Confession of the Purple Shirt

 

“Good morning,” she said. 

 

“Morning,” I said. 

 

“I like your shirt. It’s purple.” 

 

I should have said, “Thank you! I wore it for Lent,” and left it at that. 

 

Instead, I launched into this story. 

 

“Last Wednesday, 

I was looking through my closet for something to wear 

When I decided on this shirt. 

As I was taking it off the hanger, 

I noticed that it was a little dirty. 

So I took it off the hanger and laid it on the stool so I could wash it. 

Well, this morning, 

I went into my closet to get something to wear 

And I saw this shirt sitting on the stool. 

I got excited because it was purple 

So I put it on. 

I thought it had just fallen off its hanger. 

I didn’t realize it was dirty until I got to Lidl. 

When I saw it this morning, 

I totally forgot I had set it aside for washing. 

So. I have on a dirty shirt.”

 

To which she simply responded, “Well. I wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t said anything.”

 

🤦🏻‍♀️

 

At JazzTales on Monday morning,

We couldn’t get the visuals to work. 

We tried and tried but nothing was working 

Yet no one buy the presenters knew how it was supposed to be. 

If we would have just gone on with the show without highlighting the missing visuals 

Then no one would have ever known the difference. 

Because we confessed, though, 

The missing visuals became more missed, 

Just like my dirty shirt became more obvious. 

 

Confession is important. 

Examining ourselves for the ways our thoughts and actions have gone sideways 

Is crucial for personal and spiritual growth. 

Knowing that we have been forgiven is freeing and 

Releases us from the damning grips of shame. 

 

And yet. 

Why do we feel the need to save face with confessions like the purple shirt? 

 

God. 

Help us to know when to speak and when to remain silent. 

Help us to confess when we need to confess and not just to talk to explain or justify our thoughts and actions. 

You are the Word. 

Help us to be little examples of your word. 

 

Amen. 

Toothbrush Prayer

I can’t believe that I’m admitting this to the world.

But sometimes I don’t brush my teeth at night.

Sometimes I’m too tired.

Sometimes I’m angry with myself and treat the non-brushing as some sort of twisted punishment.

Sometimes I fall asleep early.

Sometimes I’m just lazy.

Regardless, sometimes I don’t brush my teeth at night.

And so…I made brushing my teeth at night my Lenten practice.

I know. It seems a bit odd to add something that should already be part of daily life. But. Well. I’ve already admitted the truth. And so I added the practice.

And not just that. I added the practice of standing still while I brushing my teeth.

I’d gotten into the habit of wandering around the upstairs, picking things up, preparing for bed, etc.

But now. Each night. I find myself standing still in the bathroom, brushing my teeth…praying.

I find myself praying each night…for my friends, my family, my students, myself, this world, the impact of this virus, Love to be real, God to be present, any and everything that comes to mind while I brush off the gunk that could create problems if not removed.

So tonight, I challenge you to join me in a tooth-brushing time of prayer. It may only last a couple of minutes, but that couple of minutes could change someone’s life…not the least of which is your own.

Happy brushing, everyone! And…don’t forget to stay in place. Staying in place is important. But it may be harder than you think…

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)

Jay Cee

I know it. I know that going through magazines, business mailings, and junk mail as soon as they arrive is the best way to manage it. Yet. I still let it pile up until I have weeks (or sometimes months) worth of papers to sort and then my hand starts to hurt from ripping up everything I don’t want and then I start to feel guilty for helping waste so many trees. Nonetheless, snow days are good days to go through said piles of paper, and sometimes said piles of paper render a few things to think about.

Yesterday, as I was reading the summer newsletter (yes, summer) from Manna House, Inc., a homeless shelter in Baltimore where I volunteered for a week in college, I came across a poem that made an impression on me. I want to share it here, in hopes that it will make an impression on you, too—especially this Lenten season.

Jay Cee (J.C.)

