God and Mothers*

* The preacher’s words today belong to The Rev. Dr. Kayko Driedger Hesslein, Hordern Professor of Theology, at Lutheran Theological Seminary in Saskatoon. Dr Kayko is an ordained pastor in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada (ELCIC) and provides a personal perspective in this sermon for Easter 7B, May 12, 2024 — Mother’s Day. Thank you, Dr. Kayko.

Well, today is Mother’s Day, and no doubt you’ve seen the cards thanking mothers for all the sacrifices they’ve made, for their boundless love, for the hugs and kisses they’ve shared, for all the work they’ve done for their families. You’ve probably seen the commercials on TV and heard them on the radio – “This Mother’s Day, show her you care, buy her…” whatever they’re selling – jewelry, a camera, a drill from Home Depot (that’s my favourite) – the list is endless. And of course, you’ve noticed the flowers and balloons in the store, covered with hearts, saying Happy Mother’s Day.

Even the church takes part in this celebration of mothers, although it’s not a specifically Christian holiday. Churches proclaim mothers to be God’s angels and saints – the epitome of selflessness, role models of self-sacrifice. Luther himself called motherhood the highest vocation and calling for women – a proclamation that was revolutionary at a time when motherhood was seen as a punishment for Eve’s transgression in the garden of Eden and nowhere near as valued as any of the “actual” vocations that men fulfilled. Since then, in the church, Mother’s Day has been a time to talk about the holiness of all mothers––about Mary, Jesus’ mother, who bravely answered God’s call to carry the Saviour in her womb and then to give him up to die; about Sarah, the wife of Abraham and the mother of Isaac, who carried Isaac in her old age and fulfilled God’s promise of making Abraham the father of generations of the covenant. We hear about Leah and Rachel, about Hannah who wept in the Temple because she couldn’t have a child, about the two mothers in King Solomon’s court––one who couldn’t cope with the loss of her baby and the other who would rather give hers up than watch it die. We heard Jesus’ words last Sunday, words that God has given us, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I loved you,” and it seems a natural step to connect this to mothers. Who else but a mother could love this way? A mother’s love is the closest many of us get to God’s love for us.

I’ll tell you a secret about mothers and Mother’s Day, though. And maybe this changes the longer you’ve been a mother, and maybe not all mothers feel this way, but this has been my experience. Mother’s Day, as lovely as it is to get cards and flowers and a break from cooking and to hear about other mothers in the Bible, also makes mothers feel a little bit… guilty. Or inadequate. Or maybe a bit ashamed. You see, mothers never feel that we’re doing as good a job as others seem to think we are. Mothers tend to walk around with this pervasive sense of guilt that we are not the mothers we wish we were. We hear about how wonderful other moms are, and we hear God’s commandment to love our children as God loves us, and we know that we don’t. The most common feeling that mothers share is guilt––over things done and left undone––and what those things have done to our children. Often we feel guilty that: 

• We’re too hard on our children and they’re going to rebel against us.
• We’re too soft on our children and they’re going to think they’re entitled to everything.
• We don’t protect our children enough and they’re going to be hurt by someone or something.
• We’re overprotective of our children and they’re not going to know how to handle the world.
• We don’t give them enough independence and they’re not going to be able to handle real responsibility.
• We try to make them too independent and they won’t be able to form close relationships with anyone.
• We treat them in ways they don’t deserve.
• We don’t treat them the way they do deserve.
• We don’t spend enough time with our children. 
• We don’t spend enough time for ourselves. 
• We don’t give them enough. 
• We give them too much. 
• We don’t do enough of this. 
• We do too much of that..

The list goes on, and so does the guilt.

Working mothers, stay-at-home mothers, student mothers, single mothers, married mothers––we come to this day with mixed feelings because we know that we have never been able to love and mother our children the way we wish we could: perfectly, as Jesus loves us, as God commands us. All mothers, no matter how well-intentioned (and, truthfully, there are some mothers who have not been well-intentioned), no matter how many sacrifices we have made (and there are always sacrifices), know that we fall short, and on Mother’s Day, this feeling lurks persistently at the back of our minds. We are never always and fully the mothers the cards say we are. We all have had our times of anger, and impatience, and annoyance, and negligence. We have all fallen short of the perfect love God commands from us.

Well, today is Mother’s Day, and so I say specifically to those of you who mother, “As a called and ordained minister of the Church of Christ, and by his authority, I therefore declare to you the entire forgiveness of all your sins.” Now, we may smile a bit, but I am serious. Mothers do not hear very often that we are forgiven for falling short as mothers. And so I proclaim to you who mother that the forgiveness that is granted to all Christians through Christ is also granted to you. To you mothers specifically. You are forgiven for all of the mistakes you have made as you mother. You are forgiven for the things that you have done and left undone. You are forgiven for not loving your children as yourselves. You are forgiven for being too strict and for not being strict enough. You are forgiven for not protecting your children from harm and for being overprotective. You are forgiven for not giving them enough and for giving them too much. Through Christ, whom some of the Reformation women called our mother, God forgives you.

God forgives you and God loves you. Even more than we find ways to forgive and love our own children, despite their failings and mistakes, despite the hurt they have caused us, God forgives and loves us, despite our failings and mistakes and the hurt we have caused. It isn’t that God doesn’t see the ways we have failed – it is that God has seen them, and God, who loves our children even more than we do, forgives us and loves us, too, because we are also God’s children.

I have one last good word to share with you today. As mothers, we always hope that our children will not be hurt by the mistakes we have made. We hope that our children will be able to move past the ways in which our mothering has held them back. The last good word that I want to share with you is that God makes this happen. We have heard over the last few weeks of this Easter season, that God makes the branches bear more fruit, and causes fruit to grow that will last. God gives to those who mother the responsibility of watering and feeding and caring for the seeds that we have been given, and more often than not, we don’t get it right. Mothers are human. But God works through and beyond our own efforts, or lack thereof, and loves them in ways that we can’t, sending the Holy Spirit where we have fallen short, and being more committed to them than we possibly could. As mothers, this is our salvation – that God takes better care of our children than we do, and that despite our mistakes, despite our inability to live up to the Hallmark cards’ description of us and despite our failure to love our children as God loves us, God loves our children, God loves us, and God forgives us. Thanks be to God. Happy Mother’s Day. Amen. 

The Gospel meets Red Dress Day

Last summer I camped with a couple of friends on Cedar Lake in Algonquin Park. We were fortunate to get on the one beachfront campsite on a large island in the middle of the lake. The campsite was on the west side, facing the setting sun.

On the last day we were there, we wanted to satisfy our curiosity to see what was on the other side of the island, on the east shore. And there wasn’t a sandy beach to follow all the way around. So, we had to hike straight across.

There was no trail, no clearly marked path. We had to bushwhack our way through the thick underbrush and dense wood. There was deadfall we had to clamber over, swamp we had to wade through, prickly bushes to push away and mosquitos the size of buses to swat.

By avoiding some of the pitfalls in hiking across it was easy to get turned around and head in the wrong direction. So, occasionally I stopped to check the compass on my watch to keep us headed east. And we eventually found our circuitous way. After enjoying the breeze at the water’s edge on the east side we made a different albeit equally challenging path back to our campsite. All, thanks to my compass.

