“This is a bit overwhelming,” I said. “But it’s good. It’s really good. I’m so glad that my people are finally getting to meet my people.”
Gentry, Erwin, Johnsonville.
Camp Mundo Vista, Camp La Vida.
Friendship, FBC Erwin, Antioch.
Harnett Central, Meredith, Campbell, Wake Med.
Friends, family.
My people got to meet my people. To see each other. To put faces to names. To hear each other. To worship together. And short of my getting to see all of my people myself, hug lots of necks, and sing with my friends again, it is the thing I was most excited to happen at my ordination last night.
To those who were there in person: Thank you.
And I’m curious: What words from last night’s service spoke the most to you? Have any words been going through your mind today? (And I’m not necessarily looking for words about me. I’m genuinely curious as to how the Spirit spoke to you.)
To those who sent words and prayers in your absence: Thank you.
For everyone: Here is the program order.
------
Order of Worship
for the Ordination of Deanna Deaton
March 29, 2015, 6pm
Welcome
Presentation of Candidate
Call to Worship
Congregational Hymn #235: When I Survey The Wondrous Cross
Invocation
Special Music: You Are
Scripture Reading, Isaiah 55: 8-12
Homily and Prayer
Congregational Hymn #384 (v. 1 and 3): The Servant Song
Scripture Reading, Romans 12: 1-8
Charge to the Church
Litany of Affirmation and Support
Special Music: A Follower’s Prayer
Scripture Reading, John 15: 9-17
Charge to and Prayer for the Candidate
Laying on of Hands
Congregational Hymn #384 (v. 2), The Servant Song
Deanna’s First Ordained Communion
Presentation of Church Gift
Benediction
Monday, March 30, 2015
Thursday, March 26, 2015
What Matters Most In This World
Have you ever had a week when you had something big to do, only to have more big things added?
That was/is this week for me.
Many weeks ago, I found out that the boys were coming to stay at the house for part of their spring break.
Then the snow hit. And Harnett Off-Broadway (my biggest school performance of the year) got rescheduled to this week.
And the only time my main speakers for my ordination service could come was this Sunday.
And a couple of deadlines at school came due this week.
And Holy Week begins Sunday.
And yet. The boys were at the house for part of their spring break.
I looked at Jack and Henry on Tuesday night and said, “Oh guys. I have so much to do. But the most important thing I can be doing right now is spending time with you.” And so we went to ate and played games together. We had late night snacks and laughed together. I admittedly fell asleep in my room while the boys still giggled in theirs. The sound of their laughter is so beautiful to me. I know all too well that they are only young once and that these years will pass too quickly.
I had planned to go to work early this morning. I had some kazoo sorting to do for today’s HOB dress rehearsal and I needed to finish the program for Sunday night’s ordination, yet shortly after I got up, I heard the door to the boys’ room open and saw Jack poke his head around the corner.
I spoke to him to let him know it was okay to come into the bathroom, and as soon as he walked into the bathroom I knew that he was sick. He was clutching his stomach and had tears in his eyes and all he could say was, “I really don’t feel good.” I guided him to the toilet when I realized that he was going to throw up. I rubbed his back while he vomited. I wet a wash cloth and wiped his face and placed it on his forehead. I tucked him in to my bed because I didn’t want him to go back into the room with his sleeping brothers. I got him something to drink, put the trashcan by my bed, left a roll of tissue on the night-stand (he’s had a cold this week), and made sure mom and dad knew that he wasn’t feeling well.
As I got my breakfast together, I realized that I was leaving later than I had all week. I shrugged my shoulders and quietly said to myself, “Oh well. This is what you do when you love someone. And this is only a small fraction of what parents do every day.”
Harnett Off-Broadway is important. I have 41 extremely excited students to lead.
My ordination is important. I will get to spend Sunday evening with most of my favorite people, and those people will get to see and meet each other and lots of different paths are going to collide.
Meeting deadlines is important. It directly impacts my job performance.
Holy week is important. It’s the biggest week of the year in the church calendar and music plays an integral part.
And yet…
Through the tears in his eyes, Jack kept looking at me this morning and saying, “Thank you, Aunt Dee.” And when I hugged him just before leaving, he said, “I love you, Aunt Dee.” I said, “I love you, too, buddy. Feel better.”
In that moment, everything else faded to the background.
Work is work. And there will always be more work to do.
But love is love. And love is what matters most in this world.
That was/is this week for me.
Many weeks ago, I found out that the boys were coming to stay at the house for part of their spring break.
Then the snow hit. And Harnett Off-Broadway (my biggest school performance of the year) got rescheduled to this week.
And the only time my main speakers for my ordination service could come was this Sunday.
