Tears of Hope

I’ve spent most of today crying.  This isn’t really surprising if you look at the current circumstances of my life.  My mother has terminal cancer, my work has some difficult pieces of conflict that will not have resolution for some time, and I have other family circumstances that I’m not free to discuss publically but worry me to literal sickness and fill me with dread.  But it’s not those things per se that have left me crying today.

Today, I’m crying because of a wonderfully whole yet complicated sense of vulnerability.  Last night at work, I sat with a family who discussed their child’s illness and I was struck in a different way by their experience of fear and dread.  I heard it in a way I had never fully understood emotionally even though I did intellectually and academically.  I heard their fear of death and it struck me in a deeply personal way. 

See, I’ve spent most of my life outrunning a legacy of abuse, crushing depression, and illness that have left me feeling as though my death would be a welcome thing.  In spite of my desire for my suffering in this world to end, I’ve pushed forward and lived what others would consider a full life.  I’ve cultivated a family, friendships, and pastoral relationships in a way that reflect my faith that every moment matters in spite of my desire for my suffering to end.

But a funny thing has happened over the past few years.  I’ve experienced healing in ways I didn’t imagine and I hope isn’t done yet.  I’ve moved into and through the suffering to a place of peace with most of it.  Some of it will always be there but I have a growing sense that I am not just my suffering.  Maybe a better way to say it is that I am now living more and more because I love life and not in spite of suffering.

Oh sure, I still have bad days and I suspect my predilection toward suicidal thoughts will always be there but it isn’t all I am.  Yet I’ve had to ask the question “who am I if I’m not suffering?” because so much of my identity has been built around my deep understanding of that experience.  Some would tell you that one of the reasons I’m such a good friend and chaplain is that people sense I truly understand their sorrow and I’m not afraid to go to the dark places with them.  In part, I believe that’s true. Nevertheless, I have a growing suspicion that it’s not the whole story.

All of this brings me to my tears of today.  Since listening last night to that family’s fears of their child dying, I keep flashing on my own precious life and all the things I don’t want to lose or leave behind.  I keep thinking of my wife, daughter, brother, and others who I love so deeply that their loss would break my heart into a thousand pieces.  I keep thinking about my own tenuous health and how desperately I don’t want to leave those things behind.

For the first time in my life, I love more than I hurt and so I want to cling to every precious second I have with those people.  Before, their loss would have been more shattering to an already pulverized soul.  Now, love lives so much larger that the thought of losing them or leaving them fills me with vulnerability and brings tears to my eyes in an ironically hopeful way.  I say ironically hopeful because it has taken finally outrunning my longing for death to realize that my new fear of death reflects healing and restoration.

I don’t know what all this will mean for my work as a chaplain.  I can’t imagine that it’ll have a negative impact.  But that’s not really today’s concern.  For now, I’m crying.  I’m crying for fear, for hope, for love.  And these tears are sacred.  Amen.

Peaceful Refuge

Advent 2B – sermon based upon Psalm 34:1-7, 15-22 & Luke 2:1-20

Good morning. As we continue to make our way toward Bethlehem, we are looking more deeply at some of the gifts that Advent brings. In case you missed it last week, each week in worship we are tying in the theme from the Advent devotional in a variety of ways.  The music, liturgy, and even the scriptures have been chosen to walk us through the true gifts of this season.  This past week, we've explored the gift of faith.  On this second week of Advent we're looking at the gift of peace.  And new life and love are the themes we'll connect with in the coming weeks. 

So today, we have a story of what it looks like to  have nearly everything you think could go wrong, go wrong and still it turns into the best Christmas ever... well, I guess it's the first Christmas ever.

All joking aside, it really is one of those stories that we might be tempted to rush to the happy ending and say it all worked out.  But it wasn’t easy to get to that happy ending.  A nine month expectant mother and her fiancé had to take a dangerous trip because the government needed to tax them.  Upon arrival, there wasn’t room for them in the inn nor did they have the money for a nicer place.  We can assume they didn’t have family in the area either.   They were all alone and in a bind.  But they found refuge in a barn and in the end discovered blessings and a peace they could have never imagined.