God gives us instructions. The word “command” appears often in the bible. But these instructions are not to be understood in a command-and-control kind of way that we must mindlessly obey. Commandments are a compass (W. Kimmerer, 2015). A compass gives us an orientation to life, not a map. The work of our lives consists of creating our map using the compass God gives us.

Love is the main theme of Jesus’ speech in the Gospel for today (John 15:9-17). The word appears several times in this short passage. Jesus says, ¹²“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” The writer of First John, in the Epistle reading today, echoes Jesus’ words: “²By this we know that we love the children of God, when we love God and obey his commandments. ³For the love of God is this, that we obey his commandments” (1 John 5).

The commandment to love is a compass Jesus gives you. You are given the orientation. And it’s up to you now to forge a path forward through the thickets and challenges of life.

Hopefully, not alone. The arduous journey across the wilderness island was possible only because I was not alone. I probably wouldn’t have done it by myself.

In an ethics course I’m now taking, we read about what it means to be in a helping profession. In a relationship of care, the caregiver places their full attention on the interests and needs of the other.

The person in the relationship receiving care determines the agenda, not the caregiver. The caregiver’s needs, though important, are put aside to focus on what the client or patient is bringing forward. The effectiveness and quality of the caring relationship depends on how safe the person feels in the relationship to share with the caregiver what is truly on their hearts.

In practising an active and deep listening, helpers and caregivers also fulfill one of the main ethical principles identified in professional caregiving: “societal interest”; that is, part of all we do for other individuals is also a responsibility we have to act in the best interests of society as a whole (Sorsdahl et al., 2023, p. 8). I was surprised to read this in a secular manual because it aligns with the Gospel of Jesus.

Agape love – the kind of love Jesus taught and modelled – is a servant love. Loving one another, bearing fruit, calling us friends – these phrases speak about community and a responsibility to all people. The Holy Spirit fell on the Gentiles as well (Acts 10:45). God so loved the world (John 3:16-17) not to condemn it but so that all may be saved.

And that is why the church on May 5 recognizes the National Day of Awareness for Murdered and Missing Indigenous Women and Girls and Two Spirit People[1], who have been subject to disproportionate violence in Canada. This day is otherwise known as “Red Dress Day” inspired by Métis artist Jaime Black’s REDress Project installation, in which she hung empty, red dresses to represent the missing and murdered women.[2] Red dresses have thus become symbolic of this “hidden crisis”[3] in our country.

The Red Dress display has travelled across the Eastern Synod this past year. We are fortunate to have the display today on the actual May 5 National Day of Awareness. Last week it was at All Saints Lutheran Church in Guelph and next Sunday it will be at Redeemer Lutheran Church in London, Ontario.

Our church is not just about meeting our own, individual needs, or seeking what’s best only for ourselves. The church, the Gospel, the mission of Christ is to love the world. This is our orientation, our compass. And, admittedly, creating our map and path across this proverbial island is hard work, not easy, and takes us out of our comfort zones. The compass calls us to exercise humility when we make mistakes and exercise perseverance to forge ahead.

In his letter to the Ephesians (5:1-2), Paul writes, “Watch what God does, and then you do it, like children who learn proper behavior from their parents. Mostly what God does is love you. Keep company with him and learn a life of love. Observe how Christ loved us. His love was not cautious but extravagant. He didn’t love in order to get something from us but to give everything of himself to us. Love like that. (Peterson, 2021).

It’s appropriate today to give the last word to an Indigenous voice, Melanie Florence, who wrote a picture book with François Thisdale titled, Missing Nimâma, or My Missing Mother.

I’ll read just two scenes from the book. The first is a conversation between the child Kateri and her grandmother. And the second scene is years later when Kateri is grown up and participates in a public memorial for Murdered and Missing Indigenous Women and Girls.

Both scenes include two voices: The first is Kateri’s voice. And the second is her lost mother’s voice.

“Where is nimâmâ, my mother?” I ask nôhkom [my grandmother].

“Lost”, she says. Lost?

“If she’s lost, let’s just go find her.”

Nôhkom [Grandmother] smooths my hair, soft and dark as a raven’s wing.

Parts it. Braids it. Ties it with a red ribbon. My mother’s favourite colour.

“She’s one of the lost women, kamâmakos.” She calls me ‘little butterfly’. Just like nimâmâ did.

Before she got lost.

Taken. Taken from my home. Taken from my family. Taken from my daughter. My kamâmakos. My beautiful little butterfly, I fought to get back to you, Kateri. I wish I could tell you that. And when I couldn’t fight anymore, I closed my eyes. And saw your beautiful face.

…

I wasn’t expecting to see so many people here. Holding signs. Wearing t-shirts. Sharing stories. I’m surrounded by the faces of so many Aboriginal women who never came home. Stolen sisters. I hold my own sign. My own lost loved one. Nimâmâ. Missing. Aiyana Cardinal. Lost.

So many faces. So many lost souls. So many people left behind. Wondering if their loved one will ever come home. Or having to live with the knowledge that they never will. Too many lost and not enough who care. (Florence & Thisdale, 2015)

—

References:

Florence, F. & Thisdale, F. (2015). Missing nimâma. Clockwise Press.

Peterson, E. (2021). The Message: The bible in contemporary language. NavPress. www.messagebible.com

Sorsdahl, M. N., Borgen, R. A., & Borgen, W. A. (Eds.). (2023). Ethics in a Canadian counselling and psychotherapy context. CCPA.

W. Kimmerer, Robin. (2015). Braiding sweetgrass: Indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge, and the teachings of plants. Milkweed.

---

[1]  Two-Spirit People

[2] Details about Red Dress Day: https://www.jaimeblackartist.com/exhibitions/

[3]  Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls 

Rooted and grounded, growing and life-giving

Many thanks to my colleague the Rev. Kimber McNabb who provided most of the ideas and words for this sermon. You can read the original at her blog —https://revkimber.blogspot.com/2024/04/jesus-proclaims-i-am-to-each-forest.html

In the Gospel of John, Jesus proclaims a variety of I AM statements: I AM the Bread of Life, I AM the Light of the world, I AM the Door, I AM the Resurrection and the Life. I AM the Good Shepherd. I AM the Way, the Truth, and the Life. The final I AM appears in today’s Gospel: “I AM the Vine.” (John 15:1-8)

Why is this image the last I AM revelation from Jesus? And why is it included as one of the Easter Gospel readings?

Martin Luther’s words can get us started. He wrote, “Our Lord has written the promise of Resurrection, not in books, but in every leaf in springtime.”

It’s interesting, isn’t it, how often Jesus uses the natural world to describe God’s realm and truth. Admittedly, the Gospels were written in a predominantly agrarian culture. I suppose Jesus could have talked about the tallest buildings in Jerusalem and how they were built. He could have talked about the Roman aqueducts and the ingenuity involved. He could have talked about the Roman chariots and their power. But that’s not what we have a record of in the Bible. We have stories of seeds, birds and trees.

The vine metaphor is quite relevant for us today. Recently I read about a beautiful living practice that expresses a vine and branches idea. It expands the ‘I AM the vine’ into our context today. “I AM the Vine” speaks hope and resurrection to a people living in a world today in crisis.

I AM the vine – resurrected in DAISUGI.

photo via https://twitter.com/wrathofgnon/status/1250287741247426565

Daisugi is an ancient Japanese forestry technique developed in the 14^th century in the Kitayama region of Japan. It is an example of silviculture; the science and art of growing and cultivating forest.

