Food for the Journey

We’re going to dive right into today’s Gospel; but let me back up just a minute to set the stage. Just prior to our reading, we have the well-known story of the disciples on the road to Emmaus who encounter the risen Lord. I want you to remember there were two disciples, but neither was one of the original 12. These two men broke bread with Jesus; their eyes were opened; Jesus disappeared, and they rushed to find the 11 who were holed up in a locked room. The 11 were grieving, but not only were they grieving, they were terrified. Remember Peter’s denial? They know they may be recognized despite their denial, and they have no idea what that might mean for them. And they’re scared about their future, they gave up three years to follow Jesus; they walked away from their families, their businesses, their lives, and now who they believed was the Son of God; the Messiah is gone. Let’s just say things didn’t turn out the way they planned.

I imagine they’re in the room sharing memories, trying to process—trying to figure out what happened, and trying to figure out what they do now. Do they stay together or all return to their previous lives? Are their businesses, their families, their communities still there and will they still accept them? Many of us can identify with these feelings. Many of us have had these same or similar conversations after the death of a loved one.

Well, into the midst of this, these two disciples run. We don’t know whether the disciples knew them or not. I suspect they did as they obviously unlocked the door and let them in. And can you hear it? Can you hear these two trying to tell the story of what happened on the road to Emmaus? I hear clamoring, interrupting, excitement—“and then” “and then” “no let me tell that part” They’re probably glowing with happiness—all this in a room that has been full of grief and fear. Perhaps one or two of the apostles are looking at each other, motioning to each other that these two are clearly crazy-- been in the sun too long or something. And right in the middle of this pandemonium Jesus appears and greets them with peace.

Jesus then asks “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts?” Please tell me I’m not alone in thinking, “what a stupid question? Is that really the best you’ve got?” These men saw you die—die as in dead, not breathing, finished—even you said it, and “It is finished.” So I personally don’t think it’s that unreasonable to assume they’d be “startled and terrified.”

He shows the disciples his hands and his feet and says touch me; see that I’m not a ghost. Scripture doesn’t say that they actually reached out and touched him. They’re still trying to get their heads around this whole thing. They feel joy but they’re still somewhat disbelieving and wondering. I picture Buckwheat in the Little Rascals rubbing his eyes—some of ya’ll will remember that; the rubbing and shaking of his head to make sure he sees it right. “How can this be?” they think, “I want to believe it, but really this is beyond comprehension—this is beyond what is humanly possible to understand.” So they’re sitting their filled with all kinds of emotions, probably looking back and forth at each other, perhaps pushing each other forward so someone, anyone will touch him, and Jesus pipes up, “Have you anything here to eat?” This is the part that I have been stuck on all week—this HUGE thing has just happened, they’re trying to understand and he wants FOOD? Really—he’s acting like he just went on a weekend trip and now he’s hungry. So I’ve been mediating on food; trying to understand the ordinariness of his request. Why didn’t he let them process?

What is it about food, actually about food and people? It is ordinary, and it is so much more. Food speaks for us when we cannot; there is a death, a hospitalization, and we show up with food. There is a birth, a new neighbor, a loved one in for a visit, and we show up with food. Food not only sustains our bodies, but it brings us comfort, security, a sense of love and of home. I know when my children have been gone to camp, and I imagine I’ll do this when they come home from college, I’ll cook their favorite meal; whatever they want because that is a way I’ll show them I love them and I’m glad they’re home. And I know already that it brings them a sense of comfort, of normalcy, of security. I drove my mother in law crazy asking for the Texas straw hat recipe because my husband loved it and it reminded him of happy times growing up—made it once, (you know the adage, you’ll never do it as well as his mother? I learned that one); thankfully we now live here where she can make it for him.

We hunger for comfort, security, love, fellowship belonging, we are satisfied not only physically but emotionally when someone shares with us; invites us over, brings us a meal. We are already looking forward to St. Mark’s day with our potluck—everyone bringing their famous dish; the dish they most love to share. Food brings order to our lives. My children laugh at me, imitate me about my baking—get Caroline in particular to do it for you, but I bake when I’m stressed, when I’m sad, and when I need order and to feel control. One of my oldest and dearest friends, Jimmy, used to say, “I hate to see you sad, but on the other hand, I really like your chocolate chip cookies.”

Jesus asks for food, and they give him fish. While they’re eating he talks to them, teaches them. This is not new for Jesus—how many times did his ministry revolve around food—feeding the 5000, eating with tax collectors, and of course the Last Supper. Food, the ordinary, the physically necessary becomes more. It becomes extraordinary and holy.