Most of us are unlikely to have such an experience that is still being told over 2000 years later but it is much like many experiences we have all had.  For example, on the way to what was supposed to be a special dinner out for my grandmother’s 75th birthday, we got a flat tire.  Then, I stained my shirt changing the tire. At this point we’re running late and if you knew my grandmother, you’d know that punctuality is next to Godliness.  By the time we got to the restaurant, we were so late they gave away our reservations.  So, we walk down the road to a greasy spoon diner because it's the only place without a wait and we're tired and hungry and cranky by this point so we go in. 

Once inside, we meet a server who smiles and treats us like family.  She brings us coffee without asking because she can see we're cold.  She tells the soup is no good but the meatloaf is outstanding.  And it turns into an evening of comfort and refuge in an unlikely place.

That is a true story and I can tell you lots of others.  In my work at the hospital, I meet people all the time who think the worst thing that could ever happen to them would be for their child to be sick and in the hospital.  They cry with agony and worry about how they don't think they can handle it.  They wonder where God is and why this is happening.  They feel alone and lost in a strange place.

But if they keep their eyes open and don't succumb to the despair, what they find is people that have their best interest at heart.  They feel hands of care and concern that will hold them in the tough moments.  They experience support that comes in unexpected forms and packages.  And most importantly, they find God working in their lives, even in this unfamiliar and scary place.  I can't tell you how many families when referring to the hospital say to me something like, "This place has been the home we never expected and blessing we didn't know we needed."

Life is like that.  Just when it isn't going the way we wanted, we find that God has prepared a place for us where we least expected it.  And God is like that.  When we toil in the brokenness of the world, God reaches out making a safe harbor in humble and unexpected places. 

So, what do we make of all this?  Why is it that sometimes we find God in the dark places and sometimes we don't?  Is it that God wants to help us some of the time and other times we're on our own?  Is it that God picks and chooses on supporting us?

Well, I don't think it works that way.  From what we learn in this scripture and what I've seen working at the hospital and in my own life, I believe that God is always reaching and supporting us even if we can't always see it.   And more than that, I suspect that we would be far worse off if God weren't constantly reaching toward us to help and support us.  Oh, it’s true that sometimes we succumb to despair or become blinded by bitterness or get lost in the mire of worry so much so that we can no longer see God's work and provision for our lives.  But when we can stay open to God's work, amazing things happen.

Let’s think back on this story for a minute.  If Mary had let the worry of such a long journey overcome her, we wouldn't have such an amazing birth story.  If Joseph had let the frustration about having to travel at such an in convenient time blind him, he might have mouthed off to the inn keeper and not even gotten to use the barn.  If the shepherds had been more concerned with their own matters, they would have missed seeing the young messiah.  Things in this story weren’t going so well for them but they kept journeying forward faithfully.  And because they did, they found God’s love and provision laid out for them.

See, this journey toward Bethlehem is one of unknowns and fears like we talked about last week.  But faith is journeying forward anyway.  Yet, God gives us more than what we need for just a faithful journey.  We can find peace along the way.  We can know safe havens and helpful nurture.  We can experience God's love and work for us that is present and reaching to us even when we can't yet see or receive it.  But when we can, peaceful nights of sleep, calm in the storm, and blessings in the midst of difficulty are there for us to claim.

So how do we tap into God’s support for us when we’re just nearly so overwhelmed that we can’t take another step?  How do we keep from letting frustration about our circumstances and disappointments get the better of how we deal with it so we can be open to the peaceful refuge God has offered?  And what does that refuge even look like?

Well, just like in our biblical story and the stories I told, it requires openness on our part to believe in and see God’s blessing in the tough times.  I’m not saying that we have to just be optimistic.  Being optimistic is not always realistic.  For example, we can’t use positive thinking to take care of mortgage difficulty or brokenness in our relationships.  Optimism alone in such situations would leave us homeless and alone. 

Instead, openness to the goodness around us is more like faith than optimism.  It’s listening to that inner voice to pick up the phone and call a friend for help rather than toughing it out alone.  It’s allowing ourselves to see something differently so that we recognize the blessing instead of seeing just another obstacle.  It’s knowing that we are really not alone and that if we hold fast to what is truly important, we will find safe harbor even if it doesn’t look like what we expected. 

Sisters and brothers, the journey to Bethlehem was a tough one but God provided from them in ways they didn’t know and couldn’t expect.  Still today, God is working in our lives to help us along the way.  As we journey in faith, may we always be open to the peace and refuge that God offers regardless of what it looks like.  May we support one another to ease the burdens.  And may we truly experience God’s provision for us when we need it most.  Amen.

