Leaving.

I leave in exactly seven days.  In fact, I'll probably be pulling out of Pine Ridge at this time of day next Saturday.  I know that tomorrow, I'll preach and lead worship at St. John Episcopal Church for the last time.  I know that afterwards, they'll host a wopila (thank you) for me.  I know that I'll preach and lead worship at Cohen Home (independent living for elders) in the evening.  I know that on Monday, I'll host a wopila for the community.  I know that on Tuesday, I'll have dinner with a dear pastor and his family.  I know that on Wednesday and Thursday, I'll have sending services with the kids.  I know that Friday will be spent packing up final things.  I know that I leave Pine Ridge on Saturday.

I know these things.  These are facts or guaranteed in my coming days here.

I know that I am leaving.

But, I don't know what I'm leaving behind and what I'm taking with me.  Yes, yes, I'll probably leave the wheat flour that I didn't manage to use up and the jeans that no longer fit, but I'm not sure what I'm leaving behind in terms of what this year has meant for the community.

You know what is scarier than not knowing what it has meant for the community?

Not knowing what it has meant for me.  Not knowing what I am taking with me.

I spent most of Thursday crying.  I am a crier.  I have always been a crier and I will likely always be a crier.  It's how I express a variety of emotions.  Thursday's crying was a mix between hot, slow tears and side-clenching sobbing.  Most of this was done while driving to and from Rapid City in the privacy of my own, air-conditioner-less car.

See, I don't know what I'm leaving behind as far as peoples' opinions of this quirky white girl who doesn't eat meat and loves to preach.  I do know that I am leaving with a heavy heart, full of stories of the good and bad of this year.  I know that I am exhausted, tired of what working eighty hours a week means and being emotionally present for some of the most difficult moments of my young life.

I know that I am leaving a part of my heart behind and that I am taking the stories of the people who have taken a chance on this crazy wasicu girl.

For this, I am thankful.

Where are you from?

Where are you from?

This question occurs quite frequently in my life.  Yet, each time I'm asked it, I have to check where I am geographically and emotionally, and provide the appropriate answer to this question.

This year, when people ask where I am from, I can answer the question in the following ways:

1. Pennsylvania: It's where I was born and raised.
2. Chicago: It's where I currently go to seminary, when I'm not on internship.
3. Pine Ridge: It's where I'm doing internship.

And, frankly, on my snarkier days, I answer the question by saying: "My mother."

I find home on this quaint side street in Bethlehem, Palestine, where I spent a year volunteering at a school there.  I find home by the Upper Lake campfire circle at Lutherlyn thanks to the four summers I spent working at that camp.  I find home when I smell chlorine and remember my high school swim team days.  I find home when I smell incense and hyacinths, reminding me of the many Easter Vigil services at my home congregation.

Where are you from?

This question sometimes causes me distress as I sputter to give the person asking the question the answer they want, while also trying to trying to understand where my heart is that day.  On good days, I'm from everywhere: PA, Chicago, Pine Ridge, Palestine, North Carolina, Lutherlyn, water, flowers, smoke.  On my bad days, I'm from nowhere.  I have no roots.  I have no home.

Where are you going?

Sometimes, this can be an equally distressing question, because then I also need to ramble where I see my entire future played out.  I am passionate about cross-cultural dialogue, multi-cultural ministry, messy church, people who deserve to be loved (*cough everyone cough*).

A friend of mine posted this TED talk recently and it spoke to my soul, a tired, aching soul that leaves Pine Ridge one week from tomorrow.

http://www.ted.com/talks/pico_iyer_where_is_home.html

The speaker talks about home and his range of "homes" in his lifetime.  His final words are: "Home is not just a place where you sleep, but a place where you stand."

As a good ole' Lutheran, I can't help but to boldly proclaim "Here I stand!"  In an honest way though, here I stand.  Here is my home.  Right here.  And that here?  It may have lots of pine trees and curvy highways where I get to pump my gas at Sheetz, drink pop and visit Punxsutawney Phil.  It may have long, straight highways with prairies that you can "see your dog run away for three days" and I worry about my car getting stuck in gumbo.

