Saying Good Bye to Boss--a lesson in loving and letting go

Thirteen years ago Christopher started preschool a couple of mornings a week.  He would wake up each morning and ask if it was a school day.  When I would answer yes, he would be so excited.  He'd get dressed, get his frog backpack, his lunchbox and stand at the door until we were ready to leave.  I often heard him telling William (who was then only 9 months) all about "chool".  We'd drop Sarah Katherine off at her classroom, and then every morning, the closer we got to his classroom the more tightly he would hold my  hand.  By the time we'd walked the hallway, he had a death grip .  We'd walk into the classroom where each and every time he would grab me and begin the blood curdling scream, "Mommy please don't leave me!  Don't leave me!!!!"  And each morning his teacher would literally peel him off me, he would be turning red, and I would say, "I love you Boss.  See you right after lunch.  Have a good day."  I'd hitch William up on my hip and walk out and to the parking lot where more times than not I'd crumple.

Why I would think am I doing this?  I am a stay at home mom; he can just stay with me.  I'm going to permanently scar him.  Sometimes it took every ounce of strength I had not to walk back into the school, sweep him in my arms and take him home.  Sometimes it took every ounce of strength my friends had to keep me from walking back into the school (thank you Gillian, Lucy, and Leslie), and sometimes I would sit in the car and cry until the school called my cell phone and said, "he's fine."  (that usually was within five minutes).  This went on for three years, three very long years.  I knew he was fine for many reasons, but one major one was that when Chris took him, this never happened.  I knew he would be fine, and yet, my heart broke every morning.  I hated hearing him cry; I hated knowing he was hurt or scared if only for a moment, but I did believe this was part of my job.  Part of my job was to teach him to be independent, teach him to rely on himself, teach him that I love him, that I will always love him whether he can see me or not.  And I suppose in a way, I was teaching him he was his own person--a person created in the image of God, by God and for his own purpose. And so I left him each morning with my final words, "I love you, I'll be back."

Fast forward 13 years--it has not been an easy start to high school for my sweet boy.  Much of it he has brought on himself.  I understand that.  He's made some dumb choices--not life altering, but nonetheless, he's had to learn some hard life lessons about manning up and admitting his mistakes, life lessons about who he can trust, life lessons about what it means to be a friend, and life lessons about consequences that come from dumb choices.  And for another year, my heart breaks almost every day.  I hurt when he makes bad decisions both for him and for others.  I wonder how I can make things better, easier, less challenging? I worry I haven't done enough, been enough.  I worry that going to work is causing this, and I worry that I suffocated and sheltered him for too long.  When I know he is hurt, when I know he is extremely sorry for his actions and/or words, I want nothing more than to take that cup from him.  I want to stand in his place when he is talking to the Dean of Students and the Headmaster.  I want to tell them about the little boy who got in his first fight at school in second grade because he saw someone write a racial slur on the bathroom wall.  And I want to tell them about the boy who went to the principal in fifth grade because a new boy who couldn't speak English was being picked on by all Christopher's friends.  I want to tell them about the boy who held and patted my hand for 3 hours during Caroline's surgery to amputate her pinky.  I want them to know about his deep heart for justice and his love for all people.  But instead, I have to let him stand on his own two feet.  I have to let him learn that how he behaves defines him and that he and only he can change people's opinions of him.  And I have to let him grow into the man God created him to be, independent of me.  And every morning my heart worries because I want life to be perfect for him. He's not screaming blood-curdling screams in his classroom--but just like then, I have no control.  I cannot always make life easier for him, and it breaks my heart.

This morning I drove him to school at 7:30 for his spring lacrosse trip.  We didn't talk much.  We had already talked about making good choices; we had already talked about this being a chance to completely start over, to show people who he truly was.  One thing I have learned is that too many words are just, well too many words.  But I have to admit, my heart was breaking.  I have never been apart from him on Easter.  As we were driving I pictured all those Easter mornings; I pictured him in his smocked john-johns, his sweater vests, his pastel polos, and lately his vineyard vine ties (thankyou Aunt Meredith).  And I thought how I wouldn't see him in church and he wouldn't be at Easter dinner, or at the beach next week, and my heart truly was breaking.  We drove up to school, he didn't hold my hand gripping constantly tighter.  No, he started pointing out who was there, wondering who he was going to room with, and telling me to just pull over he'd get out and I could leave.  I parked the car and he got out.  He went to the back, got his lacrosse bag, closed the trunk, and started to walk away.  But he turned came back to the car, leaned in, kissed my cheek, and said, "I love you."