The practice chooses an established old growth tree, usually a variety of Japanese cypress. This mother tree is cropped straight across, removing its top canopy. Cedar shoots are grafted onto the cropped branches of the mother tree. These shoots are pruned every few years to ensure straight and knot free lumber come harvest time.

So the picture is a large tree trunk with strong branches reaching up. From what would be the middle of the tree there is a straight line. From here a whole forest grows on top of the other tree.

The cultivated forest takes 20 years to mature. At harvest time the strong established mother tree remains ready to grow the next forest.

Forests that are nourished from Mother Tree mature quicker and produce more wood than other cedar forests. The wood is more flexible, denser, and stronger than standard cedar. This process has created a sustainable supply of raw material for over 700 years.

Revisiting Jesus’ statement, I AM the Vine, during the season of Easter, brings forward the promises Jesus spoke before his death and brings them into the realm of resurrection. This opens a myriad of possibilities for life, for resurrection appearances amid whatever the suffering and crisis of the day.  The All Creation Sings hymnbook concludes one of its creation prayers:

“In the name of the one who from a wounded tree birthed a new creation”—pg 47ACS

So, the question, “What difference does this image make as the last I AM revelation of Jesus?” From a wounded tree – from the cross – I AM did not die. I AM rooted in all that was, and is, and is to come, is resurrected – I AM alive!  I AM a hearty vine with energy and love and wisdom to cultivate a forest of branches to produce abundant fruit.

Canadian forest ecologist, Suzanne Simard, in her book “Finding the Mother Tree” discusses the interconnectedness of trees and how -rather than competing for resources- they share nutrients and resources with each other. Mother Trees are relational, with vast underground networks connected over the centuries. They are energy and the source of ancient life.

Jesus saying, “I AM the Vine,” takes us back to Genesis with I AM moving over the waters in creation and the Word creating by speaking “let there be.” In the garden was the Tree of Life, a Mother Tree, connecting all the way through to I AM the Vine; connecting all the way to today.

The Tree of Life – Mother Tree, to the tree of the cross, to a rooted vine, to a faithful forest.

When I heard about the living practice of daisugi I was excited. I am a lover of trees. When I think about growing a whole forest on top of one tree, I am filled with so much hope for the earth’s future and its health. The abundance of this practice is astonishing. And to know that that forest matures faster, stronger, more flexible and durable, because of the sustenance flowing from the Mother Tree – amazing! And to know that the growing of a new forest can be done continually. Wow!

When I hear about the living practice of daisugi I am excited. I am a lover of Jesus. When I think about baptism and being grafted into God’s family, I never considered being grafted onto the vine as being that which has roots to the Mother Tree. Because of Jesus rootedness, the disciples matured – strong, durable, flexible- as they shared Jesus’ story with others. The early church grew quickly by their witness.

In our context, consider the living practice of daisugi as one to be practiced in the church. Would we be less fretful of what is and more hopeful of what will be, if we understood and experienced rootedness? If we considered our present congregation as one forest, in a line of consecutively cultivated faith forests on the vine, the Mother Tree, I AM?

Can we wrap our heads and hearts around the living practice of every 20 years the beautiful straight and knot-free trees bearing fruit? Meaning cut into lumber; fruit is distributed and used, as the next forest begins to grow. It means that every 20 years we let go, in some way we let the church of the day give up its life to be resurrected again; resurrected strong, durable, and flexible.

Sometimes we get stuck trying to keep the old forest growing, rather than harvesting the forest, sharing the fruits and letting the next forest grow. We forget that the forest was never meant to be permanent, only the trunk – the Source of Life- which continues rooted and grounded and full of life.

The I AM the Vine is spoken as the final I AM because it is Jesus’ proclamation that branches will come, bear fruit, and die. But the Vine remains, as does the life that comes from the Vine – for it has a deep ancient source, the Mother Tree.

As Easter people we bear witness to resurrection appearances. We have witnessed life and death and life.

On this side of Easter, 2000 years later, we bear witness to the millions of forests that have grown from Mother Tree. The forests have embraced, believed, and lived the promises of Jesus brought forward into the resurrection. Jesus proclaims I AM! To each forest, Jesus proclaims I AM the Vine, therefore, you are!

Thanks be God. Amen.

He gave it all: a funeral sermon

Rolf Meier (1932-2023)

¹ My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
   Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?
² O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer;
   and by night, but find no rest.

³ Yet you are holy,
   enthroned on the praises of Israel.
⁴ In you our ancestors trusted;
   they trusted, and you delivered them.
⁵ To you they cried, and were saved;
   in you they trusted, and were not put to shame …

²⁹ To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down;
   before him shall bow all who go down to the dust,
   and I shall live for him.
³⁰ Posterity will serve him;
   future generations will be told about the Lord,
³¹ and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn,
   saying that he has done it.

Last week there was a resurrection, of a kind.

The famed “men’s breakfast” at Faith Lutheran Church resumed after the pandemic had shut it down. Nearly a dozen of us from the church gathered in the same place that had been the venue for the monthly breakfast for years. We even sat in the same part of the restaurant. I couldn’t help but think of some of the guys who used to attend who for whatever reason weren’t or couldn’t be there this time.

Rolf was one of them.

Eating is what we do as humans. Perhaps that is why Jesus in his resurrection appearance to his disciples made it a point to eat “broiled fish” (Luke 24:36-42) right in front of them. He wanted to show that his resurrection did not deny the value of our humanity as people of faith.

Embracing our humanity makes all the difference in understanding God’s love for us. God doesn’t love us because we are spiritual or have achieved enlightenment in some esoteric way. God loves us just as we are because God is good!

The glory of God, Saint Irenaeus of Lyons (135-202) wrote, is the living human. We don’t experience God or get closer to God by being more spiritual, but by being more human. God comes near to us when we accept and embrace all of who we are including our human frailty, imperfections as well as all the good things that emerge from our true humanity.

Whenever we gather for prayer and worship, we give it all to God. Not just the polished, nice parts. Not just the parts we want to show off and impress others with.

Someone told me a story about what Rolf did years ago, before I came to Faith Lutheran, on a Maundy Thursday during Holy Week. The focus of the service was the suffering of Christ. And it is tradition on Maundy Thursday to read Psalm 22 which Jesus cited from the cross before he died. The words spoken by Jesus are recorded in the Gospel: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34)

But on that Maundy Thursday, for whatever reason, the person assigned to read Psalm 22 did not show up. The pastor at the time quickly looked for someone else to read it. At the last minute, Rolf, who was there as an usher, agreed.

But what really shocked someone there was how Rolf read it. At first, they wondered who it was. Because Rolf punched out the words in as loud a voice as he could muster: “My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?” – with full dramatic effect.

Rolf gave it all. In that moment Rolf lived into the full range of his emotions, giving it all to God. And what Rolf showed in that moment, I believe, was an energy he did not often show to others, especially in the church.

You see, in the community Rolf preferred to work behind the scenes. He didn’t want to be the centre of attention. He probably only agreed to read Psalm 22 that night because on Maundy Thursday that Psalm is read from the back of the church while the altar is being stripped.

