Mother's Day Sermon

Chaplain Mel O’Malley

Brooke Army Medical Center

May 8, 2016

Mother’s Day Sermon

Have any of you watched the movie San Andreas? Last weekend, Greg “made me” watch it with him. As you might guess, it takes place in California, where all the real earthquake movies happen, and a place I never need to go again after watching the movie! Besides being a super dramatic two hours of earthquake action, with impossible rescue scenes and special effects depicting tsunamis and shattering skyscrapers, it also tells a story about the human condition. Some people are willing to help others out even in the midst of a crisis while many are only interested in taking care of themselves. Some look outward and others look inward. There is one scene where the local mall is being looted because the power has gone off, the cash registers are not working and everyone has fled in fear. The looters are stealing these huge flat screen tvs and other valuables. Of course, we know that this kind of behavior doesn’t only happen in the movies. We have seen this type of behavior on the news. Whenever chaos or disaster strikes, there are many who hope to profit from other people’s misfortune.  

It’s no wonder our prison guard reacts the way he does in this morning’s story from Acts.  In the middle of the night, a violent, powerful earthquake shakes the foundations of the prison, breaking open the prison doors and unfastening all of the chains, which were holding the prisoners inside; the guard assumes the worst. He assumes that his prisoners, the ones who he has been entrusted to guard, will escape, and he will be blamed for the loss. He is so worried about losing control of them that he draws his sword, ready to take his own life rather than deal with the humiliation of being the guy who let the prisoners get away.

It is a reasonable assumption on his part. Most prisoners, if given the opportunity to escape, will escape! Paul and Silas have double the reason to use this opportunity because they have been falsely imprisoned. Furthermore, because of their faith in Jesus and their willingness to profess their faith out loud, they are in even more danger than the average Roman citizen. Their survival instinct should have come into play here. Paul and Silas really had no business staying in that prison.

But, when the opportunity arises, Paul and Silas don’t escape prison. They stay right where they are. They allow themselves to remain in a dangerous position. It doesn’t really make any sense. In fact, their choice to stay in prison is so extraordinary that it revolutionizes, transforms, the prison guard right there on the spot. Rushing in and trembling, he brings Paul and Silas outside, exactly the place he was afraid they would escape to, and he asks them, “What must I do to be saved?” This guard goes from being so afraid that Paul and Silas would escape that he was willing to take his own life to being willing to free them and bring them into his home, take care of their wounds, and give his life to Christ. He was going to take his life but when he witnessed their behavior, instead he freely gave his life to Jesus.

There are many remarkable conversion stories in the Bible, but what strikes me about this one is that this prison guard’s faith is sparked through witnessing someone living life differently because of their faith. So many of the famous conversion stories reported in scripture stem from a profound encounter with God. Saul being converted on the road to Damascus is perhaps the most notable of all. God makes his presence known to Saul in a blinding light and a voice from heaven saying to him, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” I don’t want to take anything away from Paul, but most of us would have also been transformed, too, if God had done the same dramatic thing to us.

What is so remarkable about our story today is that the prison guard is brought to faith in Christ, not by a blinding light or a voice from heaven, but by witnessing Paul and Silas live their lives differently from other people because of their faith in Jesus. Paul and Silas didn’t share the gospel by telling the guard anything or talking about Jesus or even through a healing or a miracle. They witnessed to this guard through their integrity to stay put even when an opportunity to escape presented itself, through their courage to continue facing the danger of being a Roman prisoner, and through their concern for the guard’s life. Their chief interest wasn’t for themselves but it was for others, even for this guard whose job was to imprison them.

We talk a lot in the church about what it means to evangelize, to share the good news of Jesus. Even in the chaplaincy sometimes we struggle about how to share the Good News. Some people insist they must pray in Jesus’ name or feel like they need to pray each time they meet with a soldier. Today, we learn a lesson about evangelism. We are reminded that the way we live our lives, day to day, really matters. It’s not just about whether or not we go to church or don’t drink too much, but it’s about how we live and love and interact with others no matter their backgrounds or circumstances, what we do with our money, whether or not we are willing to share our time to help others. And, just like the prison guard in our story, people are watching to see just how our following Jesus changes us, changes the way we live.

