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Whispers of the Divine

Have you ever been in a meeting talking about someone only to have them walk into the same place where you are sitting?

Have you watched a rose bush bloom for the first time this season just as Holy Week?

Have you walked into a store and heard one of your favorite songs just beginning?

Have you searched high and low for your car keys in the midst of Holy Week only to be met with a mischievous toddler grin?

Have you seen the sun and moon clearly at the same time hanging in the sky?

Have you seen two rescue pups unrelated, but raised as brothers, snuggle so it’s difficult to tell where one begins and the other ends?

Have you smelled the aroma of dinner wafting through the air?

Whispers of the Divine, calling, “Come and follow me.”

Robing Up

I didn’t grow up in a baptist tradition where the ministers robed. I knew it was a part of other faith traditions. I knew there was a rich history of why clergy robed and that it was a way to distinguish the person as a person who was not only trustworthy, but also a servant to people and communities. It was also a way that the pastor or minister recognizes that his or her life is dedicated not to individual gain, but to peace and healing in the world.

In my current minsitry context, I robe during high holy seasons and on high holy days. Being back in the routine of robing has been a minute of respite between the Sunday School hour and our time of worship. It is a moment of reflection: Are the words I am about to utter my own or God’s word for God’s people? Am I offering peace and healing? Am I following after Christ as I am asking these people to do?

This week my robe has been on the go as I preached at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary and then at New Hope to celebrate Palm Sunday. As most things that are in my car (also known as the Great Abyss by my husband), my robe has been moved from the front seat to the backseat and back again. On Friday afternoon as we drove to Asheville, it ended up next to the car seat where Ben found it useful as a blanket during his car nap.

I looked at him and thought about the children and teens marching during the March for Our Lives rally. I thought about what a different world he was born into than I was. I couldn’t keep the tears from streaming down my face. I wish his reality didn’t include school shootings at elementary schools and a high schools and music festivals and bombs mailed in packages. I wish his reality didn’t include lock down drills and assault weapons. I wish with all my heart that there was something as a mother I could cover him with that would keep him and all other children safe so that they could not only grow, but thrive.

It is the same feeling of helplessness I felt as a teacher in high poverty schools. The same feeling that overwhelmed me as I discovered that some of my students didn’t have homes, some of them didn’t have beds, and many of them didn’t know whether they were going to have food for dinner or not.

As Holy Week begins, I wonder if just maybe there is something for us in the cries of these children and students and indeed in a toddler reaching for a ministerial robe as a blanket. Perhaps instead of demanding that our voice is heard and that our opinions are law, we should instead shift our concentration to covering our children with care and love and most of all safety. Maybe we should stop talking, stop debating, stop assuming, and just listen and repsond to their needs before our own.

Lord, listen to your chidren praying. Lord, send your spirit in this place. Lord, listen to your children praying. Give us love, give us power, give us grace.

Accidental Resurrection

Three years ago during the Lenten Season, I felt such strong compassion for a bush in our yard that was being strangled by weeds. I could tell the weeds had so entangled this bush that the weed was literally taking the life from the bush. There were no blooms on the bush, but only dead limbs. I decided part of my Lenten practice was going to be to free that bush from the weed that was strangling it.

I am not a gardener. I do not have a green thumb, but I was determined. The weed was thorny and hardy. It didn’t come away from the bush easily. It put up a fight. In fact, it took me two sessions and numerous pricks in this bed to extract the weed from the bush. I watered this bush wanting so much for it to bloom. But it didn’t. I could see that there was life in the limbs again in the hints of green, but there were no blooms. The following Springs were the same, no blooms, but small pieces of evidence of life and growth.

I was disappointed. There were no Easter blooms. There were no butterflies that Spring to come to the butterfly bush. I was even more disappointed when I found out that what I had actually helped to resurrect wasn’t a butterfly bush at all, but rather a Bradford Pear tree that had been struck by lightning years ago. The tree had been removed, but the stump and roots remained.

My sweat and toil had accidentally resurrected a tree, not a bush. See I told you,  I am not a gardener. This accidental resurrection has been a running joke between me and Sam and the congregations I have pastored of my lack of gardening ability.