And a couple of deadlines at school came due this week.
And Holy Week begins Sunday.
And yet. The boys were at the house for part of their spring break.
I looked at Jack and Henry on Tuesday night and said, “Oh guys. I have so much to do. But the most important thing I can be doing right now is spending time with you.” And so we went to ate and played games together. We had late night snacks and laughed together. I admittedly fell asleep in my room while the boys still giggled in theirs. The sound of their laughter is so beautiful to me. I know all too well that they are only young once and that these years will pass too quickly.
I had planned to go to work early this morning. I had some kazoo sorting to do for today’s HOB dress rehearsal and I needed to finish the program for Sunday night’s ordination, yet shortly after I got up, I heard the door to the boys’ room open and saw Jack poke his head around the corner.
I spoke to him to let him know it was okay to come into the bathroom, and as soon as he walked into the bathroom I knew that he was sick. He was clutching his stomach and had tears in his eyes and all he could say was, “I really don’t feel good.” I guided him to the toilet when I realized that he was going to throw up. I rubbed his back while he vomited. I wet a wash cloth and wiped his face and placed it on his forehead. I tucked him in to my bed because I didn’t want him to go back into the room with his sleeping brothers. I got him something to drink, put the trashcan by my bed, left a roll of tissue on the night-stand (he’s had a cold this week), and made sure mom and dad knew that he wasn’t feeling well.
As I got my breakfast together, I realized that I was leaving later than I had all week. I shrugged my shoulders and quietly said to myself, “Oh well. This is what you do when you love someone. And this is only a small fraction of what parents do every day.”
Harnett Off-Broadway is important. I have 41 extremely excited students to lead.
My ordination is important. I will get to spend Sunday evening with most of my favorite people, and those people will get to see and meet each other and lots of different paths are going to collide.
Meeting deadlines is important. It directly impacts my job performance.
Holy week is important. It’s the biggest week of the year in the church calendar and music plays an integral part.
And yet…
Through the tears in his eyes, Jack kept looking at me this morning and saying, “Thank you, Aunt Dee.” And when I hugged him just before leaving, he said, “I love you, Aunt Dee.” I said, “I love you, too, buddy. Feel better.”
In that moment, everything else faded to the background.
Work is work. And there will always be more work to do.
But love is love. And love is what matters most in this world.
Monday, March 23, 2015
The Willing
Sermon writers write sermons differently. Some write manuscripts. Some write outlines. Some draw thinking maps. Some handwrite their notes. Some type them. Some do neither. Some keep their notes in theirs heads.
I haven’t yet perfected my system. I don’t prepare many sermons. So I may do any of the above. Yesterday I typed out a strange combination of manuscript, outline, and incomplete sentences. I used my notes as a springboard for the message and filled in gaps as I felt led.
This may not make a bit of sense to anyone but me, but here are my notes from yesterday’s sermon. Jesus was willing. So, too, may we be.
(Imaginative Prayer: Lazarus’s Death)
(Imaginative Prayer: Lazarus’s Resurrection)
Read John 11:45-57.
Have you ever had to make a really difficult decision that you knew would change your life forever?
2007. Tough decision. Keep teaching. Go to divinity school. Sat in principal’s office. Struggled. Prayed. Could continue in my ministry at school. Been there for 8 years and had built the program. Could quit my job and finish my MDiv. Either way, life would change. Chose MDiv. But before I did, I shed many tears.
In this passage, Jesus was faced with a tough decision. Continue with ministry on earth—continue doing lots of good on earth—and try not to ruffle too many feathers. Or raise Lazarus from the dead and mark himself as target for death. Chose to raise Lazarus. But before he did, Jesus wept.
Yes, He wept for seeing the grief of those around him. His friends. His safe place. His home in a time when he didn’t have home.
But maybe, too, he wept from the weight of it all—from exhaustion—from what he knew would result from following his heart—his call—from the pain of letting go and diving into what would be—which was pain far greater than any one person should have to endure.
And yet. Tears and all. Jesus was willing to do what he needed to do. Raise a friend from the dead. Bring happiness back into his friends’ lives. Show his total and complete power to save. All good things. And yet. They (the Pharisees and Sadducees) set his murder plot into motion. And he knew they would—all because they didn’t want to lose political power and control.
Jesus was willing. Come what may. So, too, should we be…
After finishing my degree, I went to work in a full-time ministry position. The job was both wonderful and terrible—being away from home was hard—learning a new system was hard. Yet God called me away much more quickly than I had projected and I ended up back in the schools where I began—only things are so different now—so much more difficult with testing and policies and the world’s brokenness.