A few years ago one of my favorite chaplains, Father Erik, said something in a sermon that I continue to reflect on. He said, we don’t just talk about the Good News or preach about the Good News, but we become the Good News. So, that whatever is going on, wherever we go, people will see us and think, “Good news is here.”

When one of our Eucharistic ministers visits a patient upstairs, bringing communion, or just a simple visit, Good News has arrived. When our volunteers go back and forth between families and the Operating Room, making sure that loved ones have the latest information and feel supported, this is becoming the Good News. We are the Good News, when we sit quietly with someone whose life has been turned upside down. We are the Good News when we listen to a friend who is struggling. We are the Good News when we love and when we are willing to give ourselves away. And, when we are Good News, people notice. Like our jailer from today’s scripture, an encounter with the Good News changes them, too.

Hallmark would never let any of us forget that today is Mother’s Day. But long before this day was about cards and flowers and breakfast in bed, it was actually a day to come together for peace. Julia Ward Howe, who also wrote the Battle Hymn of the Republic, wrote a proclamation for Mother’s Day. This was a response to the devastation of the Civil War and encouraged all women who had hearts, all women, not just those who had given birth or raised a child, but all women with hearts to join together for peace. She said, “Let women then solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means whereby the great human family can live in peace, each bearing after their own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, but of God.” She was reminding them that they needed to be Good News in a world wrecked by war. She was reminding them that, just like Paul and Silas, they were called to become Good News by living their lives differently than what was expected.

It may be Mother’s Day but it is not just women who are called to become Good News. All of us are invited, are called by God, to embody the Good News. And when we say yes, we live our lives differently. And, in doing so, we reflect the light of Christ in a world filled with shadows. So, wherever we go and in whatever we do, may we be Good News, trusting that God is always with us, working in us, and providing all that we need. Amen.

Pentecost Sermon

Reverend Mel Baars

May 19, 2013

University Presbyterian Church

“No Fear”

It is no secret that a preacher’s greatest audience is often herself. This has proved very true for me this week as I have prepared for Pentecost. There are so many possible themes which emerge in these verses from diversity and the gifts of the multi-lingual to being open to the movement of the spirit, how loving God looks like keeping God’s commandments, and what its like to be driven by fear. 

As I read these familiar scriptures this week, I couldn’t stop fixating on fear. Everywhere I turned, fear seemed to jump out from the page which must say something about me I am sure. In the Acts passage, the people’s fear isn’t explicit. It isn’t named outright but instead displayed through how they respond to this otherworldly event. But, put yourselves in their shoes. Out of nowhere a sound like a rush of a violent wind has bulldozed through a local home, and the people inside have begun to speak in so many tongues that the entire crowd, no matter their native language, understands what is being said. They are amazed and confused. And though the text doesn’t say it, I think they are also afraid. In a desperate attempt to make sense of this thing which doesn’t make any sense at all, they blame this occurrence on wine and drunkenness. Because there really is no good explanation for what is happening, their fear drives them to draw unfair conclusions about the disciples. Fear gives rise to injustice. But isn’t this how it goes too often, even now, even with us?

The gospel passage also exudes whispers of fear. Today’s portion of the text begins with Philip asking Jesus to show him “the Father.” It’s not enough that Philip has witnessed Jesus in action, healing the sick, restoring sight to the blind. But, he wants something more in order to be satisfied. Because, as we know, memory is tricky and fleeting. As much as he might believe in the midst of Jesus’ miracles, during the high times, in those times between, his trust becomes shaky. His fears poke holes in his faith and inevitably he begins to sink. This cycle of belief, fear, and doubt is nearly impossible to break and Philip knows this. He recognizes his weaknesses which is why he makes his request in the first place. He is looking for some kind of “fear proof” evidence which will guarantee sustained faith. This is what he needs to be satisfied. This is what he thinks he needs to conqueror his fears. 