Onward In Faith

Advent 1B - Sermon based upon Psalm 42 & Matthew 1:18-2:12

Good morning and welcome to Advent.  This is a season of expectancy and preparation. A season of joy, hope, and promise.  And given the themes of our advent devotional and sermon series, it is also a season of faith, peace, new life, and love.

You’re going to notice a pattern in the coming weeks that lead us all the way through Christmas.  Each week’s theme that goes with the devotional is going to be lifted up in worship in multiple ways.  The devotional theme is The True Gifts of Christmas: The Journey to Bethlehem. The music, prayers, liturgy, and even scriptures will go along with the weekly theme.  Each week we'll have a Psalm that captures the emotional experience of the theme and a Gospel passage that tells the story.

But for now, we’re here on the first week of Advent.  We enter with the theme of faith and the story told in Matthew about Jesus's conception and birth.  If ever there was a story of faith in God, this is it.

Here we have a young unmarried woman who finds out she's going to have a very special baby.  The scripture tells us that her fience doesn't want to disgrace her but he's still going to “quietly dismiss her.”  After transformative encounters, they both believe in God’s will for this child move forward to have the baby. 

From the Luke story of Jesus’ birth we also know that they had to make a journey to Bethlehem for census and taxation.  That must have been horrible.  Can you imagine setting out on a donkey, a man and a 9 month pregnant woman, in a time when life was so much more treacherous than it is now?

And even after Jesus is born, King Herod sends spies so that he can plot against the young Messiah, Emmanuel, God with us.  But they too had a transformative experience rooted in joy and did the right thing to protect this child.

And our Psalm this morning is also a true story of faith.  It is about the fear and anxiety we experience when we can’t quite feel God’s closeness to us.  We want to lash out as the Psalmist does with “Why have you forgotten me?  Why must I walk about mournfully because the enemy oppresses me?”  But just as with Mary and Joseph, the Psalmist remembers “hope in God.”
These are some pretty powerful scriptures if we pause to let them capture our feelings and imagination.  So, what do they have to tell us on this first Sunday of Advent?

Well, I think one of the messages is that just because we’re journeying faithfully doesn’t mean that it’s smooth sailing.  It’s often an anxiety and fear filled path.  Even Joseph was going to leave Mary because he couldn’t understand how God’s plan for Mary included him and I imagine he felt a lot of social pressure as well.

How often are our lives like that?  Maybe it’s that we know what the right thing is to do but we feel the pressure and embarrassment of what others are saying around us.  Or sometimes it’s that we are not sure how we fit into God’s plan.  Or sometimes it’s more a feeling like the Psalmist had of wondering where God is in all this and how to remain faithful while it feels so dark.  When faced with loss, uncertainty, and other things that raise our fear level, our lives, just like Mary and Joseph’s are filled with moments that make our faithful walk forward feel more like a burdensome trudge. 

Whether it’s the journey of the PNC in search of a pastor or the daily work it takes to make relationships last, we are ALL journeying… and sometimes it’s a tough one.  But here’s where the story turns. 

God reassures Joseph of his part in all this.  Then God protects Jesus from Herod.  God even touches the wise men and they go on a different path.  Hope and joy healed them from their worries, doubt, and uncertainty.  In the case of the wise men, quite literally, the story tells us that they were overwhelmed by joy. 

I think this is the real heart of our scripture lesson for today.  We worry and struggle in uncertainty quite often. And it becomes a cycle that just gets worse if left to our own devices.  The more we worry, the more we drag ourselves down.  The more we drag ourselves down, the more we fret about digging back out of the hole of fear, grief, and depression.  The more we fret about those things, the more ashamed we feel.  And the more ashamed we feel… well, that’s just a terrible spiral downward. 

But God’s support and love for us is never wrapped up in fear or shame or overly burdensome toil.  God reaches out to us with hope and joy offering us help to put one foot in front of the other and continue our faithful journey.  That support comes in all kinds of forms.  In the case of Joseph, it came in the form of messenger from God and I imagine it also came in the form of support from people around him and most especially from Mary.  For the wise men, they found support from God to do the right thing through an intense sense of joy at the witness of a phenomenon in nature right before meeting Jesus.  And while most of us don’t have an experience of meeting and angel, I know that all of us have met messengers from God or had experiences that coincided with special event that invigorated our faith. 