No one ever said being a light in darkness would be easy.
Being willing to follow Christ to the cross often results in difficulty and pain.
Yet Jesus was willing to bring difficulty and pain—and even death—to himself for the sake of the greater good.
So, too, should we be.
(Blow out Lenten candle)
I haven’t yet perfected my system. I don’t prepare many sermons. So I may do any of the above. Yesterday I typed out a strange combination of manuscript, outline, and incomplete sentences. I used my notes as a springboard for the message and filled in gaps as I felt led.
This may not make a bit of sense to anyone but me, but here are my notes from yesterday’s sermon. Jesus was willing. So, too, may we be.
(Imaginative Prayer: Lazarus’s Death)
(Imaginative Prayer: Lazarus’s Resurrection)
Read John 11:45-57.
Have you ever had to make a really difficult decision that you knew would change your life forever?
2007. Tough decision. Keep teaching. Go to divinity school. Sat in principal’s office. Struggled. Prayed. Could continue in my ministry at school. Been there for 8 years and had built the program. Could quit my job and finish my MDiv. Either way, life would change. Chose MDiv. But before I did, I shed many tears.
In this passage, Jesus was faced with a tough decision. Continue with ministry on earth—continue doing lots of good on earth—and try not to ruffle too many feathers. Or raise Lazarus from the dead and mark himself as target for death. Chose to raise Lazarus. But before he did, Jesus wept.
Yes, He wept for seeing the grief of those around him. His friends. His safe place. His home in a time when he didn’t have home.
But maybe, too, he wept from the weight of it all—from exhaustion—from what he knew would result from following his heart—his call—from the pain of letting go and diving into what would be—which was pain far greater than any one person should have to endure.
And yet. Tears and all. Jesus was willing to do what he needed to do. Raise a friend from the dead. Bring happiness back into his friends’ lives. Show his total and complete power to save. All good things. And yet. They (the Pharisees and Sadducees) set his murder plot into motion. And he knew they would—all because they didn’t want to lose political power and control.
Jesus was willing. Come what may. So, too, should we be…
After finishing my degree, I went to work in a full-time ministry position. The job was both wonderful and terrible—being away from home was hard—learning a new system was hard. Yet God called me away much more quickly than I had projected and I ended up back in the schools where I began—only things are so different now—so much more difficult with testing and policies and the world’s brokenness.
No one ever said being a light in darkness would be easy.
Being willing to follow Christ to the cross often results in difficulty and pain.
Yet Jesus was willing to bring difficulty and pain—and even death—to himself for the sake of the greater good.
So, too, should we be.
(Blow out Lenten candle)
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Rover
Tonight, I was a rover.
I roved around the high school that was hosting the first of four nights of Harnett Off-Broadway, and I acted like I knew what I was doing when people looked lost or asked questions—the most popular of which was, “Where is the restroom?”
It’s amazing just how official a clipboard made me.
Other than directing people to the bathroom, my most important job as Rover was to secretly sell tickets to the handful of people who, for whatever reason, showed up at the performance without them.
Folks, I was terrible at trying to secretly sell tickets.
I found myself looking over my shoulder, hoping that no one saw what I was doing, wishing that the transaction would end very quickly, feeling like I was doing something really wrong even though I had Rover permission to sell.
And here’s what I realized: I would be a terrible drug dealer.
Good thing I have a steady day job, eh?
:-)
I roved around the high school that was hosting the first of four nights of Harnett Off-Broadway, and I acted like I knew what I was doing when people looked lost or asked questions—the most popular of which was, “Where is the restroom?”
It’s amazing just how official a clipboard made me.
Other than directing people to the bathroom, my most important job as Rover was to secretly sell tickets to the handful of people who, for whatever reason, showed up at the performance without them.
Folks, I was terrible at trying to secretly sell tickets.
I found myself looking over my shoulder, hoping that no one saw what I was doing, wishing that the transaction would end very quickly, feeling like I was doing something really wrong even though I had Rover permission to sell.
And here’s what I realized: I would be a terrible drug dealer.
Good thing I have a steady day job, eh?
:-)
Monday, March 16, 2015
It Feels Nice
I’m a pretty good teacher on Mondays. Even when I wake up every hour the night before and have angst filled dreams of not being able to get to my classroom even though I know that a class is waiting or of being called out for not being at duty on time because the bell rang ten minutes early or of having a fire drill that’s not really a drill because an oven in the kitchen is on fire during arrival time in the morning (all of which happened last night), I’m still a pretty good teacher on Mondays. I realized this fact at the end of the day today as I looked at the evidence of a day of focused teaching. There are many days when I feel like a terrible music teacher. I very well may feel like a terrible teacher tomorrow—especially if I don’t rest better tonight. But today I think I might be a pretty good teacher. And, truthfully, it feels nice.