Like most human emotion, fear is complicated. On one hand, it is helpful, particularly when trying to teach a child the potential consequences of running blindly into traffic or touching a hot stove. On the other hand, though, too much fear can cause paralysis. It can push people toward inhumanity. It can propel otherwise decent people to make horrific choices in which innocent victims are caught in its crossfire. We need healthy fear to navigate our lives safely but fear, like fire, is difficult to manage. With just a little extra fuel, it can grow so much and so quickly that it becomes unmanageable. It can spin out of control without much warning, leaving but ash in its path. 

Of course, the spectrum of fear doesn’t always have to mean obvious casualties. I think our scripture passages are two great examples of how stealthily fear can take away from the quality of our life and of our faith. I can easily use myself as an example. There are times when I get so focused on my fears that I hardly have any other room in my life for living life well. There are seasons when it seems fear and worry become so encompassing that it is like I have another full time job which would entitle me health benefits and a 401K. I throw worry in there because worry stems from fear. And, at least according to my Apple dictionary, worry is “a state of anxiety and uncertainty over actual or potential problems.” Fear leads to worry and worry causes a state of anxiety and before we know it we are drowning. 

I read about a cartoon which depicted a patient paying a visit to his psychiatrist. In the cartoon he is laying on the couch, describing all of his fears to the psychiatrist. “Doctor,” he began, “I’m worried about the energy crisis, inflation, the sequester and balancing the budget, on-going conflicts in Afghanistan, Israel, Libya, Syria, political unrest in Africa, our diplomatic relations with China, whether or not my teenager is going to become dependent on drugs and alcohol or if my eighth grader will bring up her grades enough to make it into high school on track. I am worried my job, my health, my retirement plan, chemical weapons, bird flu, …” and his list went on and on and on. In the final frame the psychiatrist responded, “Shut up and move over,” after which he proceeded to get on the couch with the patient. Even hearing this list, I feel my anxiety rising. 

A few months ago, when my fear management was particularly poor, I made an appointment to see a military family life counselor, which is a counseling resource that all service members can access for free in order to building coping and resiliency skills. I sat down and I explained why I was there. Like the man in the cartoon, I had a lengthy list of worries. I had just found out that the Army was sending me to the Canadian border, most likely to deploy back to Afghanistan. I had been having some strange, inexplicable health issues which were not clearing up with the medicine my doctors prescribed. I was in a relationship which was going well but which was also in question due to my impending move to almost Canada. What was going to happen to me, my health, my future work and relationship? With each unknown factor, my fear for the future grew. 

Seeing the cross on my uniform and recognizing that I am a chaplain, she reminded me that all I needed to do was pray. Wasn’t I praying, she asked me. Yes, I answered, mainly because I didn’t want to disappoint her. And, I had prayed a few times about all of it but, if I am honest, not really the kind of praying that makes a difference. Happy with her diagnosis, she quoted some applicable scripture and sent me on my way. It’s funny now looking back. At the time I was very dissatisfied with her advice. Of course, I knew that I should be praying. I could have told myself that. I was looking for some other, more concrete, easier to obtain coping strategies. Reading Jesus’ words in John, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” While her advice didn’t seem very helpful to me then, now I wonder how many times will I have to hear Jesus’ words of peace and promise, before I will take them to heart, before I will truly believe them. 

Philip bargains with Jesus just like we do. Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied. O God, just help my mother get better, and I will do whatever you want. Just help me get this job, and I will be generous with those who are in need. O Lord, give me a sign that you are who you claim to be, just help me know my future, that I am going to be okay, and then I will have my peace. All the while, right beneath our noses, God continues to work and heal and bring about life instead of death

On Pentecost we remember that the Holy Spirit dwells among us despite how often we forget this to be true. From creation, throughout our many exiles, in the lowliness of a stable, and even from the murkiness of our unknown futures, the spirit of God beckons to each of us, giving us the strength to continue on our journeys, restoring our faith during seasons of fear, reminding us that we never face our fears alone. 