In responding to the call to read Psalm 22, Rolf perhaps had to step out of his comfort zone. But in doing so, he revealed his inner strength and truth. And conveyed the truth of the Gospel in so doing.

Jesus’ humanity was exposed on the cross, to be sure. Psalm 22 begins in lament. But it doesn’t end there. It continues into glory, as a celebration of trust and faith in the midst of agony and even death. “I shall live for him,” concludes the Psalmist. It is possible that a time of deepest abandonment can open within us feelings of peace, trust and even thanksgiving.

Rolf may not have been physically present with us at the breakfast last week. But every time the church gathers around food and drink, at the sacrament or whenever you, dear family and friends, gather for a regular meal in a restaurant or at home, we can celebrate Rolf’s life with us and around the eternal banquet feast of heaven. Thanks be to God.

Love and freedom

[Jesus said] “My Father has a great love for me, for I lay my life down to take it back again. No one takes my life from me, for I lay it down on my own. I have the right to lay my life down and the right to take it back. It is my Father who gives me this right” (John 10:17-18; First Nations Version, 2021).

The Ottawa Lutherans online book club just finished reading about going on a pilgrimage. Specifically we read Tim Moore’s book about his pilgrimage to Santiago (Moore, 2004).

But what sets his book apart from all the other Camino books is that Tim Moore completed the 800-kilometre trek with a donkey, named Shinto. The entertaining account centres on this relationship between man and donkey, and their many adventures.

Screenshot

Shinto was by far my favourite character even though, of course, he doesn’t say a word. Shinto’s intentions, aversions, foibles and reactions are all revealed by his behaviour and physical expression.

If you have walked the Camino de Santiago, you may recall the many bridges you crossed on this journey through northern Spain, from narrow foot bridges over shallow streams to large, urban multi-lane highway bridges spanning major rivers.

But one thing Shinto would never, ever do is walk over any body of water. He would just dead stop right before the bridge and there was very little anything Tim could do to goad, force, shoo, push, haul that beast across. Shinto won that argument most of the time. And so, for much of the Camino, Tim would have to lead Shinto the long way around in order to avoid crossing those bridges.

As you can imagine, it was the source of major friction between the two of them. Shinto’s stubbornness caused Tim so much exhaustion and frustration.

Nearing the end of the Camino, Tim was joined by his family for a few days, including his young daughter, Lilja. Tim Moore describes a moment when the three of them approached the next bridge:

“…There was a bridge over an irrigation culvert, a sheet of galvanized metal which sang like a saw when I planted a boot on it. This sensory experience had a predictable effect on Shinto, and with a sag of the shoulders I turned around.

“’What are you doing?’ asked Lilja.

“’We’re going back to find another way,’ I said, lightly massaging a tender spot on my right temple, and at this stage of the day I had no wish to expose my daughter to scenes incorporating adult language and strong graphic horror.

“As I’d seen so many others do, she grimaced sceptically at first donkey, then bridge. ‘But it’s really small.’ I nodded vacantly, then set about wheeling Shinto round. ‘Have you tried holding out some of his favourite stuff from the other side?’

“’I’ve tried everything.’

“She twisted out a frond of alfalfa from the pathside. ‘Can I try again?’

“I suppressed a sigh. ’Quickly, then.’

“Lilja looked at Shinto in mock reproach, one hand on hip and the other proffering the vegetable lure. Then she leant forward, and whispered, ‘Now, Shinty, it’s only a little bridge.’ His ears shot up and without hesitation or deviation he clanged straight over” (p. 229-230).

Tim Moore doesn’t explain his daughter’s gift of having that special connection with Shinto, apart from observing Lilja successfully do “her donkey-whisperer thing” (p. 234) for a few more days on the Camino.

And I don’t know why I thought of Shinto when reading the perennial Gospel text for this fourth Sunday of Easter. Today is traditionally called Shepherd’s Sunday. Jesus is the good shepherd. I think of the metaphors describing Jesus’ relationship with us in terms of animals, and sheep no less. What’s about those sheep, and what’s about God who knows how to relate to us?

Maybe the sheep in the gospels are there to remind us that we cannot control matters of faith in our relations—divine, human and non-human. And maybe that’s the point. We cannot force the issue, make others do things we are convinced are right. There is something here beyond our capacity to manage and control. And that’s what makes our faith journeys, individually and in community, such a challenge and such a joy!

Because love begins in freedom. Love is not love unless it starts in freedom. Jesus “lays down” his life and “takes it up again” of his own volition, his own freedom. This is the basis of the Father’s love for him.

Jesus “lays down” his life for the sheep. When you can’t force, control or manage outcomes, you’re giving up without giving up. You have to, like many beasts of the field, “center down” and trust God.

How do we do that? Jesus says that the sheep “will know my voice”. There was something about Lilja’s manner and the sound of her voice that convinced Shinto to cross the bridge. Shinto’s ears are a prominent feature in Tim Moore’s descriptions throughout the book. Listening for the deeper truth, the deeper reality. And trusting in it.

A story is told about Howard Thurman—20^th century American author, Christian mystic, civil rights leader and theologian. “As a seminary student walking home late one night, Howard Thurman noticed the sound of water. He had taken this route many times, and he had never heard even a drip.

“The next day Thurman discussed his observations with one of his professors, who told him that a canal ran underneath the street. Because the noises of streetcars, automobiles, and passersby were absent late at night, Howard could discern the sound of water.”

Later, “Thurman equates these sounds … to the inner chatter within our minds that prevents us from being aware of God’s presence. Quieting the surface noise in our minds is what Thurman urges us to do when he instructs us … to ‘center down’” (Coleman Brown, 2023, pp. 121-123). 

For most of our wanderings in life, we are probably not aware of what is underneath us and how deep it goes. We can’t hear it. And when we’re faced with challenges in life, meet obstacles on the journey of faith, and we begin to sense what we’re walking over, maybe like Shinto we need to stop.

But here’s the crux of the matter, potentially the turning point of our lives. We don’t need to stay frozen in place. And we don’t always have to turn around and go backwards. In that moment of uncertainty, we can “center down” and listen. Listen to her voice, the whispering voice of God’s Spirit reaching deep into our hearts, to urge us forward in faith.

We wonder today how to witness our faith, how to relate in faith to our children and grandchildren. Maybe we need to be reminded again that Jesus doesn’t force us to do anything. Because God loves us and gives us the freedom and the responsibility to respond however we will. Following God does not come from willfulness but from listening (Palmer, 1999, p. 4).

And we, in turn, don’t will ourselves or will others into ways of being. Our task is first to listen. And trust in the ever-present movement of God’s Spirit flowing through, underneath and all around all our relations. Amen.

References:

Coleman Brown, L. (2023). What makes you come alive: A spiritual walk with Howard Thurman. Broadleaf Books.

First Nations version: An Indigenous translation of the New Testament. (2021). InterVarsity Press.

Moore, T. (2004). Travels with my donkey: One man and his ass on a pilgrimage to Santiago. St. Martin’s Press.

Palmer, P. (1999). Let your life speak: Listening for the voice of vocation. Jossey-Bass.

My upper room

Home base (photo by Martin Malina in Mikołow Poland 23 Sept 2023)

A large extended table centred the crowded dining room. Three times a day, at least, and hours in-between, this table was our gathering place, our home-base. 

