begins to ready for the great sleep of winter. And, for as far back as we know, humans have taken this time of year to think about loved ones lost and the reality of our mortality.

In the old Celtic cultures, this is Samhain, when the veil between life and death grew thin and people remembered the dead who were no longer among them. It was a night of ritual and rememberance, of bonfires and readying for winter.

In my tradition, it is the eve of All Saint's Day. We bring pictures of loved ones and place them with candles on an altar. Some churches have processions where those who have died are named and remembered.

Concurrently, we approach Dia de los Muertos, an ancient tradition where the dead are also remembered and fiestas take place in cemetaries. Elaborate altars carry the fruits of the harvest alongside pictures of the dead. Death is mocked in dances and celebrations.

And, of course, it is Halloween, the Western holiday where little kids dress up as witches and Superman and collect candy from the neighborhood. It is a time of celebration and scary movies, a time where we joke about our mortality.

While everyday is a day when the veil between the sacred and the common is thin, it is nice to have days like this where we think more seriously about what the world is enacting in the great ritual of the seasons and what that tells us about our own lives. In the beautiful garden where I love to walk, I could take a moment to remember loved ones I have lost, to contemplate my own mortality, and then to laugh and enjoy the world around me.

Finding Space in the Chaos

Sorry, folks, that it has taken so long for another update. Seminary life is as busy as it is cracked up to be... and I have been more than busy with settling into a new place, starting classes, and reading more in a day than I ever thought possible. I love all my classes and the teachers here at EDS are amazing.

But I am also finding that there is more to seminary than simply studying. It requires you to put your whole self forward and to engage in just as much heart work as mind work. Because of this, I am learning to find space for reflection and meditation as well. I am glad that I chose one of my classes to address the issue of "Spirituality and Well-Being," as learning self-care and disciplined spiritual practice is vital for seminary life.

I have found it very helpful to find space and time during the week to mediate, pray, and just to be. One way I do this is in daily chapel services, which I find very centering as I start or end my day with prayer in community, in the company of candles and icons. Another way is in spending time outdoors, which has always been my favorite place to find both God and myself. I am still finding it quite an adjustment to move from rural to city life, where there is so much noise and activity and people everywhere all the time. I am glad that just outside the house I am staying in, is a garden that is usually fairly quiet, where I can just sit and watch the bees in the flowers or draw.

This weekend, I visited the beach. I find the sea so calming and centering, so I spent some time reflecting and writing-- and just standing in the surf looking out to the endless horizon. I love the Loreena McKennitt song that says; "The pounding sea is calling me home; home to you." I feel like the sea represents, in some way, the infinite-- new possibilities, new horizons, endless life.

This is the chapel at EDS, where we hold Eucharist and morning and evening prayer. The daily offices held in community has been an amazing addition to my spiritual life...

Protest as Worship

"For many of us, the walk from Selma to Montgomery was about protest and prayer. Legs are not lips and walking is not kneeling. And yet our legs uttered songs. Even without words, our march was worship. I felt my legs were praying." Abraham Heschel

This Sunday, I attended an immigrant rights rally. I rarely miss church for anything-- church is the place I recharge for the rest of the week, meet God in the sacraments, and renew my commitment to service. But for some reason when I got up this morning, I decided to board a bus up to Nashua, NH to join other immigrant rights activists in standing for human rights.

As we prayed for blessing on our work, as we stood on the street corner and chatted together, I realized that what I was doing was also an act of worship. I felt my commitment to God and God's work renewed as I stood with other people and with new friends. A small counter demonstration held a placard that said; "Deport Illegal Aliens." Aliens. But the immigrants who are my friends are not aliens. They are human beings, made in God's image. At the center of my life as an activist is seeing Christ in every human being--seeing the humanity of every person. So, while I did not partake of the Eucharist today, I did meet Christ in all the lovely people that welcomed me in their midst. It was an act of worship to stand with and for people who are marginalized in society and live out Jesus' command to "love one another."

Of course, I will be back in church next Sunday.

A Tale of Three Churches

So, today, I decided to try to fit in three church visits in the same day. Ok, so I'm a nerdy seminary student! At any rate, I am so glad I went to each of them-- each had their own character and draw. One of the things I am loving about the Boston area is that I can access so many experiences. Walking to one church, I passed a beautiful chanted Ethiopian service, a prayer service starting at a beautiful masjid, and a lovely Buhhdist center that I would have walked into, but they were closed.

My morning started at St. James Episcopal Church in Porter Square...



This was my kind of service! Down to earth like I am used to back home (the priest was not even wearing an alb) in a beautiful building complete with gorgeous stained glass. Most beautiful were the people-- a very diverse urban congregation and lively! There were probably about 120 in attendance and the service was punctuated with amens and hymn music that, sung, sounded more like gospel. I loved that I was able to sing many of my favorite hymns from childhood. My favorite segment was the prayers of the people. Instead of the usual mumbling of requests, many people in the congregation offered prayers aloud for people they knew, recent crisises, or just reflecting on the sermon. It was a holy time, celebrating the Eucharist with black and white, citizen and immigrant, all one in Christ.

