The grass truly is greener on the other side of the fence at the farm this month. Three horses and two donkeys can eat a great deal of grass and the three acre pasture we have fenced in for them has been eaten to the ground. As I walk to my kitchen sink in the late afternoon, their heads hang over the gate and through the fence, waiting and watching for me (or someone) to set them free. As I walk out on the back porch, Shirley T and Blacknosed Kate begin to sing a donkey song in anticipation of the sweet soft green grass just on the other side of the fence. The horses nicker and step back and forth, tasting the grass in their imaginations.
As the horses and donkeys walk through the gate, they stop and nibble a little on the yard grass but then move swiftly to the lush fields in front of the high barn. These fields have been mowed regularly for hay so it is mostly grass with few weeds. They wander back and forth, not really going anywhere, just looking for the best stand of clover. All five of them stay close together and if one gets too far away, the whole herd will move to join them. There is an unseen cord that keeps them connected.
After an hour or two of grazing, I go to gather them up for the return to the paddock pasture. Dakota, like me, is old and tired, so he is the easiest to catch. I loop the pocket halter over his neck, around his muzzle and begin to lead him back. The others ignore us as we leave but we keep on walking. Soon I will hear the rumble of hooves as donkeys and horses run past us, kicking up their heels just for the fun of it. The donkeys were so drunk on green grass one night that they ran circles in the yard, kicking and braying, party time.
The trick to green grass as a food is that it is possible for a horse to kill itself by eating too much of it. The sugar in the grass can cause the horse to put on so much weight that it founders. Some horses are more prone to this problem than others. Dakota and Dixie can eat grass all day long and not have a problem but Junie B has to have her grazing restricted with a grazing muzzle. Too much of a good thing can be dangerous.
The horses and donkeys know the answers to questions I have difficulty answering for myself. Who am I? Each animal knows who it is in relationship with others of its own kind. Kate and Shirley know they are donkeys and the horses are the other. The horses connect to each other and have clear relationship boundaries. If a horse gets too close to a donkey, it will get a bloody nose from a kick. If Dixie goes into Junie B’s stall at night, she gets chased out by Junie B. The interesting paradox is their knowledge of themselves is as separate beings, as well as a part of the herd. Dixie knows she can bully Dakota and make him move over. But she stands close to him during nap time, snuggled up close, secure in their connection. Kate knows she can push Shirley away from a bucket of feed but gets anxious when she can’t see Shirley. She walks or runs until she locates her companion. Then you can see her relax, anxiety melting away.
Who am I? I am me, a separate creation, full of unique one of a kind never been seen before never to be seen again components. The mold was broken after my creation. But I am also part of my herd, just like everyone else, no better, no worse, nothing special. What a wonderful gift this is, to be special and not so special at the same time. I am balanced on the top rail of the fence that divides separate self and herd membership. To know myself, I must be in relationship with others unlike me... Republican and Democrat, city dweller and farmer, fundamentalist believer and barely believer, old and young. I need the companionship and security that comes from being with a herd that is like me, too. The truth is I have many herds... my work camp crew, my covenant group, my believer friends, my neighborhood family/friends, my family, some more alike me than others. Like the donkeys and the horses, we need both the same and different to know the answer to the question “Who am I?”
When I read about the disciples, I see a group of people who were so different from one another... fishermen, tax collector, doctor, educated and uneducated, hot headed and calm, skeptic and faith believer, male and female (I include the Marys as disciples)... and so like one another... Jewish, in the same country, at the same point of time in history, living by the same set of cultural and religious rules. Their common belief in Jesus, set them free to be their own unique selves, giving their best gifts even as they bullied and bumped up against one another. Like Dakota and Dixie, Peter and Paul, I can find my true self alone in a herd. Who am I? I am a piece of a whole and a whole piece, created by a loving God who values my gifts and forgives my sins, a person whose life is important and unimportant, a part of a herd and a solitary soul.
The old shaped note hymn says it best... “There’s a wideness in God’s mercy like the wideness of the sea; there’s a kindness in his justice which is more than liberty. There is welcome for the sinner and more graces for the good; there is mercy with the Saviour, there is healing in his blood. For the love of God is broader than the measure of man’s mind; and the heart of the Eternal is most wonderfully kind. If our love were but more simple, we should take him at his word; and our lives would be all sunshine in the sweetness of our Lord.” There is room for us all in the wide kind graced broad merciful simple sweet loving God who leads us home to our evening pasture...