Even when we travelled into the mountains of the south, or the cities toward the northeast, when we came back this was the first place we went to in the house. Up the stairs, by the kitchen, across the hall and into that dining room to that table.

The trip to Poland last Fall was like a homecoming. Not so much for me, individually. Home for me is here — Arnprior, Ottawa, the Ottawa Valley. Not Poland.

But the trip to Poland last Fall was a homecoming of sorts. For my mother, more so. It was, from a family point of view, a pilgrimage into a land that birthed my family history, a return to the land that culturally conditioned me. After years and decades of absence, with a few exceptions, it felt for me like a return to a place of genesis. Reconnecting with cousins and uncles thrice removed, etc., who personally knew my father and mother, I was plugging again into the source.

And that table upstairs in the dining room of my aunt’s and uncle’s house was the magnet force. Around food and drink, we came back here, no matter how far afield and distant each of us may have stretched the proverbial rubber band, here we snapped back and gathered, again.

I’ve reflected on the meaning of the last week in the events of Jesus’ death and resurrection, and I keep coming back to the table. Let’s just pause at the first sentence of this perennial Gospel text for the Easter season recounting Jesus’ first post-resurrection appearance:

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” (1)

Like for theologian Diana Butler Bass, this phrase popped out for me: “The house where the disciples had met.”(2) What house?

Of course, it was the house where, just a few days before, the disciples had met with Jesus to celebrate the Passover meal. It was the upper room of the house where Jesus had washed their feet and called them friends. It was around the table in that house where they had shared bread and wine.

After Jesus’ crucifixion at Golgotha, and in the wake of the outlandish reports from Mary Magdalene of Jesus in the garden, the frightened disciples had gone back to the upper room in that house. Why?

Maybe, to grieve. Maybe, to await what they expected would be their own arrest. But perhaps they went back to remember. They had gone back to the dining room with the table. Their last place where they had all gathered.

This was the place where memory was encoded into their hearts, a place of sharing food and intimacy. And it was here where Jesus first showed up on the night of the resurrection, to be with his friends. On Easter, Jesus went from the tomb back to the table.

Those three holy days last week started at table. And when all was said and done, those three holy days ended up back at the table.

We normally think of Maundy Thursday as the run-up to the real show on Good Friday. And because we have placed such an emphasis on Good Friday we interpret Maundy Thursday through the events of the cross, the meal prefiguring Jesus’ broken body and the shedding of his blood for the forgiveness of sins.

But what if his disciples didn’t see it that way? What if they weren’t thinking about a cross or a blood sacrifice? What if they saw Good Friday through Thursday’s meal? After all, they came to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. They were in Jerusalem “with friends and family (not just twelve guys at a long table – sorry, Leonardo).” They were in Jerusalem “at a big, busy, bustling holiday meal to commemorate God freeing their ancestors from slavery.”

“Passover is a joyful meal” and as such the disciples were “thinking about their history and their future, and they were enjoying the supper together.” Jesus loved meals, and they knew that. They had shared so many with so many people.

In the resurrection stories, as it had always been for Jesus and the disciples, the table was the point. The table was, and is, as Diana Butler Bass claims, “the hinge of history.”(3)

What are your table memories? Where do you go, literally or in your heart, to return home, after a tumultuous season in your life? Entering a new chapter of life, where is your anchor-point, your homeland, so to speak, or home-base? 

To take the metaphor further, in this Easter season as you worship the risen Lord, recall those special experiences in those special places.

“Can you remember a moment when you experienced God, in a surprising way, in a vivid way, in a way that changed you? A moment when you were in touch with God and with the deepest, wisest part of yourself?

“Perhaps this was a moment [or place] in childhood, or a more recent moment, in nature, in church, looking at an artwork, or dancing. A time when you had a feeling of ease or transcendence or oneness with something outside yourself. Feel this moment. Taste it. What does it feel like in your body? What are the sights and sounds that you associate with this feeling? 

“Let’s make some space [these Easter days] … for that part of yourself that you are feeling and tasting. Spend some time with it and reflect on how to nurture and protect it. [And if you can’t bring such a moment to bear] … just now, I invite you to simply trust that God is at work in the way you have made the effort to come [to church] … today, and open yourself to this … experience [of worship].”(4)

And come to the table, just as you are. Pull up a chair. Because Jesus is alive! Christ is with us here and now!

——

(1) John 20:19-31

(2) Diana Butler Bass, “The Holy Thursday Revolution: Pull Up A Chair”, The Cottage. https://dianabutlerbass.substack.com/p/the-holy-thursday-revolution-pull 

(3) ibid.

(4) Lindsay Boyer, Centering Prayer for Everyone: With Readings, Programs, and Instructions for Home and Group Practice. Oregon: Cascade Books, 2020. p. 72.

“The power and glory are yours, now and forever. Amen!”

Do you know why we’ve come to associate an Easter egg with a rabbit?

The tradition of the Easter Bunny is a German tradition dating back to the 19^th century. German Anglican immigrants to North America brought their myth about an Osterhase who gave gifts of candy and colored eggs to good children. Sort of like a tiny, hairy, Santa Claus.

Then, the Orthodox Church used to have a tradition of fasting from eggs during Lent. So, the colored hard-boiled eggs were used as a way to celebrate breaking the fast on Easter morning.[1]

But, according to a much older tradition, the Easter egg was associated with Mary. After all, Mary Magdalene was the first human being to whom the risen Jesus appeared in the garden outside the empty tomb that first Easter morning.

In Robert Lenz’s icon of Mary[2], Mary Magdalene is pointing with one hand at an egg held in her other hand. She’s staring straight at you with a gaze that pierces straight into your heart.

It’s like she’s saying to you, “Can you not feel it within you, this nudging from God’s Spirit, this tugging of God’s love at your heart? It starts inside of you. How can you not know this?” It is in the heart where love begins to grow. Love expands like the universe. Literally.

In modern cosmology, it is believed that billions of years ago the entire mass of the universe was compressed into a gravitational singularity, the so-called cosmic egg. And from that singularity, the universe has expanded ever since to its current state. And it continues to expand at this very moment we celebrate Easter and shout, “Alleluia! Christ is risen indeed!”

How does the new day start? The new day starts by going from inside to outside. Whether it’s clambering out of a tent as the sun rises over a pristine campground lake. Whether it’s stepping out of your house to go to work. New life begins inside and moves from there to the outside. The new day, the new thing is marked by expansion. Could love be calling us out again this Easter?

We speak of a mother’s love which, physiologically, starts within her. I read a marvellous description about this from Meggan Watterson’s book about Mary; she writes, “All the eggs a woman will ever carry, form in her ovaries when she’s a four-month-old fetus in the womb of her mother. This means, our cellular life as an egg begins in the womb of our grandmother. Each of us spend five months in our grandmother’s womb.” New life and new love, to say the least, begin inside of us.

There’s more to this tradition about Mary and her egg. A legend that few know about.

“The Eastern Orthodox tradition holds that after the resurrection, Mary Magdalene traveled to Rome, where she was admitted to the court of Tiberius Caesar because of her high social standing. She told the court the story of her love for Christ, and how poorly justice was served under Pontius Pilate during Christ’s trial. She told Caesar that Christ had risen. And to help explain his resurrection, supposedly, she took an egg from off of the feast laid out before them, and said:

“An egg, like a seed, contains the end at the beginning. The seed already has the bloom held within it. The egg holds safely inside whatever new life its precariously fragile shell is meant to protect. And if that new life is going to emerge, it has to come from within.