Home is here.

Here is home.

Ooops...blog?

Attended the Taize Pilgrimage to
Red Shirt Table on the Reservation.
Over 500 people from 22 different
countries attended for the weekend
of prayer, singing and conversation.
Beautiful flags with the sacred
colors on top of the hill.

Welp.  Since it's been nearly two months since my last blog post, I suppose I better update this.

Thank you for all of you who are reading and investing time into understanding my year of internship in this place.  It's a beautiful thing and I'm thankful for your prayers and support.

Since I'm an amateur photographer...and because I see the world in snapshots sometimes, I'll use photographs to highlight the last few months.

I would love to write more, but with only 17 days left in Pine Ridge, I want to spend my time with the people who I have grown to love...and finishing up the paperwork for seminary, my candidacy committee and the Center, which is not nearly as fun.

Peace and pilamayaye (thank you),
Meredith

Sunset over the tipis set up for camping.

This really beautiful moment happened at the last prayer. We were asked to pick up the boards, benches, concrete blocks and all additional "pieces" to what enabled us to worship together in that space all weekend. As I watched everyone walk up out of the valley, lifting and carrying these items, I couldn't help but to reflect on how this image is what we're called to do as Christians. Sure, let's sit in a nice, quiet, contemplative space, surrounded by people who agree with us, at least on worship, but the hard work comes when we stand up and begin to climb out of that womb, going out into the world with the concrete blocks pulling at our finger tips and the wooden boards injecting splinters into our forearms. Life isn't easy, nor is faith, but we trudge up the hill, knowing only that one foot in front of the other will enable us to see the faces of our sisters and brothers in a new and beautiful way.

Clothed in Christ sometimes means a white robe and sometimes it means putting the weight of the world onto our shoulders and into our hearts.

We experienced our share of flash flooding this spring,
along with tornaodes.  One night, the road was so flooded
that I had to actually wade through 14-16 inches of water
to carry kids to their homes.  Thankful to have messy feet
and safe children.

 

We installed a community garden this spring.  I hope to
post more pictures once I get some photo releases for the kids.

Went horseback riding with one of the elders that I so dearly
respect here.  It was...amazing.

With all the thunderstorms, Steve was not happy.
"Nobody puts baby in the corner."  Though, he
puts himself in the corner out of fear.

Attended Oglala Lakota College's graduation ceremony.  Nearly all of the graduates
work a part-time or full-time job AND care for their family.  Pretty spectacular.

Run to Remember

The front of the race shirt.

This morning, I ran my third 5K race in my life; all three of them being in the last month of my life.  Since I live and work in the same building, I found that my self-care was to leave the building and head to the tribal fitness center for a daily workout.  I've found a lot of emotional strength through strengthening my physical body.  Today's race was the first one in Pine Ridge and it was called the "Run to Remember."

This particular 5K was dedicated to all of the young people of this community who joined the Creator far too soon.  Teen suicide, drunk driving accidents, murder, gang violence, etc, etc, etc.  Our shirts were decorated with the list of names of the young people who we were honoring.

My last two races were significant.  The first race was for Court-Assigned Special Advocates (CASA) for people who were abused and needed an advocate in the courtroom.  The second race was for Working Against Violence Inc. (WAVI), which is an organization dedicated to supporting people who are victims of domestic violence.

Today's race was different.  There was no formal clock.  The race was scheduled to start at 11am; it started closer to 11:45am.  There was no registration form, fee or even waiver.  There were 300 young people from the Pine Ridge school.

I will admit that I initially came to the race for my own needs.  I'm on this kick of running 5Ks and it seemed like a perfect chance to run it while also supporting the community.  I realized quickly that I was showing a positive presence for a number of our young people, one in particular.

A young lady, who I'll call Sammy, said that she wanted to run with me.  Sammy is in third grade and I told Sammy that she might be faster than me to start, but that I wanted to run the whole thing.  She said that she'd run alongside of me regardless.  And she did.  She ran nearly the entire 5K.  I could tell that she was getting rather tired near the end, so I decided to walk with her for a bit.  I gave up trying to get a new best record for myself and decided that I needed to walk with Sammy.  This was most important to me because Sammy's older sister killed herself a few years back.

