Things I Forgot to Remember

I’ve spent a lot of time these first few days of sabbatical remembering things I’ve forgotten. In random order, here are a few:

The crash of the waves

The fact that snorkeling gear is the great equalizer—everybody looks dorky in a snorkel and mask.

How the world underwater is a hushed paradise.

My “little” brothers: how wonderful and amazing they have turned out to be.

What it feels like to be around people who have known and loved you since the day you were born. And they love you still, strangely enough.

How the Creator of the Universe is an artist of the highest order . . . colors you have never imagined together look masterful on, say, a parrot fish.

Skin pulled tight as the salt water dries.

Balloon fish—black with perfect white polkadots—my favorite.

Feeling small in a whole undersea world and remembering how small I am in the real world.

How much I have always wanted my children to run from tidepool to tidepool with their nets, exclaiming in glee.

The rough scrape of the lava rock on my bare feet.

Finding a sea cucumber . . . and bringing it up to the surface for my kids to touch.

Exhausted kids at the end of a long day on the reef.

Feeling the big strong presence of God and hanging on tight.

Why did I ever let myself forget?

Feast!

I didn’t spend even 48 hours there, but what a feast! 

I just got back from a quick trip to New Orleans, where I dutifully ate my way through the city.  But the best thing of all: a great feast for my soul to hang out with dear friends Diane and Carol, and to hug my brave friend Anne.  Check out the Garlic Crusted Texas Redfish Cooked in the Wood Burning Oven with Brabant Potatoes, Crimini Mushrooms, Bacon and Sauce Beurre Rouge and the Blackberry Stout Glazed Hickory Smoked St. Louis Ribs with Orecchiette Pasta-Brie Cream “Mac & Cheese” and Honey Baked White Beans from NOLA, one of my favorite New Orleans restaurants. 

That’s what I mean . . . feast!

Dunked Under

At the risk of sounding a little more dramatic than usual, the start to sabbatical for me has had distinct similarities to the sensation of jumping off a very high diving board into very deep water. Or jello or something. It feels like moving toward the surface for air, but through a viscous, resistant matter. I can kind of see the light at the top, but the present is surreal and a little scary. Okay, a lot.

It feels like being dunked under.

Which is kind of appropriate, as Sunday we celebrated baptism in worship. In fact, the whole day was quite a start to sabbatical, with a packed worship service, emotional sermon, wonderful new members, sabbatical blessing, church anniversary luncheon and program, and a memorial service in the afternoon. To jump head-first, then, into this strange nothingness called sabbatical has been at a minimum weird but also, honestly, a little fear-inducing . . . like strong strokes in deep, dark water to reach air.

This is, I suppose, part of why pastors should take sabbaticals.

I suppose it’s too easy for us to forget who we are aside from the constant demands of very wonderful people who need us. While it’s heady to feel needed, that need can start small and manageable and grow and grow and grow until it fills up a room—or a life—and threatens to suffocate.

The potentially dangerous piece of this phenomenon, I can already begin to see, is that living life at the intense pace of constant spiritual demand does not allow for accurate assessment of our own boundaries.

Or mental health. Or priorities. Or lots of other stuff.

And, you know it’s probably something to look at when you wake up one morning the first day of sabbatical and find yourself feeling a little fearful of empty time . . . this time without preoccupation with the needs of others.

I feel uncertain and unfamiliar with the individual advocacy involved in swimming toward the surface. I’ve been caught under many waves and know the feeling of intensive focus on reaching air—to the exclusion of other concerns like your surfboard or even your swimsuit. I know I have to do this alone, and I know I have to do it for my own life.

But that makes me scared, too.

I never do anything alone. One of the lynchpins of my faith is the theology of community; I am first to quote Dorotheos of Gaza to anyone who will listen.  He liked to talk about the world as a circle in whose center is God and on the edge of the circle are human lives:  ”Imagine now that there are straight lines connecting from the outside of the circle all human lives to God at the center.  Can’t you see that there is no way to move toward God without drawing closer to other people, and no way to approach other people without coming near to God?”  In other words, as an extrovert I prefer to be playing volleyball in the pool with the whole gang, say, rather than swimming toward the surface just so I can breathe.  I feel the need for community with others profoundly and deeply.

But community can become an excuse, I hate to say . . .an excuse to avoid the questions that only come up in the dark moments of solitary contemplation.  And it’s probably about time for me to take a step back and make sure I’m in the pool because I want to be there . . . that I’m not just jumping in to try to save the whole entire world singlehandedly (as if I could).