It's already been a long day.  I'm trying desperately not to suffocate him with texts--not to continually check-in and remind him to behave.  It hurts to have him gone; as all my children are growing up, I am beginning to understand what people mean when they talk about a physical ache for your children.  Today during stations of the cross, the words referring to Mary "a sword of grief pierced her soul" resonated deeply with me.  Jesus was on his way to be crucified; he was on his way to living into his full glory; to fulfill his work on earth, the work God sent him to do.  And Mary had to stand by and let this man, this boy, this child she birthed, nurtured, and loved become the man he was created to be.  May God give me the strength and wisdom to remember my children are God's children, and may God give me the strength to love them enough to let them go and become all that they were created to be.

Surrendering to Footwashing

Maundy Thursday

Year C

John 13:1-17; 31b-35

               

        The disciples have had supper with Jesus, they are probably reclining as was the standard way to eat a meal.  If this was a movie we were watching, this would be when the music slows down, the camera slows down and we watch with both anticipation and anxiety every movement knowing something is coming.  John is very deliberate, very methodical, and very precise in how he sets this scene.  Watching this on the screen, we would probably see the disciples looking back and forth at one another, squirming, looking down, and awkward silence.

        The disciples have seen Jesus defy societal norms before; they’ve seen him live a life modeling full inclusion and equality, a life lived modeling living within the spirit and not just the letter of the law.  They’ve seen him eat with prostitutes and tax collectors, break Sabbath rules by healing and feeding on the Sabbath.  In spite of all that, this moment is particularly awkward-they’ve never been on the receiving end of such a direct challenge to societal rules, hierarchical roles—this is huge.

        The washing of guests’ feet falls to the lowest of the low.  It’s not just whatever servant is available.  This is a servant with whom even the other servants avoid contact if possible.  These people wash the dirtiest of the dirty feet.  Remember the roads upon which Jesus and the disciples walked on either bare feet or sandals not covering much more than today’s flip flops would, are not paved; they are dirt.  They are often muddy, dusty and these are the same roads that animals walk on without those cute signs asking people to pick up after their pets.  Sometimes people go days if not weeks before they bathe—they’re dirty, smelly, perhaps blistered, and rough—cover with callouses. 

        Can you see the disciples’ discomfort?  Can you feel the tension?  Jesus, their Lord and master is going to touch their feet, and they are uncomfortable, anxious.  Perhaps some tuck their feet up under themselves, perhaps as they are waiting their turn they try to subtly wipe off the excess dirt.  All the while, they are wondering what all this means.  Jesus hasn’t really explained himself—let’s face it, they typically don’t get it anyway.  This night, Jesus feeds them; he washes them clean; he tries to prepare them for what is to come.

        What we know watching is that these disciples will take their clean feet and their full bodies, and they will betray him.  True they don’t betray him as Judas did (whose feet by the way he also washed), but they betray him as they fall asleep in the garden when he’s asked them to stay awake with him; they betray him when they deny him, and they betray him when on their clean feet, with their full bodies they flee.  They failed Jesus—they failed in extending love to him as he extended it to them.

        If that was as far as we knew, that that was the end of our story, then what would be the point?  How painful it would be to watch this story.  If this was the end of the story then, how could we possibly expose ourselves, our vulnerability to anyone?  How could we accept unconditional love from anyone?  But that’s not the end of the story; we know that because of the cross and resurrection, life conquers death, love conquers hate, inclusion conquers desertion, and knowing that helps us to accept and extend grace, knowing that helps us to accept Jesus’ love and to extend that love others.

        Tonight I invite you to yield, to give yourself over, to submit yourself to the vulnerability of having your feet washed—to live through the discomfort, expose yourself to the awkwardness.  And as your feet are washed by one of your brothers or sisters in Christ or if you choose not to have your feet washed this evening, as you sit quietly in your pews picture Jesus’ hands washing you, scrubbing away your insecurities, washing away your weariness, buffing away your bitterness, soothing your sorrows so that you are cleansed and refreshed—strengthened and renewed that you may continue to follow Jesus—to walk with Jesus to the cross and beyond and bringing others along with you.

Amen.

A New Beginning

Lent 4 Year C

Laetare Sunday

Joshua 5:9-12

Luke 15:1-3; 11-32

        Did you notice I’m wearing pink today?  It’s Laetare Sunday, of course,—some of you are still looking perplexed.  Is that not a word you use all the time?  Me either, but I’ll tell you, Laetare in Latin means rejoice and this Sunday sometimes called mid-lent, refreshment Sunday, Rose Sunday (and in England Mothering Sunday) is the Sunday mid-way through Lent and has traditionally been recognized as a lightening of Lent.  It is the Sunday where we lighten up just a little bit—back off what can be considered a heavy season—wear pink instead of purple, and we look up and we rejoice. 