See, I can sign up to run these 5Ks with a good heart to support CASA, WAVI or any other "good" organization.  At the end of the day though, I run those races for myself.  Today, I ran for myself and walked for Sammy and her sister.  That's what mattered at the end of the day.

All of those names on the back of our shirts mattered to me, because if I didn't know the young people personally, I know their family members.  Several of those names have died in my brief time in Pine Ridge.

I've stood at the graves of children who were killed in drunk driving accidents.
I've stood at the grave of a person my age who committed suicide.
I've stood at the grave of a baby who was murdered by a family member.
I've stood at the grave of a baby who drowned due to a lack of supervision.

My list could go on and on.  This is not just Pine Ridge, but this is the reality in a lot of places in our country and in our world.  The south side of Chicago is infamous for the number of young people shot each year.

So, today, we ran to remember each one of them; it doesn't bring them back.  We also ran to remember that life is sacred and that each one of those young sprinters deserved to be loved and remembered.  Each one of Sammy's friends deserves to be taught how to live rather than how to die.  Sammy deserves to grow old, even if her sister didn't.

Ministry is a pain in the butt.

Splinter.

No, really.  Ministry is a pain in the butt.

As I was driving back from worship on Sunday, I saw a line of cars stopped ahead of me.  I slowed, stopped and waited in line for a few minutes.  The cars ahead of me began to move forward and I realized that we were stopped for an accident site.

Now, something that I'm not sure if I've shared here is that when I started seminary, I told myself--and lots of other people--that I was going to "graduate school for theology."  I was afraid of what it meant to start seminary which meant I was going to become a pastor.  In my last two and a half years of learning in a seminary, I've become less afraid of what this incredibly big job means.  I've learned that being a pastor means that I am invited in to the sacred places of peoples' lives.  Sometimes, the sacred space is joyous, like a wedding, baptism or preaching a sermon that clicks with someone.  Other times, the sacred space is heartbreaking and painful, like suicide, miscarriage and abuse.

In a split-second decision without thinking about, I pulled my car over to side of the road at the accident site and got out.  I approached the police officer and said, "I'm a pastor.  How can I help?"  He pointed me to the family and I repeated my statement, "I'm a pastor.  How can I help?"

For a girl who in 2010 didn't want to call it seminary, this was a bold step.  I was shocked to hear the words come out of my mouth. The family didn't really react to me since everyone was crying and some were covered in blood.  People were being loaded into the ambulances on site.

I noticed two small children--both under the age of five--standing and sobbing without anyone comforting them.  I knelt down, put out my arms and they came close and hugged me.  I wrapped my arms around them and held them for easily ten minutes.  They calmed down a bit but would start crying each time they saw one of their loved ones in the ambulance.  I led them to the side of the road and sat down on the ground with them, our backs to the accident scene.  We began to throw rocks out away from things and we talked about the sky, the ground and anything that wasn't related to the accident.  Eventually, one of the police officers directed the kids to go with one of the adults who was on the scene.

I don't write this to share some heroic tale of Pastor Meredith comforting the weeping children.  I write this to share that as I drove away, I found myself incredibly angry at the 10 adults who were on the scene when I arrived and none of them were comforting the kids.  I'm sure everyone was shaken up, but why wasn't anyone checking the kids?  God, why weren't any of those adults holding those children?  God, why weren't any of those adults wiping their tears and saying, "It's okay."

Why, God, why?

In a moment of clarity, I heard the words in my mind, "No.  You were there.  You were holding the children.  You were wiping their tears and saying, 'It's okay.'"

And that's when I realized that being a pastor isn't only preaching good sermons, but it's entering into spaces and sharing God's love with people.  Being a Christian is about being the hands and feet of Christ.  Sometimes, those hands reach out to high-five someone in celebration.  Sometimes, those hands hold a child whose shoes are stuck in a destroyed vehicle on the side of a road.