Food is necessary; we have to have it. It is our bodies’ fuel. Jesus was resurrected in the body—at least that what we say we believe each week. In our creeds we say, “we believe in the resurrection of the body” Do you understand this resurrection? The disciples didn’t; theologians for thousands of years have been trying to figure it out; I cannot imagine the number of books which have been written on it. And I’ll admit, I don’t understand. But I do understand and believe that it is through our bodies that we can share Christ.

One of the things I think the resurrection is teaching us is that our bodies—our bodies that we criticize, that we often abuse, that others abuse; our bodies are good. Our normal everyday bodies with cellulite and stretch marks (speaking for myself here), our bodies are normal and holy. Just like food, the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

We cannot reach out and touch Jesus physically, but we can reach out and touch each other. We cannot feed Jesus physically, but we can feed each other, and we can feed the poor, the weak, the lonely, the scared, the grief stricken, the overwhelmed, those that are celebrating, and those filled with joy. It is through our bodies that the resurrected Christ continues to work in this world. This message of today’s Gospel is so powerful. It tells us that our bodies are good, that our bodies are holy and that our bodies can be transformed and can bring about transformation through the ordinary every day parts of life.

It is through our bodies that we can encounter the promise of salvation right here and now. Our present reality, our bodies live in the now and not yet. Heaven begins now; the journey begins now. The transformation begins now. Sometimes the transformation begins just in the showing up; the disciples were afraid, lonely, and Jesus showed up. Jesus showed up for the disciples, and Jesus shows up for us. He shows up through each other and he shows up each week in the Eucharist. We come before the table; all of us, and as the bread is broken; as we consume the bread and wine, we again and again encounter the risen Lord. We rise and return into the world taking that which we have encountered with us to share with the world. God isn’t necessarily asking us to give up three years, to leave our homes, our work and our families. No God is asking us to work right where we are in whatever we do. God is asking us to use our normal ordinary often boring everyday lives to show his love. To live as his disciples in all we do where ever we are and with whomever we find ourselves.

The Rev. John Thomas was a retired priest in our parish in Pittsburgh, an amazing man, a mentor and a friend. Each week he celebrated he invited us to the altar with these words “Food for the journey.” I invite you in the same way. Come eat, be nourished, be forgiven; be transformed, and joyously go forth to transform in all you do. Come and partake of the food for the journey.

A Needed Response

Two days ago I read a blog post on facebook, and I've been seething ever since. I have been creating and recreating a response in my head and getting myself more and more worked up--I even "argued" with my husband who tried to see the author's perspective and give a different view. (Keep in mind my last blog post which tells you the state of mind I've been in). Today running, I decided I was going to respond and put this author in her place, but first I was going to re-read her post so I had ammunition. And I did; and I realized that I had misread some points and that I had built it into something that it wasn't, and yet I'm still not satisfied just leaving it as it is.

The author is a guest blogger for Forbes blog, and a friend of a sorority sister. I should have known my friend wouldn't post something as absurd as I created it to be. Here is the link. http://www.forbes.com/sites/deborahljacobs/2012/04/15/a-working-mom-defends-the-lululemon-stay-at-home-mother/ I will admit, however, I still have some issues.

My first was being defensive, "I don't need anyone to defend my choice to be a stay-at-home mom" but really do I? Isn't the fact that I'm so defensive mean that somewhere inside me there is doubt, insecurity, need for validation? I think the part that I had the biggest problem with, and blew out of proportion was when the author said, "A lot of those moms may wish they were employed outside the home but can’t find a job, or can’t find one that would pay more than the childcare they would inevitably have to compensate someone else to perform. Or maybe they are in an abusive marriage with someone who controls them, won’t let them work, and belittles them if their body fat gets higher than that of a supermodel." This comes following her statement that we shouldn't judge people by how they look. So although, I now don't think she meant it as condescendingly as it originally seemed, I still feel the need to publicly (or at least for myself) give a response. And the best way for me to do that is to tell my story.

Sixteen and a half years ago I gave birth to the first of our four children. Throughout my pregnancy I vehemently stated that I was going to continue to work; I wanted to work, and frankly I made a larger salary and carried the benefits for our family. Less than three weeks after Sarah Katherine was born, I woke Chris in the middle of the night and tearfully told him that I just couldn't do it. I just didn't want to work anymore. Chris held me, soothed me, and told me it was fine. I didn't have to and we'd be fine. And I believed him, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

Chris, I'm fairly certain, did not go back to sleep. But this man that I married, as opposed to an abusive controlling man, knew me better than I knew myself, and throughout my months of pregnancy while I shouted to anyone who would listen that I was going to work, he was quietly making plans for the day or night when I told him I didn't want to. So Chris changed jobs; he left a job that he was passionate about, that he loved, and that made a HUGE difference in people's lives. He quit his job as a teacher and coach and bought a business. He swears to this day he is still fulfilled and still loves his job and all the jobs he has had since, but there is a part of me that still grieves for the students who never had "Coach" coach them or teach them history. He was that good--