See, this is what faith is about, whether it’s during the season of Advent or any other time.  We are on a journey and each and every day is another opportunity to keep moving forward toward the hope and promise of God while being open to the nurturing support God gives us.

Now, I’m not trying to make this sound easy.  I’ll give you a deeply personal example.  All my life, even as a little child, I’ve struggled with depression.  It seems to be genetic because most of my family struggles with it.  Depression has gripped me in ways that I’ve often felt forgotten by God.  The way depression chokes off the light is painful.  And after feeling the emptiness and darkness months on end, I’ve even thought that it wasn’t that God had forgotten me.  I’ve felt that God must be punishing or cursing me.  Now logically, I know that isn’t the case.  But depression is an illness that tells us lies about ourselves, others, and God.

Having struggled with this illness for most of my 37 years, I can tell you quite a few things about finding God in the darkness and what faith looks like when you barely have the energy to get out of bed.  But I can also tell you that faith cannot be stifled or destroyed by darkness, fear, worry, doubt, and uncertainty. 

Just like Mary and Joseph, I have found God’s support every step of the way.  Just when I thought I couldn’t bear the isolation any longer, God has sent messengers that reminded me who and who’s I am.  God has placed people in my life to help me when I couldn’t help myself.  When I needed a jolt to point me in the right direction, God has shown me great joy through phenomenon in nature.  God has called me forward in love all along the way. 

God’s nurturing love and my faith in that love have helped me journey forward every step of the way.  In fact, you’ve even been part of God’s work in my life.  As you know, I’m a chaplain and I work night shift at Children’s Memorial Hospital.  Working night shift is more than a choice.  It’s a metaphor for my experience with God.  Because I’ve had to work so hard to find God in the long nights of depression, I want to be part of God’s light to others in the night.  I never thought I’d work in a church because I thought my place was in the darkness.

But being here with you has shown me that God calls me into the light as well.  The way you’ve encouraged me and the relationships I’ve built here have shown me new paths in my own faith journey.  My faithful journey is not only that of holding people in the night but also that of proclaiming God’s radiance in the light and you’ve been the ones who’ve helped cultivate that in me and show me God’s way for which I’ll always be grateful.

Now I didn’t tell you all that to spew out my own story.  I told you about my journey because I believe it speaks to the struggles we’ve all had.  Advent, holidays, faith, journeys, family, church… all of these things are precious but they also stir in us anxiety and fear about the unknown.  But God is with us, each and every one of us.  God is speaking and leading and calling us every step of the way.

Sisters and brothers, as we move forward in Advent, may we have faith that God is alive and well in all areas of our lives.  Even when it feels scary or burdensome, God is with us, offering us support wrapped in love rather than fear.  Our job is to keep putting one foot in front of the other on this journey taking the next step in faith and being open to all the ways God is supporting us.  Emmanuel, God with us… We welcome you!  Amen

The Best Chaplain I Ever Did Know

As you probably I know I am a chaplain in a pediatric hospital.  For the sake of clarity, let me define the role of hospital chaplain in general terms.  A chaplain is a clergy person who regardless of their own beliefs, supports the spiritual and emotional needs of patients, families, and staff in a hospital.  That role can look like advocacy around poverty or race issues or it can be more like sitting in the dark silence with someone when words fail us. The role is diverse and always changing.

 

I came to this profession because of a deep sense of calling combined with some strong gifts and skills for the job.  But where did these gifts and skills come from?  The easy answer would be to say God.  But the truth is I had a great teacher.  I learned from the best chaplain there ever has been.  His name is Bear Bear.

Bear Bear is my stuffed bear that I’ve had since Valentine’s Day 1976. If you ever meet him, you’ll realize that he used to be white with a red belly but now he’s dirty beige and kind of burgundy.  He’s endured many surgeries (repairs), has a broken eye, a missing mouth, and his fur is rubbed thin in places.  If you’re familiar with The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams, you’ll recognize that he is “real” because he has all the signs of being truly loved.

 

Anyway, all of the most important things I know about being a good chaplain I learned from Bear Bear.  First of all, he is an amazing listener.  Whether I was crying my eyes out or just chatting, he never flinched.  He paid attention without judging, interrupting, or becoming distracted.  I could see it in his eyes.  He looked deeply into me as if to say, “no matter the words coming out of your mouth, I understand and love you.”