In doing sermon prep for this week, I came across this quote on workingpreacher.com by Brian Peterson:

"Given the story of Peter’s rescue from prison in chapter 12, we might expect Paul and Silas to go immediately to Lydia’s house. But this is an escape story without an escape. Paul and Silas don’t leave. Being God’s servants does not mean escape from the dangerous places, but means the opportunity to be the voice and the hands of Christ there."

And sometimes, even after that escape, we're changed by what we've experienced.  See, this prison story is the third one of Acts, but the first one where someone is converted.  I've been changed by my experiences as a child of God.  The way that we're changed by traumas and joys isn't always measurable, but we are changed.  Sometimes for the better; sometimes for the worse.

This particular experience showed me my confidence as a pastor.  It reminded me how our hands, hearts, voices and butts are always to be in service of God, loving God's people as we have been taught.

After I came home from the accident and unfastened my clerical collar and changed into my sweatpants, I noticed a weird spot on my butt.

Don't worry.  This is G-rated.

I realized quickly that this weird spot hurt and eventually discovered that it was because I had a splinter from sitting on the ground with the children.

Ministry is a pain in the butt.

Sometimes it hurts our hearts to be the voice and the hands of Christ.
Sometimes it hurts our bodies to be the voice and hands of Christ.

But pain makes us real.  It makes us human.  It makes us aware of the hearts and bodies that we have and who created us.  And for this, we rejoice.

The first "goodbye."

Soon after arriving in Pine Ridge, I realized that my life would revolve solely around this building and the ministry that happens out of it.  My "office" is my kitchen table which is in my apartment off of the community kitchen in the building.  On my day off, I really can't putter around and do laundry, since as soon as I step out of my apartment, everyone else is working.  When I'm done for the night and we don't have anyone in the building, I can't even walk out of the apartment without being seen through the front door, should someone be looking into the building.

I also learned this year that I have always been a multi-faceted person and this internship was going to be mono-faceted unless I decided to change it.  What does this mean exactly?  Well, when I was in high school, I applied to college with an entire page of extracurricular activities.  I volunteered.  I played sports.  I worked.  I was on academic teams.  I was in musical ensembles.  In fact, I did a little bit of everything.  The same happened in college.  I was on student government.  I led our activities council.  I was an RA and eventually a Head RA.  I worked...multiple jobs.  And because of this diverse collection of activities and interests, I've always had a diverse population of friends.

Living and working in the same building...without any time to volunteer or join clubs (worked 70-80 hours a week will do that to you), I needed to find ways to get out.

I joined a community choir through the Chadron State College.  Rehearsal was once a week in Chadron, an hour's drive away, but it was one guaranteed time away from the building per week.  I can't say that I became best friends with everyone in the choir but I met a few people who were excited to see me and I was excited to see them.  To them, I was Meredith.  Some knew that I commuted from Pine Ridge and that I was in the process to become a pastor, but they didn't "need" me in the same way that I'm needed in my work.

On April 7th, I sang in our spring concert.  The choir runs on the school schedule, so the concert marked the end of rehearsals until the fall...when I'll be back in Chicago.  Even though I didn't know many of the people well, it made me a bit sad to say goodbye to the people who I did know.

It was my first "goodbye" of internship.  As soon as we started talking about beginning internship last year, we also talked about how to say goodbye.  As pastors, it's particularly hard to say goodbye to a community that has welcome you into their lives.  As an intern, here only for one year, it's a difficult task to form roots and trust, knowing that we'll disappear in 12 months.

I don't know what the rest of the goodbyes will look like, but with less than three months to go, the goodbyes are going to start happening.

Death and Destruction Abounds.

I haven't blogged in awhile, both because I've been busy and because I just don't know what to say right now.  The last few weeks in the larger world has been rather messy.  Boston, Texas, Illinois...Syria, Bangladesh, Israel/Palestine.  On and on and on.  I haven't been quite sure what to say about all of this since frankly, I'm exhausted.  As Nadia Bolz-Weber said--which I won't directly quote since I can't remember it word for word--'I'm just not sure what to say anymore.'  She eventually came to the conclusion in her sermon a few weeks ago that God loves us in spite of the crap in the world.