…
It also feels nice to make music with my best friend again. We once recorded two CDs, performed quite a few concerts, led quite a few worship services, and spent countless hours practicing together, but for the past eight years our music has been silent. Life has gotten in the way. But tonight, we sang together again. We prepared for my ordination in two weeks. Our aging voices blended perfectly and we transformed simple songs into something beautiful. I’ve always been amazed at how the two of us are able to make something beautiful.
…
Honestly, after a day of focused teaching and beautiful music making on the tail of a terrible night’s sleep, I’m a little tired. All cylinders aren’t firing. I have no wisdom to offer. So I’ll simply end with the lyrics of the song that Angela and I are preparing for my ordination. Come to FBC Erwin at 6pm on Sunday, March 29th to hear it performed live…and to hear slightly updated lyrics. [Yes. That is an invitation .]
…
I sit all alone in this beautiful place
I fall on my knees but I stand on your strength
Jesus, You, You Are
I don’t understand why you’ve brought me here
To a place I’d run from, year after year but
Jesus, You, You Are
All my days full of motion, running from here to there
Split devotions, I don’t know how to bear
Yet you’re the way and the truth and the life on this path
The loving creator, the first and last
Jesus, you are the life of me
You are the light I need
You are the great I Am
The Prince of Peace and the Son of Man
You Are
I look around all at this crazy world
Even your children go against your Word but
Jesus, You, You Are
How can just one person make a difference that lasts
When so many people are stuck in the past but
Jesus, You, You Are
Running round in circles trying to bridge the gap
But the weight of humanity is stronger than that
Yet you’re the rock I can build on, you’re the image of grace
The holy redeemer, Love’s relentless face
Jesus, you are the life of me
You are the light I need
You are the great I Am
The Prince of Peace and the Son of Man
You Are
…
It also feels nice to make music with my best friend again. We once recorded two CDs, performed quite a few concerts, led quite a few worship services, and spent countless hours practicing together, but for the past eight years our music has been silent. Life has gotten in the way. But tonight, we sang together again. We prepared for my ordination in two weeks. Our aging voices blended perfectly and we transformed simple songs into something beautiful. I’ve always been amazed at how the two of us are able to make something beautiful.
…
Honestly, after a day of focused teaching and beautiful music making on the tail of a terrible night’s sleep, I’m a little tired. All cylinders aren’t firing. I have no wisdom to offer. So I’ll simply end with the lyrics of the song that Angela and I are preparing for my ordination. Come to FBC Erwin at 6pm on Sunday, March 29th to hear it performed live…and to hear slightly updated lyrics. [Yes. That is an invitation .]
…
I sit all alone in this beautiful place
I fall on my knees but I stand on your strength
Jesus, You, You Are
I don’t understand why you’ve brought me here
To a place I’d run from, year after year but
Jesus, You, You Are
All my days full of motion, running from here to there
Split devotions, I don’t know how to bear
Yet you’re the way and the truth and the life on this path
The loving creator, the first and last
Jesus, you are the life of me
You are the light I need
You are the great I Am
The Prince of Peace and the Son of Man
You Are
I look around all at this crazy world
Even your children go against your Word but
Jesus, You, You Are
How can just one person make a difference that lasts
When so many people are stuck in the past but
Jesus, You, You Are
Running round in circles trying to bridge the gap
But the weight of humanity is stronger than that
Yet you’re the rock I can build on, you’re the image of grace
The holy redeemer, Love’s relentless face
Jesus, you are the life of me
You are the light I need
You are the great I Am
The Prince of Peace and the Son of Man
You Are
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Making A Difference
Making A Difference…3.12.15
Tuesday night in counseling, Joe asked me why I do the work that I do. I thought for a moment and then said, "This is going to sound so stereotypical, but I guess it’s because I want to make a difference."
I then went on to say that I often doubt how much of a difference I am really making as an elementary music teacher. I said, "I know I can love the kids while I have them, but then they go to middle school and high school and have so much to deal with, and, really, how much is elementary music going to influence those?"
Joe said, "If I'd have had an elementary music teacher like you, then I probably wouldn't carry the scar that I carry. My music teacher's name was Mr. C and he used to throw chalk at us when we played our notes wrong. I was afraid of him. He made a mark on me--a lasting impression--something that I've had to undo. If I'd have had a teacher like you, then that wouldn't have happened."
I said, "So I can have a positive influence on someone by not doing something negative? I've never thought about it like that."