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Corn likker communion
We are an unlikely combination for friendship. Brothers Deweese and Jasper Wolfe are Cherokee, living on the ground where they were raised, speaking Cherokee in their homes as their mother did. English was their second language as they grew up. Most of the eleven sisters and brothers gathered for the Saturday evening meal at Deweese’s house, perched on the side of the mountain. Down the steep slope from Deweese’s house , you could see where his parents house stood..
We were earnest southern Christian college students who lived in their old school at the base of the mountain. They would come play basketball in the gym with us while their mother sat and watched. When she stood, they stopped playing and gathered around her for the walk up the mountain. Mrs. Eva Wolfe wove baskets to sell and would stand in the front corner of the school yard loaded down with her baskets waiting for a ride to town. Cars were not plentiful on the reservation in the sixties and ride share was a way of life. Her baskets are in the Smithsonian Museum now and sell for thousands of dollars. A lucky few of us bought some from her for fifteen and twenty five dollars.
After forty years away, we have begun to share our lives as friends. First we came to do “good works”, providing labor as we did before, to clean and paint and build for those who needed help. Then we began to know one another not as helper and “helpee”, but as brothers and sisters. When Elsie, Deweese’s wife was in the hospital with kidney disease, we visited her. When she died, we came to her funeral. When Deweese called, grieving and sad, we listened. We play with the grandchildren now much as we played before. One night we sat around the fire pit telling stories and picking at each other. We porch sit and share meals together.
The women and Deweese had been cooking all day... barbequed ribs, first class potato salad, greens, fried tomatoes, greens, baked beans, macaroni and cheese, hominy, turkey and dressing, homemade hominy, home grown green beans and on the stove, a pot of bean bread. Deweese makes the best bean bread. For those of you who have never tasted bean bread, it is a corn meal batter with red beans simmered like dumplings in broth. It is a substantial form of bread, not to be eaten lightly. I like it best sliced and fried for breakfast.
After the meal, we sit and talk and watch the children play, talk about work and life and family. One of the sisters runs the language immersion program for the tribe teaching their language that was almost lost. Another sister runs the tribal Head Start program. Mary Lynn’s work was teaching others how to teach and care for young children, so their conversation is always fun for them. Walt and Claudie sit in the living room watching the Auburn LSU game with other football freaks... excuse me, fans. And in the back bedroom, Elsie’s bedroom, we gather to sing gospel.
The Wolfe family had a gospel quartet for years with daddy Amble as bass. Now Deweese sings bass. We spend an hour or so singing songs we all know and a lot we don’t know until we are plumb sung out. Then Deweese, Jasper and two of the grandchildren sing for us in their native tongue. As we sit and listen, I am moved to tears and I am sure God’s eyes are tender with love, too at the sights and sounds of the children of God loving one another.After awhile, we leave and head down the mountain leaving Walt behind for the finish of the game. It is a close one and he can’t stand to leave it. Deweese will bring him down when it is over.
Elsie’s death last February is still a raw hurting wound for Deweese. We planted a four season flower garden in her memory at the Wolfe Family Cemetery overlooking a majestic mountain just down the road from their home. We gather in a circle, hold hands, and pray for Elsie and her loved ones. This Cherokee man who has taken us into his heart and home, weeps as we pray. We hold him close and stand watching the sunlight dance on the mountainside. We sit and stand on Deweese’s front porch, looking out over the beautiful mountains of Cherokee. It was almost time to leave and we were delaying the time of parting. Mary Lynn goes the Deweese’s refrigerator and brings out a quart jar half full of a clear liquid, corn likker, white lightning, liquid gold, flu preventative ( says Deweese). We pass the mason jar around, a common cup, and as we drink, our laughter and love and grief wing their way to God. Sweet, sweet communion... and mighty smooth corn likker, too.
We were earnest southern Christian college students who lived in their old school at the base of the mountain. They would come play basketball in the gym with us while their mother sat and watched. When she stood, they stopped playing and gathered around her for the walk up the mountain. Mrs. Eva Wolfe wove baskets to sell and would stand in the front corner of the school yard loaded down with her baskets waiting for a ride to town. Cars were not plentiful on the reservation in the sixties and ride share was a way of life. Her baskets are in the Smithsonian Museum now and sell for thousands of dollars. A lucky few of us bought some from her for fifteen and twenty five dollars.