The good thing about all this fear and uncertainty is that they are tangible reminders of the things that bring life. God . . . who is here, even when I don’t have outside affirmation at my fingertips or when the voices of others are not there to do the work that I should be doing for myself.

Swimming up toward air . . . the first task of sabbatical reflection.

I want to surface soon.

A Pastoral Letter

Sabbatical begins tomorrow, when the look of this blog will change and I will be writing sabbatical reflections.  Anybody with questions about sabbatical may find this page of the blog helpful.  What follows here is part of this morning’s sermon, which was intended to be a pastoral letter a la the Apostle Paul.

Pastor Amy, who tries her best to be a servant of Jesus Christ and often fails, to the saints of Christ Jesus who have been gathered on the corner of H and 8^th Streets, Northwest, in Washington, D.C., for 147 years this week, and who faithfully continue to meet and worship together and serve God in the name of Jesus Christ every week.  Grace and peace to all of you, who take the Gospel of Jesus Christ so seriously and who are willing to be a little bit uncomfortable as it unfolds among us.

I thank my God every time I think of you, and I definitely pray for you with joy and usually incredulous laughter, because I have never seen a more diverse or surprising community of faith.  I’m thankful for all of you for so many reasons, but here are a few:

• You are not afraid to be courageous in taking the Gospel of Jesus Christ seriously.  You know Jesus has changed and is in the process of transforming your individual lives, and you work hard at being part of a community that reflects that ongoing work of God.
• You welcome everyone who wants to follow Jesus here, even people with serious questions and profound doubts.  You make room at the table of Christ for people who are so radically different from each other.  You are often willing to suspend your discomfort and walk for a little while into places that are new and unfamiliar, intentionally living with the knowledge that Christian faith is not uniformity, and that we are richer for our differences.
• You are not bound by the traditional ways we’ve always done church.  I can’t tell you how thankful I am to be part of a community that will try new things in worship, work hard to integrate the gifts of individuals, and open itself to something new.
• You give yourselves so generously to the work of God in this place, and for that I am deeply grateful.  Thank you for taking me seriously when I tell you that you should be here, be engaged, give your money, and share your time with this community.  Church is a tapestry of many perspectives and riotous color, but not when church members don’t engage in the life of the community.  So many of you do, and I am grateful.

For these qualities and many, many more, I do thank my God every time I remember you, and feel a deep sense of gratitude and disbelief that I would be so fortunate to learn how to be a pastor with people who know so well how to be the church. 

My prayer for you is that you continue to grow in these and other areas of spiritual giftedness, and that you will readily recognize and celebrate these and other unique qualities that you share. It seems that we all understand: this is a community to which you and I have each been called by God, and our responsibilities to nurture and care for it are not insignificant.  Thank you for knowing that fact and actively living it.

I don’t presume to have any great theological truths to impart to you in this letter, but there are a few things I want to say before I peace-out, as Leah would say.

First, I know you need your pastor; I know you will miss your pastor.  So many of you have been sure to let me know you feel that way.  But you can be the church for the next three months.  You can!  We have all worked hard to make sure all the little pieces of practical concern are in order, so the technicalities of being the church will march on.  And, if one or two balls get dropped, don’t worry.  Today Calvary has been here 147 years!  I think we’ll probably be here in three months. 

Most of all you need to know the theological underpinning that informs this particular point: this is God’s work.  Calvary is God’s church.  You and me?  We’re gifted to be sharing this part of the journey with each other in this place, but God’s great work of redemption, salvation, and transformation goes on and on and on, regardless of the personalities involved.  If we’re feeling a little unease today, that’s okay, because change and shift are always uncomfortable. 

But remember: God is well at work.  God has been well at work long before any of us ever showed up here.  God will be well at work long after we leave this place.  God will hold us, God will hold you in the months ahead.

Second, this church has been gifted with talented and committed staff and lay leadership.  One of your pastors will be gone for awhile but there are many fine and strong leaders who will be here, helping you steer the ship for these three months. 

In fact, your staff and pastoral relations committee have prepared thoughtfully and intentionally for this chapter in the life of our community.  They are ready to be your pastors and your leaders during this sabbatical time.  Please pray for them; please support them in every way you can.  While they have prepared extensively and have the gifts and capabilities to lead you, they will need your support in many ways over the next three months.  You consistently teach me how to be a better pastor; I know you will teach and support all of them.