Then I headed out to the Boston Commons....


Here I joined the Common Cathedral, an outdoor church right in the middle of the commons, where most of the members are unhoused. And this was the most powerful service I have yet attended. The service was very simple and the music was led by a group of men with tamborines and harmonicas. There were about 40 people there, mostly the city's least wanted, with a few curious tourists who either took pictures or rolled their eyes. Sandwiches were handed out before and, come time for the prayers of the people, any person who wanted to had a chance to speak. Some gave a testimony, prayed for a friend, spoke about their fears or just thanked Jesus. I think this was the kind of place Jesus liked to hang out and I felt his presence. The singing was joyful and everyone seemed to know the words-- from the man who kept taking out his whiskey bottle to the girl dressed up in black and red leathers. And, best of all, all were welcome to the table as the priest and deacon and assistants walked around the circle and then the common area, offering all the bread and wine. Afterwards, a sweet older man with a daughter in college came up to me and gave me a cross and a blessing, sharing his story-- how, after 17 years on the street, he got a job a year ago and finally found an appartment recently. He talked about how God has changed his life.

A trip back to Cambridge and a nap later, I was ready to find an evening Spanish service...

So, I do get lost sometimes here and this was a bit hard to find, but I finally made it. About 150 showed up for Spanish mass at St. Mary of the Ascension Catholic Church. I couldn't navigate the missal well, but I enjoyed listening and understood a lot. I loved the priest's illustration during his sermon on the gospel for today as he shared his family's reaction to his decision to attend seminary (apparently, if I heard correctly, they wanted him to be a doctor instead). I felt a bit awkward in a catholic service in a new place with a language I am barely competent in, but I think I'll go back, after I find a order of service in Spanish so I know what to do next! Nothing is more beautiful to me than to hear the Padre Nuestro in Spanish-- especially when it was sung.

Starting a New Life

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And you stepped onto new ground...
Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life's desire. John O'Donohue

I still cannot believe that I am here, in seminary, the place I've dreamed of for so many years. I still walk the campus and tell myself; "This is not a dream, I am really here." The years of waiting have been worth it-- I am ready for this new stage of my life. The best part of orientation was when the campus spiritual director took us on a walk through a labryinth and read this poem. It was a fitting start to a new journey, to take time to reflect on what has brought me to this place and where I will go from here. I felt a powerful sense of the presense of God, cradling me in motherly arms as I start this new life. It has been over a year since I prayed; "I will trust you on the sea" and embarked on this new path and found each door open for me. And it has brought me here, to Episcopal Divinity School, on the other side of the country.

I am settled in the little room that will be my home for the next three years and am learning to use Boston's public transportation. I am happy that I will be substantially reducing my carbon footprint! And I am signed up for classes and very excited to get started studying liberation theology and the church and social movements. I seem to fit in very well at EDS and am so grateful that I chose this school!

This weekend, I have spent a bit of time touring Cambridge and Boston, so here are a few pictures of what my new home looks like...

The campus...

In the Boston Commons in front of George Washington, my new friends, students from Africa...

A park in Cambridge... The stone monument memorializes the Irish potato famine and says in the back, "Never again should a people starve in a world of plenty." Besides the memorial sleeps a homeless man.

Downtown Boston...

Saying Goodbye-- for now

I grew up here on the Olympic Peninsula and while I am very excited to be off to seminary, I will miss the place I call home. This weekend, my sister and I drove around the entire Peninsula and I wrote a poem outside our hotel room in Port Townsend...


Today by the sea I say farewell
To the land that I call my home
The land that has nurtured me
and heard my sorrows
The land that has taught me
And filled my heart with joy.

I say farewell to the grand mountains
And windy mountain roads
To the towering ancient trees
Holding the memory of long ago.

I say farewell to the small forest paths
Lined with moss and lichen under a canopy of cedar
To the bracken rivers
Singing over broken moss-lined stone.

I say farewell to the tiny rural towns
Filled with poverty and laughter
To the uneasy blend of culture
Native tribes, loggers-- immigrants and city transplants.

I say farewell to the toppling farmhouses
With flecking red paint next to rotting silos
To the unkept fields, fences and barns
That speak of a dying way of life.

I say farewell to towering totem poles
Keeping the memory of an abandoned people
To the cedar canoe and the fishing boats
That once roamed and still roam to salty cove.

I say farewell to tourist towns
With streets lined with Victorian homes
To funky bookstores and logging museums
Lining two lane highways.

I say farewell to the creatures I know and love
The deer on the beach with her fawns
To the otter playing in the Hood Canal
And the grand bald eagle alone on the beach.