Here's my sermon from this past Sunday with what I had to offer as far as "good news" in this painful world.

Sermon: John 13.31-35

April 28, 2013: Makasan Presbyterian, St. John Episcopal & Cohen Home

Many Protestant congregations use the Revised Common Lectionary, which is a set of scripture texts chosen to be a part of a three-year cycle.  I love using the lectionary, because then it means that congregations all over the world are hearing the same stories of the Christian faith on the same day.  My friends in Colorado, Washington, Texas and Illinois are preaching on the same texts that I am, which means that when we worship here, in this space, it’s like we’re worshipping with the Church, that is, the capital “C” Church.  The whole collection of people who identify themselves as Christ-followers. 

I also love using the lectionary because it means that the texts come up and I need to preach on them, regardless of my feelings.  And let me tell you, sometimes, looking at the lessons for the week, there are no easy spots to start a sermon! 

But, the BEST part of using the lectionary for me is when the right text comes up for what the life of the community has experienced in recent days.

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.  Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.  By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” 

Love one another.  It’s simple, right?  It’s one of those Bible passages that doesn’t need me to preach on it, right?  Love one another! 

Two weeks ago, the city of Boston was turned upside down.  In fact, much of the United States felt like it was turned upside down with the city of Boston.  I watched the news show footage of the bombs going off and the smoke filling the sky.  The women and men who were in the midst of a world-famous marathon, running for pride, for the dedication to their sport, for their families, for themselves, suddenly lost their footing, their hearing, their limbs, their sense of safety.  We’ve watched the news.  We’ve seen the medical reports and the stories of the people who were killed in this catastrophe. 

Now, our focus has moved away from cleaning up the blood in the streets and off our foreheads.  The new focus?  How to destroy the two men being charged with the bombing.  We moved from mourning and sadness into vindication and anger. 

Who has done this to us?  To us?                   How will they pay for this?               

That terrorist doesn’t deserve to be in the same hospital as the victims. 

That woman shouldn’t be allowed to wear a hijab.

These are just more Muslim terrorists out to destroy the safe, fair and just nation of the USA!

And here, sisters and brothers, is where our lesson for today, the lesson that seems randomly chosen by some council in 1994, speaks powerfully to us.  See, saying “Love one another” is easy when you already like the person or you feel bad for a person.  It’s easier to love the person sitting next to you, the one that you came to worship with today.  It’s easier to love Martin, Krystle, Lu and Sean.  It’s a lot harder to love Dzhokhar and Tamerlan. 

The time leading up to Jesus’ death was not a pleasant one.  Jesus and his disciples were huddled together in this hidden space, this upper room, far away from the city streets, to protect themselves for a little while longer against what was coming.  I can’t help but to think that this upper room may have felt more like the upper rooms in the homes of Watertown, Massachusetts, where families huddled together to watch the media footage of their hometown being destroyed. 

I have heard the stories of your own people, huddled together in dark rooms where the windows had to be covered and your ancestors practiced the ancient ceremonies that were prohibited by the Indian Religious Crimes Code.  Fear of being arrested for practicing their faith, much like the early disciples were.  Some chose to deny their beliefs, rather than be taken into custody or killed by the ruling authority.  Some even denied their faith three times before the cock crowed.

If we go back to our text, to the story of Jesus gathering with his disciples in the upper room, we heard earlier that Jesus has given a new commandment to love one another as a sign of our discipleship and dedication to God.  Right before this happens, Jesus looks at Judas and says, “Do quickly what you are going to do.”  Jesus knows that Judas will hand him over to Pilate.  Judas takes his bread and walks out of the room.  After the new commandment, Jesus foretells that Peter will deny him three times. 

I know that you are all biblical scholars here, so let’s review. 

Did Judas hand Jesus over to Pilate like Jesus had predicted?

Did Peter deny Jesus three times, just as Jesus predicted?

Yes and yes.  And, Jesus says to love one another, in the middle of these two events, the moment where he acknowledges who will ultimately set the crucifixion in motion, Judas, and the one who is a close friend, but will deny the friendship, companionship and love of his brother Jesus, this being Peter. 