        Rejoice that we’re ½ way through—we see the end in sight.  Yesterday Chris and I were running; we were in Cherokee Park and if you’ve been there then you know about golf course hill—a very steady incline (I repeat incline) for a good ½ mile—but running it seems endless.  I have trained myself when running hills to just look straight ahead at the next 10 feet or even down at my feet, to stay focused on each step, to plod along—the top always seems too far away and in my exhaustion, in my legs where the muscles are throbbing and burning and begging to stop, the top often seems perpetually out of reach.  But yesterday as we rounded the last curve, I looked up, and the top didn’t seem that far away, it was in sight, it was attainable.  And as I saw the top and got ever so much closer, and knew that the burning pain would soon cease, I did think, “Thank God.”  I rejoiced.

        Perhaps today we are looking at Laetare Sunday in this way—we’re half way there—almost time to again regularly eat that chocolate, play those computer games, have that glass of wine.  We are looking towards coming out of the more penitential season of Lent, lifting our heads and rejoicing in the Easter season.  Yesterday’s beautiful sunny warm weather was a glimpse—a glimpse of the spring to come, a reminder that the cold, dark winter is almost over—almost like I planned it for this sermon—and so we set this Sunday aside to deliberately, to intentionally rejoice.

        The Israelites in our OT passage today must have felt this way.   They have been wandering for 40 years in the desert, eating manna, fussing with each other, and they are almost there; they are almost to the Promised Land—they have crossed the Jordan; the end is in sight, they can see it—the anticipation is mounting.  And at the point we read today, they pause, and they remember. They take time to rejoice.  In the verses just prior to the ones we read today, we learn that the Israelites were all circumcised—this is the second generation of Israelites.  Many of these people were either children or perhaps not even born during the Exodus, and so they weren’t yet circumcised—circumcision was the Israelites’ physical reminder they were marked as God’s chosen people.  This is a reminder to each and every one that they are marked as God’s own—they are circumcised and we are told, “They remained in their places in the camp until they were healed.”  (and for that they rejoiced) 

        And this is where we pick up today.  God says to them, “I have rolled away from you the disgrace of Egypt.”  God is saying to them, the past is over, it’s history, it’s time for a new beginning—Rejoice! 

        Stay with me for just another moment—let’s really think about what the people then did—they celebrated the Passover—they ritualized the moment.  This is only the second Passover, the first was in Egypt and it was fraught with fear and anxiety.  That Passover led to violence and death for the first born of all who hadn’t marked their doors; that Passover led to escape, but escape shrouded in fear, in anxiety, in the dread of the unknown.  This Passover, the Passover the Israelites celebrate at Gilgal is a ritual, a remembrance of the past, a remembrance that God has been with them through it all, and a celebration of the future; of a new beginning.  Out of the wilderness, out of the anxiety, the turmoil, the doubts, the despair, comes a reason to rejoice—a new start; a beginning of a whole new world for the people of God.

        The feast of the Passover for the people reminds them they are connected both individually and corporately to God.  They are connected to the past, yes, their history is important, but they are also to rise from this feast to a new life.  There will be no more manna; they eat the crops of the new life.  God provided them manna when they couldn’t provide for themselves, but beginning today for the people, they will work with God, they will farm—they will join in the feeding and care of each other.  It’s not just an end; it’s a new fresh beginning.

        We celebrate the Eucharist today, and as we do we remember the last supper of Jesus and his disciples.  A night filled with anxiety and despair, a night which led to terror and death, but today we also remember that it led to new life; to a new beginning, a new world, the in breaking of the kingdom of God.  And we also remember that we are coming to the altar as individuals and as a community—a community gathered here today, a community connected to the past, part of the present, and united with the future.  A community of people who have been sealed and marked as Christ’s own forever; the stone has been rolled away and new life has begun.  We come for ourselves, but we also come as agents of God; the hands and feet of God here today.  In one of the Eucharistic prayers it says, “Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.”  We ask for strength to be the presence of God in the world this week, not just when we feel like it (we don’t get a break because we lost an hour of sleep), not just with those people we like or understand, or can at least tolerate.  In each and every encounter we have this week may we remember that we are or we can be the physical presence of God for another, and may we also remember that they can be the physical presence of God for us.  As I reached the top of golf course hill, my run wasn’t over, I still had miles to go, but I could momentarily rejoice in what had been; what had been accomplished, what was history.   Today Rejoice—not just that Lent’s almost over, but rather also rejoice that there is in each and every day a new beginning.  A new day to love one another, care for one another, a new day to celebrate who we are as the people of God.  Easter morning we will really celebrate that new birth in a big way—with all the fanfare, but today I invite you to intentionally pause, lift up your head and to rejoice! Amen