After forty years away, we have begun to share our lives as friends. First we came to do “good works”, providing labor as we did before, to clean and paint and build for those who needed help. Then we began to know one another not as helper and “helpee”, but as brothers and sisters. When Elsie, Deweese’s wife was in the hospital with kidney disease, we visited her. When she died, we came to her funeral. When Deweese called, grieving and sad, we listened. We play with the grandchildren now much as we played before. One night we sat around the fire pit telling stories and picking at each other. We porch sit and share meals together.
The women and Deweese had been cooking all day... barbequed ribs, first class potato salad, greens, fried tomatoes, greens, baked beans, macaroni and cheese, hominy, turkey and dressing, homemade hominy, home grown green beans and on the stove, a pot of bean bread. Deweese makes the best bean bread. For those of you who have never tasted bean bread, it is a corn meal batter with red beans simmered like dumplings in broth. It is a substantial form of bread, not to be eaten lightly. I like it best sliced and fried for breakfast.
After the meal, we sit and talk and watch the children play, talk about work and life and family. One of the sisters runs the language immersion program for the tribe teaching their language that was almost lost. Another sister runs the tribal Head Start program. Mary Lynn’s work was teaching others how to teach and care for young children, so their conversation is always fun for them. Walt and Claudie sit in the living room watching the Auburn LSU game with other football freaks... excuse me, fans. And in the back bedroom, Elsie’s bedroom, we gather to sing gospel.
The Wolfe family had a gospel quartet for years with daddy Amble as bass. Now Deweese sings bass. We spend an hour or so singing songs we all know and a lot we don’t know until we are plumb sung out. Then Deweese, Jasper and two of the grandchildren sing for us in their native tongue. As we sit and listen, I am moved to tears and I am sure God’s eyes are tender with love, too at the sights and sounds of the children of God loving one another.After awhile, we leave and head down the mountain leaving Walt behind for the finish of the game. It is a close one and he can’t stand to leave it. Deweese will bring him down when it is over.
Elsie’s death last February is still a raw hurting wound for Deweese. We planted a four season flower garden in her memory at the Wolfe Family Cemetery overlooking a majestic mountain just down the road from their home. We gather in a circle, hold hands, and pray for Elsie and her loved ones. This Cherokee man who has taken us into his heart and home, weeps as we pray. We hold him close and stand watching the sunlight dance on the mountainside. We sit and stand on Deweese’s front porch, looking out over the beautiful mountains of Cherokee. It was almost time to leave and we were delaying the time of parting. Mary Lynn goes the Deweese’s refrigerator and brings out a quart jar half full of a clear liquid, corn likker, white lightning, liquid gold, flu preventative ( says Deweese). We pass the mason jar around, a common cup, and as we drink, our laughter and love and grief wing their way to God. Sweet, sweet communion... and mighty smooth corn likker, too.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Precious memories... unseen angels
We pulled up into the back drive of the old school... Big Cove School in Big Cove , Cherokee, North Carolina and my heart flew back forty three years ago to the first time I saw this old building. It has changed some... now home to a Nazarene mission church, painted a different color, a day care center built beside it and a fire station behind it... but inside it looked and smelled the same as it did all those years ago. We walked into the school kitchen where some of our crew were sitting around the table finishing lunch. Hugs all around, food passed around and homecoming was in full swing. All afternoon as others came, some from far away, the laughter and tears, hugs and pats, continued as the Spirit that binds us together did her holy work among us. As we gathered for supper, our conversation included those who were unable to join us this year... sickness, job changes, parent care... and our hearts turned towards God as we held them close to us in our prayers.
I was a rising college junior, a Baptist Student Union summer missionary, chosen to come help build a church on the reservation with other college students from the state of Georgia. Walt and Mary Lynn led our noisy band with flair, dedication and mighty fine food. If Claudie wasn’t nice to Tommy, he couldn’t have the VW keys to drive to town. If the boys complained about their underwear getting mixed up when they were washed, the next week they came back dyed pink and yellow and blue and green. That led to the Pink Grits Episode the next morning.
There were three duties Walt took seriously and required our participation in each. We were required to work, not slack off, whatever our job for the day. We were required to go to church on Sundays and be prepared to provide special music, or teach children, or lead a Vacation Bible School in a front yard if needed. We were required to show up for the family meeting each Wednesday night for sharing time and study time. If you “had ought” against anyone in the family, you could speak it and it would be resolved. Kitherine, who was not a morning person, had ought with me because I woke up whistling and singing each morning. It was the first time anyone ever spoke directly to me about being angry with me. I was mortified and crushed. Walt helped model for us how to deal with differences and conflict without damaging relationships. The second part of our family meeting was book study, “Your God Is Too Small”. As Walt led the often loud and spirited discussions that followed our reading, my child like faith and image of God began to stretch in some important ways. My faith thinking eyes began to see all the wonderful colors and shades of gray, white, black that are a part of a mature faith... an impressionistic rendering of God’s faces that began my adult love affair with God.