Yesterday as I pulled into the driveway, my breath caught. I spotted this white bloom. One bloom next to the rose bush we planted for our one year wedding anniversary. One bloom in the midst of a rainy and dreary day. One bloom after three years of no blooms. One bloom of hope in the midst of the darkness and wilderness of Lent.

For me, this is the picture of my own journey to weed out the effects of spiritual abuse in my life. The spiritual abuse that almost strangled me. The spiritual abuse that made me doubt who I am and my own worth. The spiritual abuse that threatened to overtake me. It’s been a long painful journey, but that one bloom is the perfect picture of the journey. I never thought I would be where I am, just as I never thought I was helping out a tree. What I’ve found on this journey of healing and wholeness is that my roots are strong. There is still life and hope. Resurrection does indeed come accidentally in the most unexpected and surprising ways.

Ashes to Ashes

Last week was full to the brim with responsibilities from all the different things I do for “work”: pastor, freelance writer, publisher, and part-time employee at Lutheran Seminary. It doesn’t usually happen like this. Usually the different vocations don’t collide into each other, but this week they did.

Thankfully, I had help from my incredible family who left me notes to remind me where in my office I had left the ashes on Sunday so that I would be able to find them again for our Ash Wednesday service. These little hints of connection reminding me that the work isn’t only our work. It is the work of a community and a family. It is the work of gathering together to emabrk on a journey of darkness hoping for the light of revelation and deeper connection to Creator God and to each other.

And in the midst of this reminder of darkness, I was invited to partner with Koinonia to draft a grant for their summer enrichment program. I had to brush off my old teaching and literacy teacher books. I had to gather data and analyze data, something I haven’t done for 10 years. As I sat at my computer, I thought about the way the experiences we have matter and come back around in truly miraculous ways. When I left the teaching profession to answer a call to pastor, I was heartbroken that I had wasted time and money pursuing a career I wasn’t going to end up in. I should have started sooner I told myself. I should have been a religion major in undergraduate. I should have…

But last week reminded me that when you answer a call to follow after God, nothing is wasted. No experience. No expertise. These ways in which we are unique and individualized make it possible to partner together to bring the kingdom of God here on earth in all sorts of communities and all sorts of articulations.

You are dust and to dust you shall return.

Lent reminds us of the fleeting nature of these physical bodies. We can spend that existence in “should have’s” or we can accept that God is calling us to deeper connection to each other and to Creator God. If we choose the latter, dust miraculously turns to life and hope and light in our work, in our vocation, in our families, and in everything we do. Let us walk into the darkness, not in fear, but in hope that we meet Almighty God calling us and inviting us to work to bring the kingdom of God here on earth.

I Need Maundy Thursday

This Wednesday during our weekly chapel service at Transitions, we observed Maundy Thursday. We washed hands and took communion with the youth of New Hope Christian Fellowship and as we fellowshipped, we remembered the night Jesus supped with his disciples and gave them instructions to remember. Last night we gathered at New Hope to observe Maundy Thursday with foot washing and communion and darkness.

This day that is so often skipped in the days between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday has become important to me. I need Maundy Thursday. I need to know that those who walked closest with Jesus looked at him that night trying to understand what his was saying, but not able to understand. Because I too have these days of darkness where I hear the words of Jesus, but don’t know what they means. I need to hear the declarations that those who followed Jesus most closely would not deny him, knowing that in just hours, those words would prove untrue. Because I too declare I won’t deny that I have been called to follow as Jesus’ disciple and then deny that call. I need to hear the uncertainty and the confusion in the voice of the those who followed Jesus so closely on that night. Because I too find myself sitting in the midst of uncertainty and confusion.

I need this part of the story of what it means to be a follower of Christ. I need to be reminded that uncertainty about the future, doubt, and darkness are a part of what it means to follow after Christ. I need to be reminded that this journey asks me to be vulnerable and uncertain and yet to still follow, even when it’s in darkness.

Why Spiritual Abuse is Difficult to Consider

I can remember where it started. I was sitting in the back of a classroom at Gardner-Webb School of Divinity. I was in my first year of seminary, and I was hanging tightly to the friendships I had made during orientation. We were far enough into the semester that we had gotten past our surface-level introductions. We had already seen each other break down in tears over midterms and in sharing our stories. We were now in the deep waters of walking this journey of answering a call together.