J.C.’s mother was pregnant out of wedlock
He was born in an animal shelter
He had no formal education
He was homeless

The governor tried to murder him when he was a baby
His parents had to migrate to save his life
He had very few friends
He was homeless

He slept in boats
He spent his quiet time in parks
He rode on a borrowed donkey
J.C. was homeless

His friends were mostly illiterate fishermen
He owned no property
His father was a simple tradesman
He was homeless

One of his trusted friends betrayed him
He lived on the kindness of strangers
He was falsely accused and arrested
J.C. was homeless

He did not get a fair trial
His best friends denied knowing him
He was assaulted by Soldiers to near death
He was homeless

His sermons were free
The religious leaders of his time hated him
He was brutally murdered for a crime he did not commit
J.C. was homeless

His mother was a witness to his murder
He changed the course of history
He changed the fate of mankind
He was homeless

Today many call themselves his followers
People are persecuted because of him
Millions know his name.
J.C. was homeless

--Samuel Enos, M.D., M.P.H

Deliberate Waiting

On October 5, 2004, a colleague made me angry. She made her lack of planning my emergency and then blamed it on being busy. I promptly wrote this poem:

Bumblebee

We're busy.
Life is busy.
Everything is busy.
Busy, busy, busy!

But how hard is it,
Is it that hard?
To communicate,
share,
discuss,
or explain,
Expectations,
needs,
wants,
desires,
and to ask for help
In advance
not on demand,
not making lack of communication
an urgent problem?

We're busy.
Life is busy.
Everything is busy.
Busy, busy, busy!

I guess we should just rename ourselves
Bumblebees.

Over the weekend, almost all of the women on the women’s retreat stated that they needed to get away from the busyness of life. This morning, the intern who led the spiritual care staff devotion spoke about the dangers of being overly busy. This afternoon, I opened When The Heart Waits by Sue Monk Kidd and read about the dangers of being busy. I’m sensing a theme.

Busyness is part of today’s culture. In fact, busyness fuels today’s culture. Doing tasks quickly. Staying constantly connected. Desiring instant gratification. Eating fast food. The less time things take, the more things we can do. The more things we can do, the easier it is to avoid both the waiting and the unknown.

Busy.

Sue Monk Kidd writes, “What has happened to our ability to dwell in unknowing, to live inside a question and coexist with the tensions of uncertainty? Where is our willingness to incubate pain and let it birth something new? What has happened to patient unfolding, to endurance? These things are what form the ground of waiting. And if you look carefully, you’ll see that they’re also the seedbed of creativity and growth—what allows us to do the daring and to break through to newness. As Thomas Merton observed, “The imagination should be allowed a certain amount of time to browse around.” Creative flourishes not in certainty but in questions. Growth germinates not in tent dwelling but in upheaval. Yet the seduction is always security rather than venturing, instant knowing rather than deliberate waiting.”

Deliberate waiting.

During this season of Lent, may we each commit to combating busyness by deliberately waiting for life and circumstances to unfold.

God is in the waiting. Embrace God today.

Loving Others, Transforming Self

In 2007, after many years of running, I hit rock bottom and entered into a dark depression. The deep shame that I felt for being myself crept to the surface and consumed me with a pain that I could not deny. In my utter brokenness, pushing through an almost paralyzing fear, I found just enough strength to begin counseling. Counseling changed my life.

Over the past six years, I have learned a new way of being. Through countless hours of hard work and many buckets of prayerful tears, I have begun to live through the lenses of loving-kindness, authenticity, mindfulness, and unconditional friendship with myself. I have also gained a new understanding of compassion. My view of God has opened and expanded, and my belief in humanity has become less rigid and more organic, allowing me to live with a hope and peace that I had never known. I have realized that all of life is connected and that through this connection we are never alone.

Mark 12:28-34 (NIV) says:

One of the teachers of the law came and heard them debating. Noticing that Jesus had given them a good answer, he asked him, “Of all the commandments, which is the most important?” “The most important one,” answered Jesus, “is this: ‘Hear, O Israel, Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these.” “Well said, teacher,” the man replied. “You are right in saying that God is one and there is no other but Him. To love Him with all your heart, and with all your understanding, and with all your strength, and to love your neighbor as yourself is more important than all burnt offerings and sacrifices.” When Jesus saw that he had answered wisely, He said to him, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.”

According to Jesus, to be near the kingdom of God is to love God with everything that we are and to love our neighbor as ourselves. As. Ourselves. If we are fully to love others, then we must fully love ourselves. And if we are fully to love ourselves, then we must fully love God.

This Lenten season, my prayer for each of you is that you will allow God to love you and to speak to your spirit by transforming your emotions, spirit, intelligence, and body through the spiritual disciplines. As you look inward and see yourself as you really are, may you not pass harsh judgment on what you see but acknowledge that your reality is much the same as those around you. We are all broken individuals in search of wholeness through God’s redemptive grace. May you catch a glimpse of that wholeness and use it to reach beyond yourself in love.