Saturday we returned from a hard day of work tearing out and replacing a termite ridden wall, scrubbing and painting the exterior of a house to find an angry letter resting on the kitchen table. Written by the woman co-pastor of the Nazarene church, it was a blistering, shaming missive that told us to remove our wine and beer from the premises immediately because they were Christians and did not drink alcoholic beverages. I was the first one to see the letter and was surprised by the intensity of my reaction. It was an emotional, visceral, gut wrenching response fueled by earlier life experiences with fundamentalism that stole my Baptist birthright from me. I wanted to go find her and in Christian Love, remind her that our Lord changed water into wine and even Paul, the old reprobate, advised a little wine for the stomach’s sake. In short, I wanted to wipe the smug smile of religious certainty from her face and give her a dose of my righteous indignation.
And then I came home to a phone call from a church friend wanting to know what had happened... why had we left FCUCC... the pastor had told her it was a shift in the balance of power and we left because of that. She couldn’t understand. Again I felt the anger rising. I had so hoped to be able to leave this congregation I loved for thirteen years quietly and with some dignity. I had chosen to send only a short letter to the choir, where we had been a part of that small community, dealing with only one of the reasons for our leaving. To have the past two years of soul searing searching wrenching grieving reduced to a simple phrase... a shift in the balance of power... ripped open a wound I thought was healing. I left for many reasons.
I left because I felt hemmed in by a new liberal orthodoxy that discounted and dismissed faith language from the past. I could no longer hear the affirmation “Jesus is Lord” in worship or the words “This is my body, broken for you” in communion. Genderless descriptions for God were the norm, neither male nor female pronouns could be used without complaints to the worship committee. When Michael was asked to read from the Cotton Patch Gospels in worship, he received a call asking him to rewrite the language to make it inclusive. This version of the Gospel was written in the southern vernacular by Clarence Jordan, a man who laid down his life in Americus, Georgia for racial equality. He walked the walk most of us just talk about. Somehow I felt we had lost the ability to claim the good from our past, hear the language of Zion and appreciate the gifts the saints of old gave us.
I left because I no longer knew or trusted most of those who had joined our community. After three years, our congregation had many new members who had replaced many who had left, a revolving door that brought new folks in as others slipped out. Without programs to help us get to know each other, we became a community of strangers, ripe for disagreements and ought against one another because there was not enough trust. Untrained deacons trying to do pastoral care, loss of community building conversations and meals, pastoral conversations that erupted into intense confrontations over many issues... all took their toll on my soul. By the time some of the community building activities began again, I was burned out and lonely.
I left because I no longer trusted the organizational structure of our church. It took three years and two committees to write a set of by laws that now need a third committee to correct them. There were no regular reports of money taken in each Sunday with the corresponding amount of money spent and money needed. The business and ministry decisions of the church, handled by the Executive Board, often were not translated in a timely fashion to the congregation at large.
In the heart of our struggle to discern whether to stay or to leave, we requested a meeting with the Staff Parish Committee. This committee was established during an earlier crisis with staff as a way to mediate and mend broken relationships between pastors and members. It was envisioned as a way to model Christian behavior in the midst of discord and strife. When I called to request a meeting, I was turned away because the purpose of the committee had been changed after training from the national UCC staff. These changes had not been made public nor had the congregation even been asked if they wanted these changes. I literally wept as the chair of the committee told me I could not be heard. They were not equipped or prepared to help me deal with this broken place. I pushed back, hard, and four of us were eventually granted a hearing with the understanding that it would only be that, a hearing, nothing more. We were asked to not speak of the contents of that meeting, to hold confidentiality and until this day, I have done so. We left that meeting after speaking our hurt and anger with no follow up calls or pastoral care from deacons, staff or committee members.