“You can’t break a shell and still expect a little beak to one day peck its way out and into the world. You have to let that tiny creature with wings within the shell arrive at the day of its own birth. You have to remain in this trusting, quiet unknown, as every mother or artist knows, and let that life declare its existence not when your ego says it’s time, but when that new life is ready.”

A person, like an egg, has life, has spirit, a true self. Sometimes we’ve called it the soul. Inside of us is this seed, the presence of God in spirit. And this life waits to emerge from the womb, the dark within. This life is there at the beginning and at the end.

Birth is meant to happen before we die. Ideally, many times over. But we have to die to our ego compulsive ways of thinking and doing. We have to have Good Friday before Easter, to let new life emerge over and over again. This inner spirit is all we are when we come into this world and it’s all that we’ll be when we leave it.

And what brings this new life to come out is love. It’s the only way new life happens. Without love, none of this is possible.

“Then, according to legend, Caesar was like, ‘Hah, yeah, right. A person can no more resurrect than that egg in your hand turn red.’”

And the egg immediately turned red.

And that’s why I would say we have coloured eggs at Easter: To remind ourselves that with God anything is possible, even bringing new life to a situation, a person, the earth, a church that appears to have died of all hope and promise. That’s resurrection. That’s Easter.

The resurrection of Jesus says that God has the last word. Easter reveals that there are no dead ends, that ultimately nothing is going to end in tragedy and crucifixion. Yes, when we look around us into history and in our daily lives in the moment it seems that it can’t be true; like Caesar we say, “Hah, yeah, right. A person can no more resurrect than that egg in your hand turn red.”

And yet, ever and again, here and there, more than we expect, new life breaks forth, when we are willing to notice and see new life as if for the first time.

Love is what opens our hearts and minds to see new life. New life begins with a newfound love, coming from our hearts and expanding towards ourselves and for God, for others, the earth and all that is in it. God’s gift of love gave Jesus to us. And God’s gift of love finally brings us back to life this Easter.

“The power and glory are yours, now and forever. Amen!”

Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!

---

[1] Paragraphs in this sermon are cited directly from Meggan Watterson, Mary Magdalene Revealed: The First Apostle, Her Feminist Gospel & The Christianity We Haven’t Tried Yet (New York: Hay House Inc, 2019), pp. 98-100.

[2] Read about Robert Lenz’ icon of Mary Magdalene here: https://www.patheos.com/blogs/anxiousbench/2013/07/the-icon-of-the-magdalene/

“Deliver us from evil …”

photo Martin Malina

We read today the Gospel from John’s account. As we learned last night, John’s gospel has a different emphasis compared to the other gospels who also tell the story of Jesus’ Passion.

In the Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke, Jesus took long journeys throughout Israel and the surrounding region, all of which ended in Jerusalem. However, John’s gospel is located almost entirely in Jerusalem and its Temple. The city itself is a thematic focal point even for the Passion of Christ (Shaia & Gaugy, 2021).

During one of the midweek Evening Prayer services this past Lent, we prayed for the victims of both sides of the violence in Gaza. Soon after this war on Gaza began last October, an ecumenical group of Palestinian Christian leaders sent an open letter to the Western Church. Here are some excerpts:

“Words fail to express our shock and grief to the on-going violence and war in our land. We deeply mourn the death and suffering of all people. We are also profoundly troubled when the name of God is invoked to promote violence and religious national ideologies …

“We find courage in the solidarity we receive from the crucified Christ, and we find hope in the empty tomb. We are steadfast in our hope, resilient in our witness, and continue to be committed to the Gospel of faith, hope, and love, in the face of tyranny and darkness. In the absence of all hope, we cry out our cry of hope.”

A working group from the United Church of Canada, the Mennonite Central Committee, The Presbyterian Church in Canada, Roman Catholic groups, the Anglican Church of Canada, and other ecumenical groups created a response to the Open Letter from the Palestinian Church.

In addition, Bishop Susan Johnson of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada (ELCIC) wrote a letter last week to Bishop Azar of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Jordan and the Holy Lands (ELCJHL). Here is an excerpt from that letter:

 “I write to you today on behalf of the bishops, clergy and lay members of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada. As we approach Holy Week, we want you to know that you are in our thoughts and prayers. As we follow our Lord’s journey from the table to the cross, we think of his suffering, and we remember your suffering, and the suffering and deaths of so many in Gaza.

“May we together be strengthened by the joy and hope that is found in Jesus’ resurrection from the dead and his assurance that he still walks with us all – in Jerusalem, in the West Bank, in Gaza, in Canada and indeed around the world.

“In the meantime, please know we accompany you, we are your partners, we pray for you, we advocate for peace in Gaza and the West Bank with our government and we continue to collect funds for your need.….” (Johnson, 2024).

Our advocacy for the victims of violence transcends divisions we have justified. Both sides. The Germans in World War One wore belt buckles with the inscription on them, Gott mit uns [God with us]. But God is in the foxholes of both sides. Both sides in every war. God is with all people crying out in their pain (Rohr, 2023 July 21).

“Deliver us from evil …”

When religion is used as a political tool for aggression, sin happens. Dividing people, separating them, forcibly by walls and using religion as a tool of war, that is evil. Evil is the result of division.

“Deliver us from evil …” we pray every time we gather as a church. The Cross of Christ, today’s focus, is the primary symbol of Christianity, a reminder of God’s victory over evil by becoming a victim of it. Evil, sin, violence, division—separation from God, separation from each other, separation from the earth — is overcome by the Cross. The Cross is the answer to our petition: “Deliver us from evil …”

In traditional Christian baptism the candidate answers three questions of renunciation: First, “Do you renounce the devil and all the forces that defy God?” Second, “Do you renounce the powers of this world that rebel against God?” Third, “Do you renounce the ways of sin that draw you from God?” (ELW, 2006, p. 229, emphasis mine).

Notice that only the last of the three questions focuses on individual sins. And yet, when we pray in the Lord’s Prayer for forgiveness of sins and deliverance from evil I suspect we tend to focus mainly on individual acts of sin. But the individual is only part of how evil is expressed.

Saint Paul himself spoke of “principalities and powers” (Ephesians 6:12). He equated sin and evil with systems in the world, ways in which we operate, things we take for granted, cultures and behaviours that we hardly notice half the time but which affect us immensely and even defend.

On Good Friday we read from the Gospel of John. The Cross joins two cross beams, two opposing directions. It can be a metaphor for the struggles we must endure, the divisions within us that we confess.

A clue to reconciling the paradox in the Cross of Christ lies in John’s unique emphasis in writing his Gospel. You see, by the time the Gospel of John was written, Jerusalem had become desolate and deserted. It had been largely abandoned after its destruction by the Romans in 70 CE.

However, it’s significance was not lost on people of faith. It continued as a symbol—one of the most powerful in biblical lore. After all, it was King David’s great accomplishment. In short, Jerusalem represented the historical, emotional, and spiritual centre of the Hebrew faith. It was the location of the First and Second temples.

The name of the city, too, has enduring significance. Jeru-Shalom translates as the City of Peace. However, the peace of shalom is complex, differing greatly from our normal English sense of the word.