I've been thinking about it for the past couple of days. Making a positive difference by not doing something negative. Doing something good by not doing something bad. Offering a safe space to grow that isn't necessarily memorable but that is real--that holds kids as they grow and allows them to grow even if they don't remember the growing--that doesn't cut them down or stifle them in any way.
My best friend once asked me if I remembered learning to read. I said no. She said, "Me either. We must not have had trouble learning to read. I remember learning math because I struggled with it. But I never struggled with reading. It's just something I learned to do."
Maybe that's what making a difference looks like for me. Providing experiences for kids to learn even when they don't remember the learning. Providing time for kids to be kids even when they don't look back on their lives and remember me or elementary music.
I guess part of me has always wanted to be that teacher that people look back and say was their favorite. There's pride for you. But I guess maybe that's not what it's about. I guess maybe making a difference doesn't mean being remembered but providing love that helps a kid get through the day...moment by moment...step by step…until they meet other people who will do the same. I guess maybe making a difference is walking a kid to the front of the breakfast line when he is in tears and all he can say is, “I’m just so hungry,” because the last meal he had was school lunch the day before.
Don't get me wrong. I know that for some kids elementary music is very influential. Some of my former students have gone on to have careers in music and others remember specific experiences they had in class.
But for most--for the thousands rather than the handful--my class will just be part of their existence. Likely not identifiably life-changing. Which, I'm learning to believe, is okay.
God knows that I know how difficult it is to undo the wrongs done to us in the past. Maybe you know of those difficulties, too? So I will seek not to wrong my students--not to tell them that they cannot sing or play or make music--no matter how bad they are--not to scar them--not to leave them with anything they must undo in the future...and leave them only with love.
We've been singing, "When I Survey The Wondrous Cross" at church during lent. One of the lyrics that's been going through my mind all week is, "Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast, save in the death of Christ my God. All the vain things that charm me most, I sacrifice them to His blood...Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all."
It sounds so simple here. Love: amazing, divine. Love: my soul, my life, my all.
Love: really is what makes a difference.
And what I want to do.
Day in and day out.
Quiet. Steady. Stubborn. Positive. True…
Tuesday night in counseling, Joe asked me why I do the work that I do. I thought for a moment and then said, "This is going to sound so stereotypical, but I guess it’s because I want to make a difference."
I then went on to say that I often doubt how much of a difference I am really making as an elementary music teacher. I said, "I know I can love the kids while I have them, but then they go to middle school and high school and have so much to deal with, and, really, how much is elementary music going to influence those?"
Joe said, "If I'd have had an elementary music teacher like you, then I probably wouldn't carry the scar that I carry. My music teacher's name was Mr. C and he used to throw chalk at us when we played our notes wrong. I was afraid of him. He made a mark on me--a lasting impression--something that I've had to undo. If I'd have had a teacher like you, then that wouldn't have happened."
I said, "So I can have a positive influence on someone by not doing something negative? I've never thought about it like that."
I've been thinking about it for the past couple of days. Making a positive difference by not doing something negative. Doing something good by not doing something bad. Offering a safe space to grow that isn't necessarily memorable but that is real--that holds kids as they grow and allows them to grow even if they don't remember the growing--that doesn't cut them down or stifle them in any way.
My best friend once asked me if I remembered learning to read. I said no. She said, "Me either. We must not have had trouble learning to read. I remember learning math because I struggled with it. But I never struggled with reading. It's just something I learned to do."
Maybe that's what making a difference looks like for me. Providing experiences for kids to learn even when they don't remember the learning. Providing time for kids to be kids even when they don't look back on their lives and remember me or elementary music.
I guess part of me has always wanted to be that teacher that people look back and say was their favorite. There's pride for you. But I guess maybe that's not what it's about. I guess maybe making a difference doesn't mean being remembered but providing love that helps a kid get through the day...moment by moment...step by step…until they meet other people who will do the same. I guess maybe making a difference is walking a kid to the front of the breakfast line when he is in tears and all he can say is, “I’m just so hungry,” because the last meal he had was school lunch the day before.
Don't get me wrong. I know that for some kids elementary music is very influential. Some of my former students have gone on to have careers in music and others remember specific experiences they had in class.
But for most--for the thousands rather than the handful--my class will just be part of their existence. Likely not identifiably life-changing. Which, I'm learning to believe, is okay.
God knows that I know how difficult it is to undo the wrongs done to us in the past. Maybe you know of those difficulties, too? So I will seek not to wrong my students--not to tell them that they cannot sing or play or make music--no matter how bad they are--not to scar them--not to leave them with anything they must undo in the future...and leave them only with love.