Some years ago, when I was in elementary school, a new brand called No Fear became popular, mostly among the boys in my class. This label was on everything from t-shirts to skateboard, and quickly because familiar. I remember wondering whether or not No Fear was actually possible. It’s one thing to act fearless or to profess fearlessness, but it’s another thing entirely to live without it. I was sure, even the toughest boys in my class, had their fearful moments. If only it was as easy as wearing a t-shirt. 

Desmond Tutu once said this, "All of us experience fear, but when we confront and acknowledge it, we are able to turn it into courage. Being courageous does not mean never being scared; it means acting as you know you must even though you are undeniably afraid." 

Living without fear isn’t really what matters. Instead, faithfulness looks like dealing with our fears, recognizing when we are driven by fear rather than led by the spirit. It means responding with love even when our gut instinct is urging us to fight or flight. And, maybe my counselor was on to something, even though her delivery in the midst of my crisis could have used some improvement. Jesus has promised us good life, leaving us with these words, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” There is much about the future that we don’t know. Even more that we can’t understand. Yet, the Holy Spirit dwells among us, even here, even now. Because we know this to be true, may we also know God’s peace. Amen

New Reflection Piece

Here is a link to a reflection piece that I wrote for Duke's Faith and Leadership forum.

http://www.faithandleadership.com/content/mel-baars-holding-ideals-bloodstained-hands

Sermon from Sunday, April 14, 2013

Reverend Mel Baars

Main Post Chapel, Ft. Sam Houston 

“Do you love me?”

When I was little, I wasn’t a very good listener. I was always in such a hurry to answer that I hardly ever waited to hear the whole question. This especially drove my father crazy. Maybe some of you understand his frustration. We would get into these round and round cycles of question and answer repetition. He would ask me something a first time, but I would be so eager or so distracted, that I would answer before he even finished. “Mary Ellison,” he would say sternly, “Listen to what I am saying.” So, he would ask again, and, at least most of the time, I would still fail to really hear, even if I was trying a little harder. “Mary Ellison,” he would say exasperated, “Pay attention.” It was normally that third go round when his words actually sunk in, when I comprehended what I was answering. 

Most of us are guilty, on occasion, of speaking too soon, of jumping to the answer before we have understood the question fully. Today’s gospel exchange between Peter and Jesus is just this. Jesus asks a question which, in the end, will require Peter to give up everything, even his life, but Peter is in a hurry. “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these...” So eager, so ready to answer, Peter doesn’t take time to consider the question. What is Jesus really asking? Do you love me more than these? What does this really mean? More than what? Is Jesus talking about Peter’s friends or his family? Is he talking about Peter’s safety or comfort? Is he talking about his life? “Do you love me more than these.” To what is Peter answering “Yes?” I’m not sure he knows himself, but he wants to say yes so baldy-- Yes, without understanding what yes really means. 

I don’t think any of us can blame Peter for his eagerness, perhaps even for trying to assuage the guilt that has been weighing upon him since Jesus’ death. Because, just days before this scene, Jesus predicted that Peter, his rock, would deny him three times. Do you remember their conversation during the Last Supper? Peter asks Jesus where he is about to go. Jesus says, ‘Where I am going, you cannot follow me now; but you will follow afterwards.’ But, Peter pushes back asking, ‘Why can’t I follow you now? I will lay down my life for you.’ And, Jesus answers, ‘Will you? Will you really lay down your life for me? Very truly, I tell you, before the cock crows, you will have denied me three times.” Words can be cheap, especially when we don’t understand the fullness of their meaning. Of course, Jesus is right about Peter’s lapse of faith. Because of fear and confusion and doubt, Peter denies him, not once but three times. The shame of this failure must be fresh in Peter’s memory.