Fast forward three more children--not once did Chris complain about the overwhelming stress that he must have felt; not once did he complain about getting home from a 10 hour day and then bathing and playing with the children. Not once did he complain about my Sunday afternoon naps; no, he just continued to give. The author of the blog talks about the Lululemon moms who wear $85 exercise clothes. I couldn't be one of those, but when I was jealous about those who could, when I wanted to wear nice clothes like the working moms, and when I went and spent money we didn't have to make myself feel better by looking a certain way, he didn't insist I take the clothes back. No, my husband, told me that I was important in whatever I wore and if I needed it then he would find a way to pay for it. (Although I did have to promise not to or at least to try not to do it again). And he chided me for spending money on the children's clothes encouraging me to spend it on myself instead. But himself, no, he spent no money on himself. He convinced me he liked wearing the old comfortable khakis and really didn't need a new blazer--he said he didn't wear it enough. When we did have to buy one, it was only discount shopping for him.

I didn't stay home because I couldn't find a job, because we were rich, or because my husband controlled me. I stayed home because we decided that it was the right thing for our family. But the story doesn't end--

When our family heard the call for me to enter the ministry, again my husband said, "I'll do whatever you need." And for three long years he has done just that; we all have. We have adjusted, juggled, cried and rejoiced with the changes that have rapidly occurred. Was life easier for Chris when I was at home full time? In some ways yes--I did the grocery, the dry cleaning, the laundry, chores we now share. But have we grown as a family with the changes, absolutely! I wouldn't trade the fourteen years I was at home for the world; there are many days I still crave them, but now our lives have changed; we've taken on a new direction.

This morning I sat by the hospital bed of my parishioner's dying mother. She asked me how I came to be in the ministry. I came to this point because of a call and because of a husband and family who also heard and answered and because of a choice--to work or not.

The author was right; it's not about appearance and we do need to stop judging people based on what they wear. We need to just trust; trust that each of us is doing what is right for us at the time. I wish it were just all about choice, but there truly are those who don't have choices--instead of judging one another, perhaps we could all unite and support those who have no choice?

It's not about appearance. But yesterday for Chris' birthday, I gave him a long deserved new sports jacket. Doesn't he look handsome?

Doubt Expressed

It's been a hard few days. I left the beach which is always difficult for me; the beach and the south--my home. And I returned to the ordination question still pending--date set PENDING final approval by the Standing Commission. And while I try to be patient and to trust the process, it gets hard and there are many more moments of doubt than I would like. I begin to question whether I am good enough, worthy enough, intelligent enough, kind enough--really any "enoughs". The doubts creep in and begin to take hold creating a wind stream of my emotions. I move quickly and roughly between fear, sadness, joyful anticipation, and anger.

Also in these few days, I have set with a parishioner whose mother is dying, and she is so incredibly sad, angry, fearful, and occasionally at peace. She has asked me to eulogize her mother and to capture the inner beauty of her mother a person who is giving and kind, loving and accepting--a mother we all deserve but don't all get. My parishioner is scared; she knows she must let go of her mother, but she wonders who she is without her. She knows that her mother will be at peace, but she wonders if she will. As I think about these two things--my life of waiting filled with doubts and the death of a wonderful woman, I realize they are related. I wonder who I am or who I will be if I am not ordained. Over the years as I have answered the call, becoming ordained has become part of my identity, part of who I am, part of who I was created to be. And my parishioner wonders who she is without a living parent. And we both have doubt; fear and anxiety, and every once in awhile a complete sense of calm and peace.

On my run this morning, it struck me that doubt is a part of life. Doubt is not unbelief, but rather the deep desire to continue to believe no matter what. The desire to stay connected to God; to stay in conversation with God. Being able to express doubt--being able to question, to cry, to rage-- says that I trust that God is bigger than my doubt and my emotions, and I trust that no matter what God is with me, and God is with the dying and with those left behind. Embracing my doubt, acknowledging my doubt and my emotions, allows me to move into a deeper relationship with God. It allows me to be who I truly am, wherever I am, and it allows me to trust. Doubt expressed leads to a deep abiding trust.

Whose Will You Wash?