We've been singing, "When I Survey The Wondrous Cross" at church during lent. One of the lyrics that's been going through my mind all week is, "Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast, save in the death of Christ my God. All the vain things that charm me most, I sacrifice them to His blood...Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all."
It sounds so simple here. Love: amazing, divine. Love: my soul, my life, my all.
Love: really is what makes a difference.
And what I want to do.
Day in and day out.
Quiet. Steady. Stubborn. Positive. True…
Monday, March 9, 2015
The Heart Of The Matter
Last week when Patrick told me that his sermon for Sunday was about forgiveness, I immediately broke into a chorus of, “I’ve been trying to get down to the heart of the matter, but will gets weak, and my thoughts seem to scatter but I think it’s about forgiveness—forgiveness—even if—even if—you don’t love me anymore.” Patrick looked at me like I was crazy. He didn’t know the song. I looked at him like he was crazy. How could he not know the song? It’s obviously one whose words are firmly planted in my brain. Then I remembered that he’s from Texas and quite a few years younger than me, so I was able to forgive him for his song ignorance .
Forgiveness. Such a loaded word. Such a difficult topic. Yet Don Henley gets it right when he sings that forgiveness is at the heart of the matter—and not just the matter of moving beyond a broken love affair—but the matter of life.
Patrick’s sermon yesterday didn’t focus on the how’s or when’s of forgiveness; it very simply focused on the why. Why must we forgive those who have hurt us? Because God has forgiven and will continue to forgive us—always—without fail—no matter how egregious, petty, self-centered, major, minor, justified, ridiculous, ignorant, mean-spirited, pitiful, repetitive, or spontaneous the infraction.
For those of us who believe in God’s heart of redemption, grace and mercy are always present—working to set us free.
Should we, too, then, not offer this same grace and mercy to those around us?
A few years ago, I hijacked a CD from a good friend. It is a compilation CD put together to reflect the feelings and emotions of persons working to loosen the chains of rape, abuse, addiction, depression, self-harm, and more. One of my favorite songs on the CD talks about the power of words to hurt us and includes the lyric, “Goodbye is the best way that I know to forgive and still be letting go.” I’ve been thinking about that lyric recently—about what it means—considering whether or not I agree with it—wondering if goodbye really can be an act of forgiveness—wondering if goodbye really is letting go.
I’m terrible with goodbye. I’m terrible at letting go. I’m supposed to forgive people who hurt me, right? I’m supposed to extend grace and mercy to those around me—give them the benefit of the doubt—see beyond their actions and into their hearts—remember that they, too, are human—believe in their goodness and God’s ability to work through all things—right?
Sometimes, goodbye is the best way to forgive.
Sometimes, walking away is the best way to let go.
Not with bitter determination to hold on to every ounce of anger.
Not with a resentful mindset of remembering every major offense.
But with quiet surrender and the gentle understanding that some things and some relationships and some situations are just so unhealthy, stubborn, impossible, and/or broken that they cannot be salvaged or fixed and must therefore be released—
And not just physically,
But in the heart, soul, and mind.
Day by day,
Moment by moment,
Breath by breath.
But that’s just sometimes. Because sometimes things are worth fighting for. And sometimes it’s our own arrogance that must be held in check. And sometimes it’s we who must forgive ourselves. And sometimes it’s hard to know what is what…because sometimes forgiveness is so very tricky.
Oh God,
Help us know how to forgive—
When to hold on,
When to let go,
When to stay present,
When to walk away—
But help us always to forgive—
To have the strength and courage to give and receive mercy and grace
So that we might live with the freedom that comes from releasing
The negative emotional pulls that damn and bind.
Amen.
Forgiveness. Such a loaded word. Such a difficult topic. Yet Don Henley gets it right when he sings that forgiveness is at the heart of the matter—and not just the matter of moving beyond a broken love affair—but the matter of life.
Patrick’s sermon yesterday didn’t focus on the how’s or when’s of forgiveness; it very simply focused on the why. Why must we forgive those who have hurt us? Because God has forgiven and will continue to forgive us—always—without fail—no matter how egregious, petty, self-centered, major, minor, justified, ridiculous, ignorant, mean-spirited, pitiful, repetitive, or spontaneous the infraction.
For those of us who believe in God’s heart of redemption, grace and mercy are always present—working to set us free.
Should we, too, then, not offer this same grace and mercy to those around us?
A few years ago, I hijacked a CD from a good friend. It is a compilation CD put together to reflect the feelings and emotions of persons working to loosen the chains of rape, abuse, addiction, depression, self-harm, and more. One of my favorite songs on the CD talks about the power of words to hurt us and includes the lyric, “Goodbye is the best way that I know to forgive and still be letting go.” I’ve been thinking about that lyric recently—about what it means—considering whether or not I agree with it—wondering if goodbye really can be an act of forgiveness—wondering if goodbye really is letting go.