Third, we all have some spiritual work to do over the next three months.  Sabbatical is an intentional spiritual practice of rest and renewal, of stretching our preconceived ideas about who we are and who God is, and learning to see our lives and our faith in new ways.  Because of the work we all do during this time apart, we will come together again with a renewed sense of enthusiasm for the work of this church, and even perhaps with new ideas and direction for our future together. 

We’ve worked to plan programming and worship this summer that will help you recognize opportunities for the spiritual practice of Sabbath.  Please, learn some new spiritual practices and try them out.  Make room in your life and in the life of this community for God’s Spirit to create something new.  When we come back together this fall we will see the fruit of this spiritual practice and we will know better where it is God is leading us as a church.

Finally, when it comes to practical matters:

Don’t stop coming to church; don’t stop investing your time in the work of leadership; don’t stop giving your money; don’t stop inviting people into our community. The work of God in this place cannot suffer neglect or inattention because your pastor is away.  Keep up the good work that God is doing in this place and in your lives.

Please pray for me and for each other.  I will pray for you.  While we are absent from each other, we will all know without a doubt that the Spirit of God who draws us into community is keeping us connected.  Don’t lose sight of that important spiritual perspective and critical faith practice.  And know that I hold each of you in my heart and in my prayers as I am absent from you.

Last, please work hard to take care of each other.  One of my deepest honors has always been the gracious invitations you have extended me to enter into moments of grief, joy, pain and doubt in your own private lives.  Remember, Calvary is a place where you can be yourself, where you can bring your pain and joy and everything about what being human means in your life, and receive love, support, and company as you walk this journey.  Walk with each other even more deeply than you already do; share your pain and joy with one another; be pastors to each other.

As a personal postscript I will say that I am so grateful for this time of rest and renewal.  I confess that, with all the joys of being your pastor, I do often lately feel tired and in need of an opportunity to regroup and remember my own call to serve God, just as all of you must remember yours.  I promise I will honor the time you are giving me by resting and listening for the voice of God in my own life, and I promise I will return with anticipation for what is ahead of us as a community of faith. 

I will also tell you that I have been a little surprised by the emotion that accompanies this short goodbye.  Three months is not so long, I know, but perhaps it has taken leaving to know in a new way how much I love all of you and how you each gift my life with rare and wonderful glimpses of God.  I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

And, as a final blessing, I will say: over the next three months especially, may the Lord bless you and keep you.  May the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you.  And, may God grant us all deep and abiding peace.

Amen.

Fly!

Who among us could ever have sat through a youth rally featuring Tony Campolo and not be irrevocably influenced?  I first saw him in the sanctuary of First Presbyterian Church at its former location in downtown Honolulu–probably sometime around 1983, when he came to preach at some youth event my mother forced me to attend.

Tony’s a very engaging speaker; he easily invites audiences to laugh and cry and think about faith.  He also has had the courage to speak out on issues of radical inclusion, a rare and prophetic voice in the evangelical world. 

Tony Campolo will be at Calvary on Friday night to talk about one of his personal passions, ending child slavery in Haiti.  In an evening hosted by Beyond Borders, we’ll all have the opportunity to hear more about what’s going on in Haiti.  Here’s the official invite: “Just a ninety-minute flight from the United States as many as 300,000 children are trapped in a life of slavery. They are called “stay-with” children because they live apart from their parents and stay with the families they serve. Many work every waking hour and face intense physical, psychological, and sexual abuse.  There is hope!  A small but growing movement in Haiti is working to protect these children, reunite them with their families, and bring an end to child servitude.  Come learn what they are doing and how you can help.”

Kites will be the visual symbols of freedom that night–our sanctuary will be filled with Haitian, hand-made kites, and we’ll hear this amazing poem written about their power to inspire the children of Haiti.  Join us!

FLY

The wind will carry you liberated

up above the heat

and the stink of fetid water

to be lightly kissed by the morning sun

and dance in the azure sky.

My heart rejoices as you rise up

higher, higher.

Tethered to you by a fragile cord

I imagine that I am reaching for the clouds,

my bare feet callous on the broken,

blazing asphalt.

But you skip lightly from breeze to breeze.

You are plastic, sticks and string,

I know because I made you.

But for today,

you are my soul

and in you

I can be free.

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

April 1999