Two different bodies of Christ... two very different faith traditions... Nazarene and United Church of Christ... each more alike than they know. I am choosing to hold fast to the precious memories of joyful hard work growing the body of Christ at FCUCC. I remember and give thanks for all those who welcomed us, the strange Southern Baptists, into the fold of Yankee Congregationalism. The children’s Sunday School classes I taught for years, the service on the Executive Board and as a deacon, the two years serving on a committee to search for land for a new building as we outgrew our first home, the wonderful opportunity to participate in a capital campaign that raised over a million dollars in a congregation that was just over one hundred strong, the affirmation of our church as a welcoming congregation to all who sought God regardless of race, gender, age or sexual orientation, the connection with the elder ones in our church who were a part of the beginning of our denomination, funerals, weddings, banner making, altar creation, worship committee, teaching Vacation Bible Schools, helping create an intergenerational arts camp for families at church, choir and singing my souls’ heart... all a cause for rejoicing. All things can work for good if we but do our part.
Last night I lay in bed praying, “Jesus Christ, have mercy on me” as a mantra to help me move past my hurt places. And then I prayed, “Here I am, Lord. Send me.” As these prayers became a part of my sleeping consciousness, I was granted a great gift of grace. I no longer need to shame or judge either the Nazarene church or FCUCC. We all do the best we can in the gift of the time we are given. When where we are is no longer able to fill our cup, Jesus tells us to move on, shaking the dust off our sandals. As I age, I know there are never any simple answers to any question of faith. We can never know all there is to know or experience the fullness of God because we all see through the fog of faith. And what we see, what we need, is shaped by all of who we have been, where we have come from and where we are going. So I will pray for that little Nazarene mission and the husband and wife who are its co-pastors. I will pray for FCUCC and the band of believers who will continue to search for God’s will in their downtown home. And I will pray for those of us who are on the pilgrimage again, raising our tents, carrying our Ark of the Covenant into the Cloud of Unknowing that we might finally rest in the loving arms of the One who first loved us. May it be so. Amen.
I was a rising college junior, a Baptist Student Union summer missionary, chosen to come help build a church on the reservation with other college students from the state of Georgia. Walt and Mary Lynn led our noisy band with flair, dedication and mighty fine food. If Claudie wasn’t nice to Tommy, he couldn’t have the VW keys to drive to town. If the boys complained about their underwear getting mixed up when they were washed, the next week they came back dyed pink and yellow and blue and green. That led to the Pink Grits Episode the next morning.
There were three duties Walt took seriously and required our participation in each. We were required to work, not slack off, whatever our job for the day. We were required to go to church on Sundays and be prepared to provide special music, or teach children, or lead a Vacation Bible School in a front yard if needed. We were required to show up for the family meeting each Wednesday night for sharing time and study time. If you “had ought” against anyone in the family, you could speak it and it would be resolved. Kitherine, who was not a morning person, had ought with me because I woke up whistling and singing each morning. It was the first time anyone ever spoke directly to me about being angry with me. I was mortified and crushed. Walt helped model for us how to deal with differences and conflict without damaging relationships. The second part of our family meeting was book study, “Your God Is Too Small”. As Walt led the often loud and spirited discussions that followed our reading, my child like faith and image of God began to stretch in some important ways. My faith thinking eyes began to see all the wonderful colors and shades of gray, white, black that are a part of a mature faith... an impressionistic rendering of God’s faces that began my adult love affair with God.
Saturday we returned from a hard day of work tearing out and replacing a termite ridden wall, scrubbing and painting the exterior of a house to find an angry letter resting on the kitchen table. Written by the woman co-pastor of the Nazarene church, it was a blistering, shaming missive that told us to remove our wine and beer from the premises immediately because they were Christians and did not drink alcoholic beverages. I was the first one to see the letter and was surprised by the intensity of my reaction. It was an emotional, visceral, gut wrenching response fueled by earlier life experiences with fundamentalism that stole my Baptist birthright from me. I wanted to go find her and in Christian Love, remind her that our Lord changed water into wine and even Paul, the old reprobate, advised a little wine for the stomach’s sake. In short, I wanted to wipe the smug smile of religious certainty from her face and give her a dose of my righteous indignation.
And then I came home to a phone call from a church friend wanting to know what had happened... why had we left FCUCC... the pastor had told her it was a shift in the balance of power and we left because of that. She couldn’t understand. Again I felt the anger rising. I had so hoped to be able to leave this congregation I loved for thirteen years quietly and with some dignity. I had chosen to send only a short letter to the choir, where we had been a part of that small community, dealing with only one of the reasons for our leaving. To have the past two years of soul searing searching wrenching grieving reduced to a simple phrase... a shift in the balance of power... ripped open a wound I thought was healing. I left for many reasons.