I’m terrible with goodbye. I’m terrible at letting go. I’m supposed to forgive people who hurt me, right? I’m supposed to extend grace and mercy to those around me—give them the benefit of the doubt—see beyond their actions and into their hearts—remember that they, too, are human—believe in their goodness and God’s ability to work through all things—right?
Sometimes, goodbye is the best way to forgive.
Sometimes, walking away is the best way to let go.
Not with bitter determination to hold on to every ounce of anger.
Not with a resentful mindset of remembering every major offense.
But with quiet surrender and the gentle understanding that some things and some relationships and some situations are just so unhealthy, stubborn, impossible, and/or broken that they cannot be salvaged or fixed and must therefore be released—
And not just physically,
But in the heart, soul, and mind.
Day by day,
Moment by moment,
Breath by breath.
But that’s just sometimes. Because sometimes things are worth fighting for. And sometimes it’s our own arrogance that must be held in check. And sometimes it’s we who must forgive ourselves. And sometimes it’s hard to know what is what…because sometimes forgiveness is so very tricky.
Oh God,
Help us know how to forgive—
When to hold on,
When to let go,
When to stay present,
When to walk away—
But help us always to forgive—
To have the strength and courage to give and receive mercy and grace
So that we might live with the freedom that comes from releasing
The negative emotional pulls that damn and bind.
Amen.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Those Darn Doors
A few months ago, I wrote these words:
Sometimes, dear friends,
when everything seems
frustratingly hopeless,
maybe we are wrong.
Not deliberately or intentionally
or even stubbornly.
But narrowly and exhaustingly.
So sometimes, dear friends,
maybe we need to step back and
reexamine things with
a fresh set of eyes and ears.
I followed these words by the lyrics of this song:
So many thoughts inside my mind
So many doubts inside my heart
I want to believe
But I don't understand your plan
I ask but it's not given to me
I seek but I do not find
The answer that I'm looking for
Must be behind the closed door
With my heart's desire
But maybe I'm wrong
Maybe I'm looking at the wrong door
Maybe I'm wrong
Maybe your will is not mine
Today on my way home, I found myself singing this song. I found myself wondering:
When are closed doors truly closed doors?
When is having a door slammed in one’s face a sign that one needs to move on?
When are closed doors obstacles that need to be opened and walked through?
When is having a door slammed in one’s face the pushback of doing something right?
I tend to be someone who faces life like this:
Cut off my ear, throw it away.
Then
Stab me in the heart and rip out its broken pieces.
Regret your words, eat them, drink them
Hate that you opened the door so
Slam it in my face.
Cut, throw, stab, rip, regret, hate, slam
The door
in my face.
It’s brown, wood.
I’m looking at it while waiting
wounded
For you to open it back up and do it again.
Cut off my other ear.
But is this right? Is this seventy times seven? Or is this not practical after both ears are gone?
Thinking. Thinking. I’m doing some thinking…
And wondering about those darn doors.
Sometimes, dear friends,
when everything seems
frustratingly hopeless,
maybe we are wrong.
Not deliberately or intentionally
or even stubbornly.
But narrowly and exhaustingly.
So sometimes, dear friends,
maybe we need to step back and
reexamine things with
a fresh set of eyes and ears.
I followed these words by the lyrics of this song:
So many thoughts inside my mind
So many doubts inside my heart
I want to believe
But I don't understand your plan
I ask but it's not given to me
I seek but I do not find
The answer that I'm looking for
Must be behind the closed door
With my heart's desire
But maybe I'm wrong
Maybe I'm looking at the wrong door
Maybe I'm wrong
Maybe your will is not mine
Today on my way home, I found myself singing this song. I found myself wondering:
When are closed doors truly closed doors?
When is having a door slammed in one’s face a sign that one needs to move on?
When are closed doors obstacles that need to be opened and walked through?
When is having a door slammed in one’s face the pushback of doing something right?
I tend to be someone who faces life like this:
Cut off my ear, throw it away.
Then
Stab me in the heart and rip out its broken pieces.
Regret your words, eat them, drink them
Hate that you opened the door so
Slam it in my face.
Cut, throw, stab, rip, regret, hate, slam
The door
in my face.
It’s brown, wood.
I’m looking at it while waiting
wounded
For you to open it back up and do it again.
Cut off my other ear.
But is this right? Is this seventy times seven? Or is this not practical after both ears are gone?
Thinking. Thinking. I’m doing some thinking…
And wondering about those darn doors.