So back on the beach, Jesus asks the question for a second time. “Simon son of John, (listen to what I am saying to you) do you love me?” But, Peter is still eager. Driven by his need to say, “Yes,” he responds quickly, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” We can almost hear Peter’s annoyance growing. He already said “Yes” once. Why ask the question again? But Jesus knows Peter all too well, just as he knows us. He knows human weakness. He knows that our words easily slip off the tongue. He also knows that once the emotion has subsided, words can quickly be forgotten. In this moment when Peter says, “Yes, I love you,” he means it, or he thinks he means it. But, what about tomorrow and the next day and the day after that? What about when fear and doubt creep back into the equation? What about when his love is put to the test, when Peter is forced to face the crucibles of his life, or even, his death? Will he remember this moment on the beach when he said “Yes” and meant it? Will this memory be enough to keep him faithful?

This exchange couldn’t be forgotten, and this is what Jesus was counting on. Peter answered first with eagerness, then with a hint of annoyance, and finally a little hurt. As he answered, Jesus’ words sunk in. Do you love me... well then.. “Feed my lambs...” If you mean what you say.... “tend my sheep...” If you love me... “feed my sheep...” This is what love looks like. There is a quote attributed to St. Francis of Assisi that, as a preacher especially, I always hold in the back of my mind, “Preach the gospel every day, but only if necessary use words.” If you really love me, Jesus says, don’t just talk about it. Live like it. Live your life as if loving me makes all the difference. Love is how you catch people. It’s how you spread the good news.

Jesus sees the future, what Peter can’t yet know or understand. He is like a wise father who looks at his young, innocent son, on one hand wanting to preserve his blissful ignorance but on the other hand wanting to prepare him for the storm that is coming. This is such a tender moment. Jesus knows what is next for Peter, the suffering that will transpire and eventually Peter’s death, and all because he has answered, “Yes” to this question. Some suggest that Jesus repeats his question three times to undo, one for one, Peter’s three denials. But, I wonder if he doesn’t ask his question, repeatedly because he wants Peter to comprehend, even if it is through a glass lit dimly, what he has gotten himself into. 

We know what is coming next for Peter? “Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.’” Jesus foretells Peter’s crucifixion.  He will not escape unscathed.

In a way though, none of us will escape this life unscathed. As much as this passage is about Peter, an unlikely “rock” who has good days and bad ones too, who is eager to be faithful and yet who struggles with following when fear and doubt cloud his vision, this passage is also about us. It is about the life of every disciple who says Yes to following Jesus, Yes to the perils of loving God and neighbor. Because there are good days and there are bad ones, too. There are times when we tend and feed sheep, when we provide food for a neighbor and her family who are all mourning the loss of a child, when we show up to the hospital to pray with a scared new mother whose baby is sick, when we knit a prayer shawl for a friend whose cancer has come back. This is tending and feeding. And, like Peter, we have other days, too, days that we are not proud of, when our fears and pains and disappointments prevent us from living out our love for Jesus. But no matter what, Jesus comes to us again and again, shepherding us along the way so that we will be ready for whatever may come next.

Jesus offers Peter a secret that morning on the beach. By tending and feeding sheep, by witnessing good news, reaching out to those who need us, by living our lives remembering that we are subject to one another, love can be sustained, even in the darkness. The acts of tending and nurturing each other give us the strength we will need to face our own crucibles, to be prepared for the day when we will reach out our own hands, allowing someone else to fasten our belt and lead us to a place which we may not be ready to go.

Jesus appears to Peter and to us, reminding each of us that all is never lost, no matter how far we have strayed, even if we have lost our way. We have been forgiven and called into ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths not yet trodden, and through perils unknown. But we leave this place with good courage, prepared to tend and feed, no matter where we may go, trusting that God’s hand is leading us all the way.

“Do you love me...” he asks us this question, too. Amen

Truth and Lies

“If my job requires me to withhold the whole truth, does that dishonesty still count as a sin?” I lost count of how many times one of my interrogators asked me this question, normally offline, around the smoke pit or in an anonymous corner of the dining facility. Occasionally, it was a question intended to stump me, or at least require some deft theological maneuvering. Most of the time, though, it was an honest question borne from a true tension which many of my soldiers felt every day when they talked to Afghan detainees and were required to develop relationships with them that were not altogether forthright. Soldiers don’t divulge information about their true identities during their interrogations. They don’t talk openly about their spouses or their children. They don’t tell their detainees where they were born or where they live now. They don’t even use their real name. It wouldn’t be safe or smart to do it any other way. However necessary it is to withhold information, the question remains, “Is this dishonestly sinful?” 