I left because I felt hemmed in by a new liberal orthodoxy that discounted and dismissed faith language from the past. I could no longer hear the affirmation “Jesus is Lord” in worship or the words “This is my body, broken for you” in communion. Genderless descriptions for God were the norm, neither male nor female pronouns could be used without complaints to the worship committee. When Michael was asked to read from the Cotton Patch Gospels in worship, he received a call asking him to rewrite the language to make it inclusive. This version of the Gospel was written in the southern vernacular by Clarence Jordan, a man who laid down his life in Americus, Georgia for racial equality. He walked the walk most of us just talk about. Somehow I felt we had lost the ability to claim the good from our past, hear the language of Zion and appreciate the gifts the saints of old gave us.
I left because I no longer knew or trusted most of those who had joined our community. After three years, our congregation had many new members who had replaced many who had left, a revolving door that brought new folks in as others slipped out. Without programs to help us get to know each other, we became a community of strangers, ripe for disagreements and ought against one another because there was not enough trust. Untrained deacons trying to do pastoral care, loss of community building conversations and meals, pastoral conversations that erupted into intense confrontations over many issues... all took their toll on my soul. By the time some of the community building activities began again, I was burned out and lonely.
I left because I no longer trusted the organizational structure of our church. It took three years and two committees to write a set of by laws that now need a third committee to correct them. There were no regular reports of money taken in each Sunday with the corresponding amount of money spent and money needed. The business and ministry decisions of the church, handled by the Executive Board, often were not translated in a timely fashion to the congregation at large.
In the heart of our struggle to discern whether to stay or to leave, we requested a meeting with the Staff Parish Committee. This committee was established during an earlier crisis with staff as a way to mediate and mend broken relationships between pastors and members. It was envisioned as a way to model Christian behavior in the midst of discord and strife. When I called to request a meeting, I was turned away because the purpose of the committee had been changed after training from the national UCC staff. These changes had not been made public nor had the congregation even been asked if they wanted these changes. I literally wept as the chair of the committee told me I could not be heard. They were not equipped or prepared to help me deal with this broken place. I pushed back, hard, and four of us were eventually granted a hearing with the understanding that it would only be that, a hearing, nothing more. We were asked to not speak of the contents of that meeting, to hold confidentiality and until this day, I have done so. We left that meeting after speaking our hurt and anger with no follow up calls or pastoral care from deacons, staff or committee members.
Two different bodies of Christ... two very different faith traditions... Nazarene and United Church of Christ... each more alike than they know. I am choosing to hold fast to the precious memories of joyful hard work growing the body of Christ at FCUCC. I remember and give thanks for all those who welcomed us, the strange Southern Baptists, into the fold of Yankee Congregationalism. The children’s Sunday School classes I taught for years, the service on the Executive Board and as a deacon, the two years serving on a committee to search for land for a new building as we outgrew our first home, the wonderful opportunity to participate in a capital campaign that raised over a million dollars in a congregation that was just over one hundred strong, the affirmation of our church as a welcoming congregation to all who sought God regardless of race, gender, age or sexual orientation, the connection with the elder ones in our church who were a part of the beginning of our denomination, funerals, weddings, banner making, altar creation, worship committee, teaching Vacation Bible Schools, helping create an intergenerational arts camp for families at church, choir and singing my souls’ heart... all a cause for rejoicing. All things can work for good if we but do our part.
Last night I lay in bed praying, “Jesus Christ, have mercy on me” as a mantra to help me move past my hurt places. And then I prayed, “Here I am, Lord. Send me.” As these prayers became a part of my sleeping consciousness, I was granted a great gift of grace. I no longer need to shame or judge either the Nazarene church or FCUCC. We all do the best we can in the gift of the time we are given. When where we are is no longer able to fill our cup, Jesus tells us to move on, shaking the dust off our sandals. As I age, I know there are never any simple answers to any question of faith. We can never know all there is to know or experience the fullness of God because we all see through the fog of faith. And what we see, what we need, is shaped by all of who we have been, where we have come from and where we are going. So I will pray for that little Nazarene mission and the husband and wife who are its co-pastors. I will pray for FCUCC and the band of believers who will continue to search for God’s will in their downtown home. And I will pray for those of us who are on the pilgrimage again, raising our tents, carrying our Ark of the Covenant into the Cloud of Unknowing that we might finally rest in the loving arms of the One who first loved us. May it be so. Amen.
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