I remember hearing the term spiritual abuse as one of my classmates told her story. She told a story that sounded so similar to mine even though we grew up in different faith traditions, in different communities of faith, that I was speechless. This is what I had been told it meant to be a woman. This is what I was taught I could and couldn’t do, but surely I hadn’t experience spiritual abuse, had I?

If I started to consider that perhaps the theological teachings I had always believed were in fact being used to manipulate, coerce, and silence, then what? I couldn’t possible come out of this realization with a faith that was intact. I was in seminary for goodness sake, I couldn’t question to the point of having to reconstruct and analyze every teaching in just three years, could I?

But then I heard another story and another story. Woman after woman, man after man who were told they could or couldn’t do certain things because “people would leave the church,”  because “women weren’t called to do that,” because “it would cause a split the church,” because “that’s not the way things were done” over and over again church leaders using their power to control and maintain the status quo. Again and again passionate, gifted ministers being put into holding patterns being coerced into “waiting their turn.”

This is spiritual abuse.

Spiritual abuse results in power retention in those who already have power. There is a whole generation of young people who were raised in churches and communities of faith tainted by spiritual abuse whose voices, ideas, and, yes, spiritual gifts have been silenced. We need these voices in our communities of faith. We need these people to speak up and speak out about their experiences with spiritual abuse. We need these stories to come to light so that our communities of faith may become places of hope, healing, and wholeness rather than places of hurt, abuse, and brokenness.

This is not an easy journey.

It is not easy to consider whether we have experienced spiritual abuse. It is not easy to ask ourselves the tough question of whether our communities of faith are places wrought with spiritual abuse, but this is the confessional work the season of Lent calls us to do.

Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. We are truly sorry and we humbly repent. For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ, have mercy on us and forgive us; that we may delight in your will, and walk in your ways, to the glory of your Name. Amen.

When we leave our spiritual practices, protocol, and patterns unexamined, we leave room for spiritual abuse to occur over and over again. May this season of Lent be a time of reflection and analysis. May Almighty God give us strength on the journey.

On the Spiritual Discipline of Confession

As a part of the Lenten season, we have included a prayer of confession as part of our worship service reminding ourselves that we are dust and to dust we shall return:

ALMIGHTY and most merciful Father; We have done wrong, and strayed from your ways like lost sheep. We have followed the desires of our own hearts too much. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we should not have done. O Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer of confession. AMEN.
Even though I knew it was coming as part of the service, I still found myself struggling through the “we have done those things which we should not have done.” Even though it was a communal confession, the truth of those words overcame me.

Confession as a spiritual discipline was not part of my upbringing. My understanding of the confession that took place across the street at the Catholic church was that it was an excuse to keep on sinning because it allowed you to do what you wanted to do, receive absolution, and go on your merry way.

I was so wrong in my understanding of this deeply spiritual act. 

For me, the admission of being wrong or of having conducted myself in a way I don’t believe honors nor represents what it means to be a follower and disciples of Christ is gut-wrenchingly difficult. I was taught to be right, to be certain in regards to matters of faith and the Bible. I was taught to have the answers ready at any moment and somehow in that teaching, I was never taught how to be wrong and to come to terms with being wrong.


I was comfortable admitting I was a sinner because everyone was a sinner, but when it comes to specific matters and circumstances, I pass the blame and redirect the conversation with ease and often without detection. I defend and deflect ensuring my perspective and view is heard while avoiding the whole question of whether I heaped shame and guilt on another child of God. There’s always a reason why I “did the thing I shouldn’t have done;” and because I have a reason, I hope I could just avoid the whole question of responsibility and culpability.

And even in those moments when I recognize and acknowledge that I have “done the things I ought not to have done,” publicly confessing to that is not something I’d like to do. But confess I must not only because it’s Lent, but because this is an important spiritual discipline.

Until we can rid ourselves of the need to be right, we are only dust and to dust we shall return. When we can confess to our dusty nature without abandon and truly embrace this part of our very being not just on Ash Wednesday, not just during Lent, but always, then and only then will we be able to have room to be love and kindness to those we meet.

It’s not until we can confess to those parts of ourselves we’d rather not admit are there that we can offer peace and light to others when their dustiness shows in the same way ours does in “doing the things we ought not to have done.”

O Lord, in your mercy, hear this my prayer of confession.