Shalom comes from a root word that means “wholeness” (Shaia & Gaugy, 2021, p. 240). In the Hebrew language shalom has the connotation of joining opposites. That is the reason shalom is used as a greeting when meeting as well as leaving someone—occasions that contain both beginning and end, coming and going. Shalom unifies opposites, brings them together.

Jeru-Shalom, in its deepest meaning, is the preeminent symbol for “communion”—a place where all tribes, not just Jews, could live in harmony. Jerusalem is a place where opposites can reconcile and a new vitality reign.

A lasting impression that Jerusalem made on me when I visited the City of Peace many years ago was how close together, physically at least, peace-abiding Jews and Muslims and Christians actually lived, worked and worshipped. I witnessed a peaceful co-existence.

I met Palestinians who were Christian, and Israelis who didn’t agree with their government’s occupation of the West Bank. Not all Muslims are extremists. Just like not all Christians are extremists. Because there are peace-loving Muslims, as well as peace-loving Jews and Christians who continue to make the vision of peace a goal and a way of life not only in the holy lands but everywhere.

Jesus’ sacrifice was one of love for all people, on every side of every division. Jesus’ sacrifice breaks the oppressors rod because Jesus does not play by that game. He introduces a third way, a new way—a way for peace, hope and new life for all. A way of unconditional love. Thanks be to God.

References:

Evangelical Lutheran Worship Book. (2006). Augsburg Fortress.

Johnson, S. (2024). https://elcic.ca/2024/03/20/elcic-national-bishop-writes-pastoral-letter-of-support-to-elcjhl/

Rohr, R. (2023, July 21). God is on the side of pain. Daily Meditations. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/god-is-on-the-side-of-pain-2023-07-21/

Shaia, A. J. & Gaugy, M. L. (2021). Heart and Mind: The Four-Gospel Journey for Radical Transformation. Quadratos LLC.

Broken and beautiful

Tonight is not just about the meal. Yes, we strip the altar at the close of the service, so our attention is naturally focused on the Last Supper.

However, the Gospel of John is not overly concentrated on details of the Last Supper when compared to the other Gospel writers. A mere four verses describe the meal itself (John 13:1-4). So, John is obviously trying to emphasize another overriding theme in the meaning of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection through the events of Holy Week.

You may have noticed that the baptismal font has lurked inconspicuously in the chancel area throughout Lent. In some churches it is completely removed. But it has stayed with us, this Lent. For a reason.

The Gospel of John which we read during Holy Week and the upcoming Easter season was originally used for baptism and preparing candidates for a life in Christ (Shaia & Gaugy, 2021). The Passion of our Lord is presented in John as a graphic picture of the baptismal movement down into the water and rising up out of it (Philippians 2:5-11).

Of course, Christian baptism uses water to express the elements of death and rebirth. “In the early church, deacons performing baptism were instructed to grasp the candidate around the chest from the back, lowering the individual under the water in such a way that a ‘startle response’ was triggered, thereby providing an experience of near death” (Shaia & Gaugy, 20221, p. 242). It was a visceral reminder of this spiritual movement.

Arising out of the water, the baptized was then blessed and announced to the community as moving forward into new life with Jesus.

It’s the dying and the rising that John is interested in keeping together — that pattern is indivisible in a life of faith. You can’t stay under the water forever; eventually you have to come up. Conversely when you are in the water you can’t keep your body above the water; eventually you immerse yourself in it.

As people who have and are travelling this journey of faith today, how do we move from the old into the new? How do we resurrect into new balance and move forward in Christ? Those are the questions John wants us to ask.

In the Gospel for tonight, Jesus demonstrates the inner posture out of which authentic service happens. Not from a place of dominance, self-righteousness or privilege. But, rather, from a servant posture of humility in the presence of another.

So, and notice the baptismal imagery employed by John, Jesus after supper “poured water into a basin …” (John 13:5). Imagine now the reversal, the paradigm shift: The divine presence strips down practically naked and presents himself to his disciples in a way that would have been appropriate only for marriage partners or a servant before their master. And Jesus washes their feet! “There could have been no more perfect exemplar of both the intimacy and selflessness of Spirit in service” (Shaia & Gaugy, 2021, p. 243).

Intimacy means vulnerability. Being exposed for all our weaknesses. And accepting them. Loving even the fact that we are fragile, insecure human beings. True service comes from that heart-place of letting go of our ego pretensions.

It strikes me that when we wonder how to love others who do not accept our efforts to love them, when we wonder how to be faithful servants of Christ in the world today with those whom we are called to reach, when we wonder how to serve others in Jesus’ name, when we wonder how to move from the old to the new, we need to start by allowing our vulnerability to show.

We receive Communion tonight. From a cup. Maybe the cup you use at home for Communion has a chip in it, or a crack or has some history. Maybe tonight is the night to use that cup with the chip or crack in it.

Listen to this poem by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer who illustrates the divine beauty expressed in and from a broken cup. It’s called, “What’s in a Broken Cup” (Wahtola Trommer, 2022):                

Not everything broken need be fixed. Even the loveliest cup, the one that seemed perfection, the one that fit just right in the hand and held the favorite wine, even that cup is only a cup, and, being fashioned out of breakable clay, it was, we could say, made to be broken. The fact it was fragile was always a part of its value. In shattered fragments, the cup is no less treasured–perhaps even more treasured now that its wholeness isn’t taken for granted. There are some who would throw the pieces away. There are some who would mend them with glue or even with gold in an effort to repair. But there are some who will cherish what is broken, hold it even more tenderly now, trusting its use– though different– is no less valuable. Trusting a fragment is sometimes more than enough. Trusting in every end is a beginning, and we might now sip our wine straight from the Source.

References:

Shaia, A. J. & Gaugy, M. L. (2021). Heart and Mind: The Four-Gospel Journey for Radical Transformation. Quadratos LLC.

Wahtola Trommer, R. (2022). What’s in a broken cup. https://ahundredfallingveils.com/2022/01/10/whats-in-a-broken-cup/

When meals go awry: A recipe for a grace-filled dinner

Accommodating (photo by Brian Wirth, 20 March 24, Faith Lutheran Church Council pizza party)

In the next week or so families, friends and communities will be gathering for meals in the observance of Holy Week and Eastertide celebrations. Not unlike the Christmas holidays, for some, these dinners can be stressful and anxiety filled.

It gets complicated. A simple meal, and all of a sudden there’s more work to be done than you might have thought. I include here a picture of a pizza one of our members made for the council meeting last week. It’s made on gluten-free dough, half of it without dairy cheese. Like I said, enjoying a simple meal with others today is not clear cut and straight forward.

One of Holy Week’s focal points is the Passover celebrated by Jesus on the night before he died. On Maundy Thursday this week, we gather to reflect pointedly on this last night Jesus spent with his disciples.

But that first meal suffered various disruptions: One of the invited guests stormed out ready to betray Jesus and precipitate a series of events leading to Jesus’ arrest, sentencing, torture and death on the Cross. There were arguments about who’s the best among them and lamenting about thwarted expectations of the Messiah. Then, after the meal, Jesus got down on his hands and knees to wash the dirty feet of his friends.[1]

It was not a picture postcard dinner even though famous artists painted famous paintings about it. In truth it was kind of messy and unscripted.