As a chaplain, my primary responsibilities are to conduct religious services and ensure that all service members, regardless of their faith background, have the freedom to practice their religion. I advise my commanders on issues of ethics, morality, and spiritual health, and offer counseling to service members who are struggling with a plethora of issues from family strife to trauma stemming from combat. Some days I talk extensively about God and pray about the fears which plague members of my unit. Most days, though, are less seeped in religious rhetoric. Instead, I find myself discussing the nuances which play out between the black and white lines of the military doctrine we are ordered to follow. Because my Soldiers have been trained to read beneath the surface and capitalize on subtlety, they are not easily convinced by rote explanations to complex questions. 

Over the year my unit was deployed to a detention facility in Afghanistan working as intelligence collectors, I never felt completely satisfied with my answer to their question about dishonesty. Is it or is it not a sin to lie, even when a lie may save a life? Normally, I would ramble on about how complicated this kind of question is. On one hand, a lie is a lie. Any falsehood, even when its purpose is saving lives or eradicating terror, is still dishonest. Ends don’t necessarily justify the means nor do they exonerate a perpetrator from facing consequences of his actions. Yet, some level of dishonesty seems to be a staple of human existence, even in the Bible. The Ten Commandments may instruct us not to bear false witness, but the Bible also regales stories where lying seems to be acceptable. Remember how Jacob lied to his father in order to steal a birthright and blessing away from his older brother, Esau. Because of his actions, Jacob ends up elect and favored. Dishonesty helped him get ahead, and instead of facing punishment, he gets to take his place among the greatest lineage in human history.

About halfway through our deployment, I along with an Air Force psychologist who was working with our interrogation teams, decided to address some of their questions pertaining to ethics. Convening a class on ethics in Human Intelligence Collection, we facilitated a discussion among our personnel who juggle personal convictions about morality with an often conflicting reality that the only way to get answers is to play with deceit. 

The first half of the class was a simple review of ethical systems. We talked about at the ethics spectrum from relativism to absolutism and discussed three theories of ethics: consequentialism, deontology, and virtue-based thinking. In each category, we looked at real world examples which are pertinent to the military community and conducting safe, legal, ethical, and effective Military Intelligence operations. From killing in combat to lying during an interrogation, we encouraged our soldiers to draw from their experiences as they broke into smaller groups and discussed the complexities of human intelligence collection.  

During the second part of the class, we discussed the challenges that arise when multiple systems of ethics converge. Throughout our deployment, we witnessed this in different ways. A detainee may have placed loyalty to family or tribe over a conflicting duty to tell the truth. An interrogator may choose not to lie to get particular answers because in his estimation the ends may not justify the means. We also noted that the Army’s system of ethics, though in part a blend of all three of these theories, drew heavily upon a Virtue-Based ethics model, evidenced in its core values, seven principles by which all Soldiers aspire to operate. 

The most compelling example of conflicting ethical systems that many of us witnessed while in Afghanistan took place at a local hospital. I organized a visit so that members of our unit would have the opportunity to interact with Afghan civilians and give blankets, sweaters, and other warm winter items to the children who were getting treatment. Our first attempt to give things away nearly devolved into a riot. Children were grabbing whole armfuls of knitted hats and gloves and seemed ready to trample each other so that they could get first pick of what we were offering. Mothers pinched their babies to make them cry so that they would be sent to the front of the line. We got the impression that the children would have said or done anything just for the chance to walk away with something. They placed highest value on the opportunity to get something which might help them and their family survive the cold winter, even if it meant jumping the line and taking from other children. 