Maundy Thursday—Year B

Jesus knew that his hour had come—Jesus knew that the end was near—it’s the night before he is to die and what does he do? What would you do if you knew you had less than 24 hours left with those you love—would you be frantic? What last minute words would you say? What would you want to make certain those you loved; those you were responsible for—heard?
Tonight’s Gospel is Jesus’ last words of instruction—his last command. That is what Maundy means “command”, and this Gospel is directed to a specific community—the community of his disciples and to us the Christian community—this is our night if you will. Jesus is speaking about; is commanding us; about how we should live—about how we should treat each other.
I imagine Jesus felt an urgency—the disciples have a history of not quite getting it—a fact Peter quickly proves. So Jesus begins with an action—a tangible expression—foot washing. Go with me for a moment back to the 1st century and imagine the landscape. The dirt roads covered with filth, people just dumped their trash and other things right in the roads; they were muddy, dusty, and dirty, disgusting. If you had shoes they were more like flip flops or even less, so feet were, well they were just nasty. Washing feet in these days was done for two reasons. The first was a purification ritual before one entered the temple and the second was the practical; they needed to be cleaned. This duty in a home this practical duty, was usually performed by a very lowly servant. Yet Jesus, the Lord, the Master, the Teacher, he washes the feet; he washes the muck and the mud off of all the disciples. ALL the disciples—the Beloved disciple, the disciple who will deny him, the disciples who will run away, and even of the disciple who he already knows his planning to betray him. As he washes their feet clean, he is also deepening the connection, the intimacy, the relationship. The foot washing of Jesus is both a cleansing and a union with God. The foot washing of Jesus is both that of servant hood as well as a sign of the community becoming the Body of Christ.
After he finishes—after Jesus demonstrates love in action, he spells it out for them—he explains what they must do—they must “wash one another’s feet.” What does that mean? How does that signify love—he tells them he’s giving them a new commandment—it’s not that loving is new—the Mosaic law is based on loving—loving the widow, loving the orphan, loving the vulnerable, the weak, the alien, the stranger, but Jesus is turning this around. He is now speaking the them specifically telling them to love one another in community—which let’s face it is sometimes so much harder to do—have you ever thought about how respectfully, mannerly, kindly we speak to strangers and yet brusquely speak to those we love? It’s like when I’m fussing at my children—stop doing that, that’s awful, you’re being disrespectful—ring “Hello, fine and how are you?” repairman, neighbor, or even survey person who is on the phone.
Jesus doesn’t just tell them what to do—he tells them why—because people will be looking, people will notice—people will recognize you by how you act. When I first officially entered into the discernment process Chris and I had a long talk with the children talking about how things would and would not change. Explaining what it meant for me to be moving towards the priesthood. They seemed to understand and were definitely on board and supportive. I don’t remember how many weeks later this happened ( I hope a lot), and I really don’t remember the specifics, but I do know that one Sunday morning we were all scurrying around and I was fussing, okay yelling, at everyone about everything. As we were getting into the car to get to church so I could preach Caroline (at age 6) calmly asked, “Do you think the people in church know how you act at home?” (LONG PAUSE) If we’re honest, there are so many horrific things that have been done by Christians some even in the name of Christianity—that is what Jesus is warning against. He wants us to be identified by our love for one another by the way we treat each other equally and with respect not keeping score, not being tit for tat, but serving and loving everyone in our community and then extending it beyond.
It is important to recognize that Jesus is not commanding us to feel love—no one can make us feel—no, Jesus is commanding us to act in love; to behave in ways that are loving even when we don’t feel like it. Jesus commands us to love—not in words but in action; in selfless giving unconditionally and nonjudgmentally. Our behaviors can lead to our heart, but it is not easy. Studies show that on average to form a habit—to make something become automatic, you have to deliberately repeat it for at least 66 days, but there is a range of 18-254 days. Jesus commands us to love people in ordinary every day acts. He used a towel—a kitchen towel—but that towel spoke volumes. He washed feet; he performed an ordinary act with a towel-- practical, daily, ordinary work. Jesus surrendered his dignity; his power—he released competition and served without claims of authority. In doing so, along with his willingness to be crucified, we are united with God. He dwells in us and we in him. We can certainly perform great magnificent acts of love, but just as important, perhaps more so, are the simple everyday things. It’s the way we treat each other when we see each other—it’s not spreading out so no one else will sit with us in the pew or not supporting their ministry because they don’t support ours. It’s not gossiping and faultfinding; no it’s tangible simple things that build one another up and therefore build up the entire Body of Christ.
In the book This Odd and Wondrous Calling, Martin Copenhaver says about the Christian community and how we are to act, “Pastors (remember we are a priesthood of believers) are expected to care for those they did not choose and perhaps would never have chosen under any other circumstances. The church, like the family, is a place where we try to learn how to live with those we are stuck with. Of course, we are not always able to pull it off. But in those times when we are able to live with, and perhaps even love, those we are stuck with, the church can still give us glimmers of the love of the God who is stuck with us all.”
Tonight as you come forward and Father Charles and I wash your feet, remember that this act reminds us that we forgive and we are forgiven that it is a sign that we are the body of Christ. Remember that and also think about all the others here at St. Mark’s and around the world whose feet are being washed; who are being cleansed—children, adults, men, women, black, white, and every other color, gay, straight, democrats, republicans—and think to yourself, whose feet am I willing to wash; whose feet do I need to wash?