Holy Communion which we celebrate every week is founded on that meal. As such, Communion is not a performance of perfection with perfect people. It is an honest, authentic gathering of vulnerable people. The mood around that last supper was heightened by anxious and confused disciples.

Elements of that first holy supper Jesus inaugurated are descriptive of any meal that gathers friends who want to be there, and who nevertheless know they are welcomed at the table with all their foibles and imperfections.

Meals with friends and family are real, ordinary and sometimes messy, not unlike Pastor Carolyn Lesmeister’s telling of a very special – yet messy – meal she once experienced beginning with an unanticipated horror[2]:

She recalls: “Guests were due to arrive in less than three hours when I walked into the kitchen and noticed it: the faint but unmistakable smell of decay.

“At first, I was unshaken. Produce often remained in our ‘crisper’ drawer long after its time of freshness had passed. I opened the fridge door, and—sure enough—the smell intensified. I set about tossing wilted lettuce and locating the lost apples that had gone to mush and removing cheese that wasn’t supposed to be furry. Gross, but normal—at least in our household.

“To my dismay, the stench did not go away—or even lessen—despite the newly cleaned-out refrigerator. In fact, it got worse.

“With an hour to go before people started coming over, we had the fridge pulled out of its nook and partly disassembled. Tools were strewn all over the kitchen floor. My husband was desperately trying to get the heavy-duty vacuum hose far enough up into the fridge’s mechanicals to remove the mouse carcass we had discovered to be the source of the smell. 

“Any normal person would have already canceled that night’s dinner party by this point. But we were not normal people, and this was not a typical dinner party.

“So I sprayed an unhealthy amount of air freshener, lit every candle I could find, and wrestled with whether or not to warn guests that if they were sensitive to artificial scents or stories about mice they might want to sit this one out.

“The gathering we were having that night was one that had become a monthly tradition we affectionately called ‘crappy dinner’.

“As a new parent with an infant son and no family in the area, I feared becoming isolated from community and losing connections with friends. 

“Then I came across a blog post by Kelley Powell called, “How to Host a Crappy Dinner (and See Your Friends More Often).” In it, she encouraged people to let go of unrealistic expectations around immaculate houses and elaborate menus, and instead embrace inviting people as they are to come to your house as it is. Low expectations and low stress …

“One of the first and most important ‘rules’ of hosting crappy dinners is that you don’t do a lot of prep work. You’re technically not even supposed to clean. At all. Because once you enter the rabbit hole of needing your house to look a certain way, you have abandoned the ‘low expectations and low stress’ ethos of the event ….

“But I didn’t worry about the fingerprints all over the windows, the dust on … every flat surface, or the fact that our house looked like it was home to an active family with children and pets. We invited people into our home — and into our lives — without trying to make any of it seem like it was nicer, fancier, or more put together than it actually was.

“In that spirit, the menu for crappy dinners is meant to be simple: Quick, easy, and generally well-liked are the top criteria.

“We chose to make it the same almost every month: gluten-free spaghetti from a box, marinara sauce from a jar (with added spices if I felt fancy), seasoned ground beef for the meat-eaters, and a giant bowl of mixed greens with various dressing options. Beverages were water, wine, milk, and maybe juice if we had some.

“That’s it. I literally invited people over and fed them pasta from a box. We served everything a la carte to easily accommodate a wide variety of dietary needs and preferences. … If it’s not something you’d ever make for a weeknight family dinner, then it shouldn’t be on the menu for crappy dinner.

“For our first crappy dinner, I was tempted to only invite ‘safe’ friends: the people who already knew my life and house were a mess and who I knew wouldn’t judge me for that.

“But, again, in a state of courage or sleep-deprivation, I decided that wouldn’t be much fun, so I invited every single person that lived in our area and was friends with me on social media. Literally everyone. Neighbors. Colleagues. Our realtor whom we adore. People who took the same fitness classes at the gym. Folks I’d met at trainings and events but not kept in touch with. If they’d had the [mis] fortune of crossing my path, they got invited. …

“We were surprised by the variety of people that turned out and the connections that were formed and deepened. Casual acquaintances of ours became real friends. Mutual friends discovered common interests and passions and became friends with one another, outside of their relationship with us. It was a beautiful thing to cultivate and witness.

“As you can tell, the point of crappy dinners is not to create Pinterest-inspired table-scapes or cook meals worthy of Instagram. Instead, it’s to foster connections between people – real, authentic, messy, vulnerable connections between real, authentic, messy, vulnerable people.

“In her speaking and writing, Brene Brown talks about how imperfections are a gift and how embracing our own imperfections eases the pressure on those around us, allowing us all to feel more deeply loved and connected.

“Lutheran theology emphasizes God’s grace: that God loves and accepts us exactly as we are — struggles, frustrations, failures, imperfections and all.

“Crappy dinners provide a tangible experience of these dynamics. By lowering the standards for hosting people, we take dinner parties from being stress-filled events that happen only on special occasions to being monthly occurrences we look forward to with joyful anticipation. 

“We take the risk to invite people in and show them that we are, indeed, worthy of love and connection even if our house is a mess and our culinary skills leave something to be desired. And if WE are worthy of love and connection—even with our toy-strewn floors and dusty shelves and pasta sauce from a jar—then perhaps our guests will realize that they, too, are worthy of the same.

“As appalling as it was, there was something special about opening the door to welcome guests on The Day of the Incident with the Dead Mouse. I recall greeting people something like this: ‘Hi!! Welcome!! Come on in!! Um, sorry that the place reeks of air freshener and the windows are wide open even though it’s only … [10] degrees out. See, we had this gross little situation with a mouse, but it’s handled now and the food is ready and we’re here. No judgment if you want to leave … we know it’s disgusting…’

“Every single person stayed. We had a delightful—albeit chilly—evening full of laughter and stories and food and fun. Maybe they stayed out of politeness, but I like to think that it was one of those times that put people at ease, because when someone greets you at the door like that, you know that whatever imperfect things are happening in your life, you and your mess are truly welcome at the table.

Recipe for A Crappy Dinner Party

• Generous scoops of confidence & vulnerability 
• Sprinkle of humor (more, to taste)
• Table(s) and chairs: as many as you can find, matching sets not necessary 
• Food: quick, easy, cheap, adaptable
• People: whomever you have contact info for

Directions:

1) Choose a location. Formal dining rooms are great, but feel free to set up a table and some folding chairs in your living room, basement, or backyard — wherever you have the most room. Borrow tables and chairs from the neighbors if necessary.

2) Invite as many people as you can. The more the merrier! Be clear about the low expectations for the gathering and that it’s about getting together, not having a fancy experience.

3) No more than 30 minutes before guests are due to arrive, start cooking. If your meal takes longer to make, then it’s probably too fancy for crappy dinner! Scale it back. Simplify.

4) Welcome people into your home. Give them whatever disclaimers you need to about the meal, the toys, the children, the pets (or don’t). Wave in the general direction of the beverages and food and tell them to help themselves.

5) Enjoy building relationships and seeing way more of your friends than you normally would.

6) Repeat as often as you like.

Let us pray. Thank you, God, for welcoming us at your table including all our imperfections, weaknesses and failures. Amen.

---

[1] John 13

[2] What follows is cited directly from Lesmeister, C. (2022). Recipe for a Grace-filled Crappy Dinner. FaithLead.