Many of us were shocked by this behavior. We had never seen, firsthand, the kind of desperation and poverty which drove these children. Yet, this experience also helped my Soldiers understand the background from which their detainees originated. Though interrogators may be trained in detecting lies, having a greater understanding of what motivates their detainees to lie in the first place helped them hone their skills. 

No matter how lengthy a Soldier’s career has been in human intelligence collection, every good interrogator must continually strive for self-awareness, always knowing where the line between “self” and “interrogator” lies. Because this line is often blurred and Soldiers wrestle with the heaviness of their work, good leadership and guidance is always imperative. Wisdom comes most often from more experienced interrogators and warrant officers who have had to maintain this balance as a part of their career. Commanders provide mentoring which guides Soldiers as they negotiate challenging scenarios. I hope, at least occasionally, this needed guidance even comes from the chaplain. 

My theological training did not fully prepare me to tackle some of the questions Soldiers throw my way, but I know that I don’t answer them alone or in a vacuum. Instead, I join an effort of many who aim to uphold values of loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage while also trying to protect the world from those who play by different rules. Those engaged in this calling aren’t looking for easy answers. They know easy answers don’t exist. Rather, they are ready to ask the hard questions and tackle the complexities.  A good interrogator recognizes the importance of the questions but also, even more importantly, the necessity of listening well for the answers. For imbedded in the bramble of truths and lies and everything between is intelligence which can save lives.  

The Lord is Risen Indeed, Alleluia

After quite a few long weeks of chocolate deprivation, the seasons have shifted. With three egg hunts in the span of a week, it’s hard to miss Easter’s coming, even if you are not a part of a faith community. Easter sunday gets the most attention of all the services of Holy Week. However, many who participate in the fullness of the days which take us from the foot of the cross all the way to the empty tomb, prefer the quiet reflection of the somber services on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. 

This past Thursday, as members of my own church community sat around tables, sharing a simple meal of almonds, dates, grapes, and pita bread, we were each asked to reflect on a time when we witnessed the love of Christ. Not everyone had a chance to share, but even a small sampling of our different experiences of God’s radical love, was a reminder that the only was to really understand the resurrection is to engage with the crucifixion. I say this because most of the people who had the courage to talk about their experience of the love of Christ didn’t describe easy, uncomplicated moments of joy. From affirming the love of a husband who has nursed his spouse through countless reoccurrences of cancer to mentions of jail ministries or dealing with a family member suffering with drug addiction, all of the examples shared were an intermingling pain and sadness which, despite suffering, held glimmers of hope, just enough to keep everyone going. 

Over the weekend, I have reflected on my own answer to this question. An image of my father, sitting at a table across from me at our local Baskin Robbins, kept coming to mind. He had a cut on his forehead, and I remember thinking that he looked smaller than I remembered when I left for college at the beginning of the semester. A few days earlier, in a fit of rage, my brother had struck my father on the head. The police were called in and eventually took my brother to jail for assault. Baskin Robbins was my version of neutral ground since I refused to go home. With my brother removed from the scene, there was no reason for me to be afraid. Nonetheless, I didn’t want to face the rock bottom that my father was living. It was easier to stay away. 

I don’t think I was very good at being a sibling, even before my brother’s struggles with mental illness and drug addiction. Family members don’t really know what to do when things fall apart, particularly when they are no longer living at home and participating in day to day activities. From a few states away, it was easy for me to have an opinion about how my parents should react to my brother when he started going down a precarious path toward alcohol and drugs. Having just experienced high school drama, I warned my parents that things could get really bad, but as most parents of teenaged children do, they didn’t really know how to decelerate the train once it started rolling. We watched, paralyzed, as my brother’s life devolved. 

It is what followed in the next five or so years which has given me perhaps the greatest personal example of God’s radical love shared from a father to a son. Since that day in Baskin Robbins, the image of my battered father, his own moment of crucifixion, has been backdrop of their relationship in my eyes. From a safe distance, I have watched my father search the earth for treatment facilities and programs which might afford my brother a real chance at recovery. My father was willing to risk both financial and personal distress, much to my dismay, even at the slightest glimmer of hope. I couldn’t understand his dogged persistence, but on the other hand, I am only a sister and not a father. 