 

If Bear Bear’s empathy came through in his listening, it was most pronounced in his intuitive presence.  He knew what I needed.  Whether it was appropriate use of touch, distracting play, or wiping my tears, he paid attention to what the moment needed.  He seemed to have an intuitive sense about when the right time was to hug and just be with me or when it was time to gently guide me into doing something different.  I’ve come to believe that intuition is partially about how our brain works.  But it is more a matter of truly being with someone so that all the contextual pieces form a clearer picture in that moment.

 

Bear Bear demonstrated his intuitiveness but more importantly, he paid attention to what that inner voice told him.  He acted with both assuredness and gentleness.  If there is a definition of pastoral authority, that is it.  He was bold to reach out but soft to the touch.  He was firm in his beliefs but nurturing to my development. He gave of himself but claimed personal time with friends (he played very well with others from the toy box).  He looked for new ways of helping but honored our familiar traditions.  Bear Bear offered who he was and what he could in whatever situation arose.

Gleaning from the lessons Bear Bear taught me, I’ve learned to communicate through my body language that I care, to truly sit in the moment with people so that my movements are purposeful, to listen to my inner voice and act accordingly, and so much more.  As I consider everything I am as a chaplain, I first own a debt of gratitude to my mentor, guide, and friend Bear Bear.  Thank you Bear Bear.

The Moment That Matters

Recently a child died unexpectedly while admitted to the hospital.  Because it is rare to have anything unforeseen happen at our hospital, the staff experience these moments as difficult to reconcile.  I hear “what if” questions from the most brilliant and competent of care providers.  I also find myself asking how I could have met the spiritual and emotional needs of the family and staff better.  Those questions are perfectly reasonable.  We have a hospital culture that invites us to always grow and become more than we are.  So, these questions come from a place of recognizing that we can always do something better.  But will the growth from that process necessarily change the outcome of such situations? 

It might but that does not need to be our only focus.  Our job, regardless of the specifics of our functions, is to enter into particular moments in time where we engage all the dynamics and variables of that moment bringing who we are and what we can offer.  That sounds like a lot but it is exactly what we do every day.  Working in a hospital, regardless of the position, is very much about being engaged so that we see the patterns and needs as they emerge.  We utilize our senses, training, and one another to produce the best outcomes for our patients and families.  Yet, we don’t always get the result we want.

Shortly after this child died, I was talking with one of the staff as she asked the questions of what could have been done differently.  Yet, I sensed in her a darker sense of guilt and doubt that I’ve watched haunt nurses and doctors to the point of leaving the profession.  As we spoke, I asked her, “What would it have really taken to create a different outcome for that child?”  She looked at me puzzled so I answered the question for her.  I said, “I believe you did your absolute best in that small moment in time that you were with the patient.  That moment was preceded by many many moments where other decisions would have had to have been made in order for your moment to be different.  It’s like walking in on an elaborate pattern of dominos falling.  You only get to see a small section but the dominos have been hitting one after another for a long time.  You did exactly what you could in that moment.”

What I told her is true.  When I look at the medical realities of the patient, I see a series of events that cascaded toward that one moment where she died.  Our staff entered into a critical moment for that child and provided world class medical care that honored her and her family.  We worked hard as individuals of various disciplines and as a team.  Yet, we were not able to save the child.  Why?  Did someone do something wrong?  Not in that moment.  Sure, there are little things that we can improve upon.  For example, I wish I had arrived faster to support the family.  But I didn’t because there are many needs and as a chaplain, I triage needs just like the clinical staff.

I’m not saying that medical mistakes never happen because we all know that they do.  Nevertheless, that was not the case in this moment nor has it been the case in any moments I’ve witnessed.  Yet, I continue to encounter staff that internalize the traumatic nature of such a loss and become haunted by its memory. 

We enter moments.  We can’t be responsible for all the other moments that lead to that one.  We must have grace for ourselves and recognize our limits.  This grace is certainly akin to God’s grace.  We are always in the presence of moments with God and all creation where we are limited in our influence because there is so much more that has happened and will continue once we’re gone.  We are truly part of an elaborate, always unfolding, pattern of dominos that drop and create the next moment and the next moment and the next moment.  May we always enter the moment.