Peace and joy be yours…
D

-------

This weekend, I'll be leading a women's retreat at Luke Gaston. I’m currently finalizing the retreat curriculum and working on participant booklets, trying to get everything finished before my next on-call on Wednesday. Today, in between meetings at the hospital, I’ve worked on the booklet introduction, and that introduction is what I have shared with you tonight.

Broken Gardens

This morning on Facebook, I asked the question: If you could go back in time to be with Jesus on this Thursday of Holy Week, would you rather be with him when he washed feet, served "the last supper," sang a hymn before going to the garden, or prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane?

While I don’t usually publically answer my own questions—I always answer them in my head as I type them—I want to answer this one aloud.

Even though I think that having Jesus wash my feet would have made me cry and thus washed, also, my face; that sharing the Seder meal with Jesus for the last time would have been lovely and powerful and symbolic; that hearing Jesus’ singing voice would have been super-duper neat; and that if I were given an opportunity to witness any of those events then I certainly wouldn’t turn it down…if I had to choose, then I would choose to be with Jesus while he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane—not because I want to be a disciple hero and stay awake when the others go to sleep—but because I find his struggle in the garden so raw and real and passionate that it is one of the beautiful, gut-wrenching images of my life.

Earlier this morning, I received an e-mail from a dear friend. She shared with me a bit about her family and how they have influenced her life. I’d heard a bit of her story once before. We’d watched a film together on a retreat and the film hooked something deep inside her and made her weep. I vividly recall those tears and I vividly remembering my respect for her strengthening tenfold. In that moment of raw brokenness, I saw a depth of humanity that I’d not seen in her before. And when that happens to me, my respect and care for a person sky-rockets because I know just how genuine they are. I know that they feel their emotions and aren’t afraid of the ups and downs of life’s journey…and those ups and downs can be so frequent and so extreme.

Jesus was the son of God. It’s easy for us to focus on his divinity and forget his humanity. It’s easy to forget that Jesus got tired and hungry and weary and angry and needed both time with friends and time alone. It’s easy to forget that Jesus once wore diapers and had to be potty trained (or something like that). It’s easy to forget that Jesus laughed and hummed and followed customs and used manners. But Jesus was fully divine AND fully divine. And Jesus actually seemed to like his life in this world.

In Matthew 26, we read that Jesus prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me.” I don’t know about you, but I hear anguish in that prayer. I hear Jesus not wanting to be arrested, beaten, and hung on a cross. I hear Jesus not wanting to leave his disciples and friends and mother. I hear it even more in John 17 when Jesus prays for his disciples…and for us. I hear this struggle…and this deep, deep love.

Just as I already respected my friend before she wept that night, I already respected Jesus and his life without this plea of anguish. But this plea—this prayer—this hope against hope—this moment of desperation—this raw cry of brokenness that ends with ultimate surrender…it makes my respect for Christ so much deeper because it helps me see the honest courage with which he faced his human life’s journey. It helps me know that I can face my journey with that same honest courage, too.

To see Jesus tired and spent. To watch him cry a weary cry. To see him surrounded by signs of life in the garden. To hear his voice praying aloud to God…that is where I would want to meet him…fully divine…fully human…and fully the man I adore.

On This Tuesday of Holy Week

I’ve quietly been pondering Holy Week today. It’s been the underlying thought of my hours…Christ’s journey to the cross…how one week could move so quickly from shouts of praise to shouts of hate. Without meaning for them to do so, my thoughts came into view as I opened a window to my soul while writing an e-mail yesterday. I want to share part of that message now because it’s part of my own journey to the cross:

…I like to stay informed on what's in culture and try to find points of redemption and truth wherever I can. Sometimes this reality drives me crazy because the two sides of every issue are always fighting so hard against one another.

I think that the issue of bullying is tough. Much of the really good material on bullying has been produced by groups that Southern Baptists don’t often associate with. I've wanted to use some of the material simply because it's good material--it has nothing to do with controversial issues the surface but everything to do with respecting differences and treating people with dignity and respect--but I haven't been able to use it because of associations that some would question and hold in contempt. While we, as Christians, don’t want to get labeled as bullies, we often do...and I think it's because of the tension between right/wrong, good/bad, being in this world but not of it, speaking truth while respecting differences, sharing faith and following Christ and knowing when to leave things to God...

It's sometimes hard to know how to be true to one belief system while not damning others and standing in a judgmental place of condemnation in the process (which I don't think Jesus wanted)--especially when issues of life/death, heaven/hell, saved/unsaved come into the picture--and especially when things are extreme and polarized...with violence running rampant and individualism/consumerism/feel-goodism/entitlementism (yes I realize I'm making up words) being the norm of the day.