Monday, March 2, 2015
Grant Life, Always Light
Last week's sermon at church was on the passage where Jesus fed the five thousand. My pastor was sick, so my dad delivered the message.
Yesterday’s sermon was on the passage where Jesus walked on water. My pastor was feeling better, so he delivered the message.
Last week, we learned about God's faithfulness in provision. Jesus showed his disciples that he was present, capable, and willing to take care of human need. Yesterday, we watched the disciples forget that fact just hours after they'd experienced it. We watched as they tried in vain to use their own strength and power to save themselves from a raging storm and we watched Peter begin to sink as he took his eyes off of Jesus and realized that he was actually walking on water—which, to me, is a funny scene to imagine.
I don't remember exactly how he got there, but at the end of his sermon, Patrick (my pastor) said something like this: "Folks, the world around us is dying, and we have the light and love to give it life--but we're failing to give it life because we're taking our eyes off of what, and who, really matters. We're taking our eyes off of the cross and focusing on ourselves--because we're human--and we want what we want--and in our times of storm or darkness, we rely on our own strength to save us instead of the one who has shown, time and time again, the he is faithful to save."
I cried. I have the light and love to help give life, yet I struggle sometimes to show and share it because I get so extremely lonely and allow that loneliness to turn to doubt, insecurity, and shame.
"Doubt," Patrick said, "is desiring two things but not being able to fully decide between them. Jesus did not doubt. He easily could have. He could have chosen to stay in this world and not go through the extreme pain that he knew was coming, but he didn't. He set his face toward the cross and never turned back. There is no doubt that he was extremely lonely as he made his way toward Jerusalem. Everyone set to walk with him slowly fell away. Yet Jesus kept going. He knew his call. He faced the cross and died so that we could live. Likewise, we must daily die to ourselves so that others might live."
I kept crying.
Then I stood to lead the final hymn,
"Wherever he leads I'll go. Wherever he leads I'll go.
I'll follow my Christ who loves me so. Wherever he leads I'll go."
Which.
Right now.
Is Johnsonville.
Oh God.
When the work is hard and the meetings are long.
When the shadows of failure lurk on every hall.
When the pressure is palpable and the demands an insatiable beast:
Grant hope, peace, and wisdom,
Endurance, courage, and strength,
To face the raging storms that lie ahead.
Though broken darkness, injustice, and bitterness
Try to consume,
Grant that we give life, always light,
Abundant, steady, full.
Amen.
Yesterday’s sermon was on the passage where Jesus walked on water. My pastor was feeling better, so he delivered the message.
Last week, we learned about God's faithfulness in provision. Jesus showed his disciples that he was present, capable, and willing to take care of human need. Yesterday, we watched the disciples forget that fact just hours after they'd experienced it. We watched as they tried in vain to use their own strength and power to save themselves from a raging storm and we watched Peter begin to sink as he took his eyes off of Jesus and realized that he was actually walking on water—which, to me, is a funny scene to imagine.
I don't remember exactly how he got there, but at the end of his sermon, Patrick (my pastor) said something like this: "Folks, the world around us is dying, and we have the light and love to give it life--but we're failing to give it life because we're taking our eyes off of what, and who, really matters. We're taking our eyes off of the cross and focusing on ourselves--because we're human--and we want what we want--and in our times of storm or darkness, we rely on our own strength to save us instead of the one who has shown, time and time again, the he is faithful to save."
I cried. I have the light and love to help give life, yet I struggle sometimes to show and share it because I get so extremely lonely and allow that loneliness to turn to doubt, insecurity, and shame.
"Doubt," Patrick said, "is desiring two things but not being able to fully decide between them. Jesus did not doubt. He easily could have. He could have chosen to stay in this world and not go through the extreme pain that he knew was coming, but he didn't. He set his face toward the cross and never turned back. There is no doubt that he was extremely lonely as he made his way toward Jerusalem. Everyone set to walk with him slowly fell away. Yet Jesus kept going. He knew his call. He faced the cross and died so that we could live. Likewise, we must daily die to ourselves so that others might live."
I kept crying.
Then I stood to lead the final hymn,
"Wherever he leads I'll go. Wherever he leads I'll go.
I'll follow my Christ who loves me so. Wherever he leads I'll go."
Which.
Right now.
Is Johnsonville.
Oh God.
When the work is hard and the meetings are long.
When the shadows of failure lurk on every hall.
When the pressure is palpable and the demands an insatiable beast:
Grant hope, peace, and wisdom,
Endurance, courage, and strength,
To face the raging storms that lie ahead.
Though broken darkness, injustice, and bitterness
Try to consume,
Grant that we give life, always light,
Abundant, steady, full.
Amen.
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