For many years, I believed that lasting recovery was not possible. Mostly I was too afraid to open my heart to the disappointment I feared would be inevitable. I had already decided that my brother would never get better. Yet, after quite a few failed attempts and even more moments of backsliding, my brother celebrated his first year of being substance free. It’s been almost five years. A few Easters ago, a pastor friend asked me what resurrection looked like in my life. I didn’t need time to think. My brother’s life immediately came to mind.  What was all but dead, now had new life; what was once lost, had been found. 

We have seen the radical love of God through the gracious care of fathers to son, daughters to ailing mothers, between neighbors, strangers, and friends and in so many other places. This past week, we encountered it at the cross. We journey through Holy Week to be reminded that life is often marked with pain and grief, no matter the darkness, resurrection always promises to follow. 

Alleluia, the Lord has risen. The Lord has risen indeed, Alleluia. 

Gratitude: My Lenten Failure

       Lenten disciplines are similar to dieting. It’s easy to start off strong, invigorated by the prospect of making a real change. Yet, when the impact of the sacrifice isn’t as fast or obvious as we might hope, keeping up with the discipline becomes more of a challenge. A little cheat here and another there and the slippery slope takes over. Some Lents I have done better than others, particularly when giving up something manageable. But, in the years that I have vowed to take on something more than just deprive myself of m&ms or diet coke, I inevitably have a point of total failure. This was my week to fail.

Early in the year before Lent was underway, I realized that I was in need of an attitude adjustment. The glass was half empty a lot more than in was half full, a perspective I have rarely succumbed to. Nonetheless, I wasn’t feeling very grateful. I was focused on all that was wrong instead of what was good, all the blessings that sustained me in the midst of a challenging adjustment after my deployment. Lent could not have come at a better time. This Lent was going to be all about remembering gratitude.

It’s easy to want to live more gratefully, but the practice of gratitude has to translate to something tangible otherwise it’s too theoretical of a discipline to actually do. Years ago I prayed for a different person each day and wrote them a letter. It worked, at least most of Lent. So, a letter of gratitude each day seemed like plausible. My forty days of wilderness started off well. I didn’t miss any days, and wrote even when I was falling asleep and my penmanship was abysmal. Many of the people early on my list were easy to write to so most of the time I wanted to write. It wasn’t a chore. 

A week or so into it, I would miss a day here and there, but make up for it by writing two letters in a day. The recipients would never know the difference, so what would it really hurt. Sometimes I would miss two days, but always by the end of the week, I would be totally caught up and ready for the next round. I should have realized that my slips would eventually get the best of me. This week was a complete fail. I wrote no letters. I didn’t practice gratitude at all.

I have been disappointed with myself throughout the day, particularly because I have no real excuse for my failure. I had plenty of time, in fact more time than in other weeks. Yet, I experienced what happens to many of us when our disciplines don’t take priority. After a while, it becomes easier and easier to forget them, often not even intentionally. They fade so far into the backdrop of our lives that they are hardly left on the radar. We find ourselves back where we started in the first place, in need once more of some real perspective.

I have always loved Lent because it is a season which helps us get back on the wagon. Because it’s got a beginning and an ending it is also easier to make a commitment. The hope is that the practice over forty days and night might become a real fixture in our daily living. I am sure for some this works. As a Lenten failure, I know that my struggle for gratitude will only intensify once Easter has come and gone. And, at this rate, I will likely have multiple letters left to write, too. 

Throughout this week, the National Public Radio station have been highlighting stories from service members who served in Iraq. When one female Soldier was asked what she missed most about her combat tour, she said, “Being grateful, every day, for my life.” It shouldn’t take a deployment to make space for that kind of perspective, but I know that I rarely give thanks for that profound yet simple gift. Despite my Lenten failing, I still want to live more gratefully. In the end, I know it is a practice that leads to faithfulness, and I have a long way to go.