I think maybe this is why I try to stay informed on what's out there...to try to find common ground and weed out God's truth and grace in the middle. In counseling the other day, my counselor really upset me. She said some really hard, really difficult things and I left her office very angry and very hurt. After many years of work learning not to absolutely hate myself and think myself a horrible, terrible individual by virtue of just being alive (we're all depraved sinners, right?—isn’t that what we’re taught?—that we’re worthy of nothing save for Christ?—that we’re really horrible people without Christ’s blood?), I didn't shut down, turn the pain inward, or allow it come outward in a self-harming way. Instead, I simply prayed, "God, help me to hear what it is you want me to hear in this. Help me to hear your truth, your words, and to take from this session and these feelings what you alone would have me to take." Over the past few days, I've let her words pass through my mind and sit on my heart occasionally, praying for God's wisdom and discernment each time it’s happened, and I've been able to weed out the anger and ickiness and lies and land in a place of relative peace--even though what I had to name and accept was not easy or what I'd originally believed.

I write all of that because...well...I don't know really. Maybe because every day is this journey in seeing where God is working and what God is teaching...even when it's different than what I expect--which is a lot. It's taking in all of the information and expectations and stereotypes and negativity that are thrown my way and trying to find points of goodness and redemption and love...which is where I believe Jesus was going on his journey through life that led to the cross.

A Sad Maundy Thursday

I had a hard time deciding on my Facebook status question this morning. It’s Maundy Thursday. I didn’t think that a fun, random question was appropriate. And then I started weeping. It’s Maundy Thursday.

Even in Baptist tradition, we’re aware of the events of Good Friday. We know of the trials and the beatings and the brutal crucifixion of Jesus. We know that Good Friday was a very bad day—a very dark day in history—a very sad time for Jesus and his disciples. Jesus was condemned to a criminal’s death. The disciples didn’t understand. They wept. They were scared. The sadness and fear were palpable…

But what about Maundy Thursday? What about what Jesus must have been feeling then?

On Tuesday, I asked everyone about their favorite story of Jesus. My best friend’s mom wrote: Garden of Gethsemane, asking God to take the cup from me. It's comforting to know that even Jesus asked to be spared from the evils of life.

That’s one of my favorite stories, too. Yet it’s so extremely painful to read. To know that Jesus was in anguish. To know that he earnestly prayed, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me…”. To know that he was scared. To know that he struggled with leaving behind the people that he loved—that he prayed for God to take care of them and to protect them from evil because he couldn’t do it anymore. To know that he had been betrayed by one of his disciples—by one of his friends in whom he had placed his trust. To know that he had cared enough to wash feet and that he had served his last meal for the last time and that he had sung a song with his disciples and that the life that he had enjoyed on earth was soon coming to an end…

I don’t know about you, but I am filled with sadness for Jesus. I am filled with sadness and grief and heartache and hurt for this man who loved unconditionally and sought to draw all persons in to the love of God. I am filled with sadness and grief and heartache and hurt for this man who felt sadness and grief and heartache and hurt just like me. Betrayal is not fun. Endings are not fun. Facing uncertainty and pain are not fun. Leaving behind loved ones is not fun. I know. I have experienced all of those things. And so did Jesus. On this day…this Maundy Thursday.

It’s appropriate, I think, that it’s a cloudy and overcast day. This is a sad day. Tomorrow is a sad day. I feel so sad for Jesus. I wish that I could give him a hug. I wish that I could remind him that everything is going to be okay. Because right now it doesn’t feel that way. Right now, on this Maundy Thursday, everything is just so sad. And right now, I feel more connected to Jesus’s humanity than ever before…

Isn't That The Point

I just overheard this conversation:

"I'm going to dye eggs on Friday. Are you?"

"No. I gave that up for Lent."

"You gave up dying eggs for Lent?"

(Chuckling) "I gave up that and diet and exercise. I gave up a lot of things...No. I'm sure glad we Baptists don't practice Lent. If we did, then I'd have to give up something that really means a lot to me."

Umm. Isn't that the point? Didn't Jesus "give up" something that he really liked during this Lenten season? Didn't he "give up" or lose his life for taking a stand against practices that were unfair, unjust, and un-life-giving?

I, for one, am NOT glad that we Baptists don't practice Lent, because I, for one, think that we sometimes take the richness of our faith heritage for granted and do only that which is easy for today.