But I do not say farewell to the sea.
I may cross a continent, but the same
Sea that calls me here, will call me there
The rocks may be different, the seashore unique
But the sea is always the same.

And of course, I will come back!

I'm Back!

I stopped blogging for awhile due to personal circumstances, but since I am on my way to seminary, I thought this would be a good place to keep all my friends updated on my new life. I will be attending seminary beginning in just a few weeks. I am also applying for postulancy in the Episcopal church. I'll keep you all updated on my wild ride!

So I'm posting sermons...

This was my sermon for Epiphany I. It was a blessing to preach at St. Mark's Montesano for the first time!!


What do we know about Jesus as a young man? The gospels tell us almost nothing about the early life of the man Jesus. After the story of his birth, we have very little information on his childhood, his adolescence, his early adulthood. As far as we know, he lived a very ordinary life in the very ordinary town of Nazareth. Apparently, no one seemed to think he was anyone special.
Until he shows up in our passage this morning. This ordinary man from an ordinary town steps into the waters of the Jordan to be baptized by a ragged prophet and receives a call.

Jesus was a small town man. Montesano doesn’t show up on a lot of maps. When I tell someone I am from Montesano, I often get this look with a question mark. Where is that? When I say “I live in Montesano” to people who have lived in western Washington—maybe in Seattle or even Olympia—all their lives, many of them have no idea where our town is. Nazareth was a bit like that. First, it was in Galilee, kind of a backwater place with little strategic importance and worse, it was the home of the hicks. The Galileans were a culturally mixed people, the working class fisherman, the blue collar workers. Later in the gospels, when a future disciple hears Jesus is from Nazareth, he says; “Can anything good come from Nazareth?”

But here he is, a working man from a family of carpenters, fresh from a backwater town, stepping into the Jordan and hearing God’s voice. What an amazing experience that must have been!

Why wasn’t Jesus born to a wealthy family? He could have at least been born in Jerusalem, the center of religious and cultural power. Better yet, how about a wealthy Roman family who could have given him all the privileges of an upper class life? But when God reveals himself in the flesh, he comes to a poor, working family, living far from the centers of power.

By doing that, Jesus identifies with us, with the little people. He stands on the side of the poor and the backwater towns and the people that are not even noticed by the rest of the world. He stands on the side of the homeless, the nobody, the immigrant. By the side of small town people.
And the baptisms don’t stop with Jesus. In our passage in Acts, more little people are baptized. They are Samaritans, a renegade sect of Jews who intermarried with the wrong people. They were part of the group that good religious people did not associate with. And the baptisms continue to this day. We are part of Jesus’ motley band of followers, part of the fellowship of the baptized, part of the nobodies welcomed by God. Let’s not forget—this is Epiphany, the time where we celebrate the coming of the three wise men to see the Christ child. Let’s not forget that these men were likely of a different race and religion than the Holy Family and they were welcomed and celebrated just the same.

Several of us are part of a discernment class, meeting every week to try to better understand what it means to be part of this fellowship of the baptized and what it means for each of us individually.

We all have a call. It comes with the fellowship.

Let’s go back to the passage for a moment. Jesus steps into the water and he receives baptism at the hand of his cousin. Then he hears a voice—God’s voice coming out of heaven; “This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.” Jesus heard what we are all looking for, what we are specifically looking for in our discernment class—to hear God’s voice of love and acceptance.

When I went to England last summer on pilgrimage, I was looking to hear that voice too. I had decisions to make in my life and I had this sense of call and I wanted to listen for God’s voice. At one point, in this enormous cathedral, standing in an empty, gloomy chapel, I stopped by the open lectionary at a table where passers-by were encouraged to write their prayer requests. I sat for awhile and I opened the book to the bookmarked page. And there were the words of our first reading this morning; “I have called you by name, you are mine.” I cannot tell you what that meant to me, there and in that place.

Because baptism and entering in that fellowship are not comfortable things. It is scary. What do we do with our call? Why would God want us? We can’t do anything. We’re no good at this or that.

But these are the words given to all of us this morning;
“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name, you are mine.
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.”

Because the God of love calls the little people. God accepts us even when we do not accept ourselves. And makes us a part of a great destiny.

When this young carpenter from a backwater town steps into the Jordan, the world changes and we are part of that change. He knew where this mission would lead him. The voice from heaven was for him, but it was also for the poor and the outcast. The people no one noticed were to be told that God loved and accepted them.

The fellowship of the baptized is destined to complete Jesus’ mission to offer welcome to all. Not only must we become aware of the fact that God accepts us, we must extend that acceptance in the world. We live in a world full of strife and violence and despair. A world where people are excluded because they are not part of the right group. A world where people without resources live on the streets in the rain. A world where we kill each other over religion and wealth. A world where little kids have to wonder if they will get dinner tonight.

It’s to this world that we are called to extend the acceptance and love of God.

That is message of our baptism. That is the message of Epiphany. Amen.