Suddenly, Jesus telling us to love one another becomes a lot more difficult.  Jesus isn’t saying to only love the people gathered in the upper room.  Jesus hasn’t named off the eight to ten people gathered around in this quiet room, hidden away from the city.  Hidden away from people we don’t like and the people trying to kill us.  Jesus says, “Love one another as I have loved you.”  And, Jesus goes on to say, “By doing this, everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” 

This message of love isn’t for just the ones gathered inside the room, but for us to love the ones who aren’t in the room.  This message of love isn’t just about the people in the seats next to us.  This message to love one another, the way that Christ loves, is for the ones who have stepped outside.  Love the ones who have denied Jesus Christ.  Love the ones who placed random metal objects into pressure cookers with the desire to destroy lives.  Love the ones who have systematically caused genocide of an entire race of people. 

See, Jesus Christ lived out this command of love by going to the cross to die for each one of us.  Even after being denied and turned in to the Roman authorities, by his own followers, his disciples, his friends, he went to the cross for Judas, for Peter, for Tamerlan, for Martin, for Krystle, for me, for you, for us. 

His love for us is so big and so great, that even when we step out of that upper room and deny him and his love, HE STILL LOVES US!

And if this is the love that Jesus Christ is calling us into, then we live out our discipleship by loving others as he loves us.  We too can choose to love the ones who have stepped out of the room, the ones who have made decisions to hurt others.

This doesn’t eliminate the pain of genocide, bombings, death or heartbreak, nor does loving one another as Christ loves call us to pretend that it doesn’t happen. 

Loving one another is not easy though, nor is it simple.  It is difficult and requires strength that we don’t have on our own.  It’s strength that we get through witnessing the love of Jesus Christ, the one who died on the cross for us, each one of us, no matter what decisions we make or who we surround ourselves with.  This love, this big, awesome love, the type of love that is selfless, pure, patient and kind, is the kind of love the Jesus came into the world to share.  It radiates out of Christ on that cross and throughout the world.  Jesus commands us to receive this gift of love, the love that warms are faces and our bodies and to share this love with one another.

And sometimes, no matter how hard we try, the only way to feel better about the chaos in the world is to cuddle up with someone we love.  

South Dakota Synod: Keep your face on the gun and bridge the gap.

During the week after Easter, I attended the South Dakota Synod's Spring Theological Conference.  The theme of the conference was "Bridging the Cultures."  Specifically, the focus was on bridging the Euro-American culture to the Native American culture.  Dr. Kent Nerburn, the author of Neither Wolf Nor Dog, The Wolf at Twilight, Wisdom of Native Americans and many other books, was the key speaker for this event.  Nerburn is of Euro-American descent and wrote these books after his experiences with different nations of the indigenous people.

I read Neither Wolf Nor Dog prior to beginning my internship as a way to learn more about the culture that I was going to be experiencing.  One of the things that has stuck with me from this book was something Nerburn said about culture.  I can't find exactly where in the book it is, so I won't quote him directly, but it was something along the lines of acknowledging who you are and what your culture holds is key for entering into dialogue with people of other cultures.  And, once you know who you are, you need to maintain that in those dialogues.  Nerburn gave the example of non-Native people who like to come to a reservation and don themselves in turquoise jewelry and talk about the Indian people as if they are one of them.  As I've lived and worked in Pine Ridge, I've get this in mind.  Granted, the Lakota people aren't the turquoise type, but I've seen plenty of wasichu people come through who think that if they dress the part, that they will be accepted as Native.  I'm not Lakota though and I will never be Lakota.

At this conference, Nerburn spoke at a few sessions, but invited local Native people to present as well.  One of the most powerful things that Nerburn shared, to me anyway, was this:

"Do you stare at the blood on the ground or do you look at the common humanity?"

As a person whose skin looks like the early Christian colonizers, I represent the oppressor.  As a United States citizen, I am still the oppressor.  When I lived in Palestine, I was able to write it off and blame Israel as the oppressor of Palestine.  I could see the US funding and involvement in Israel's politics, but my country wasn't the one doing all of this.  My country was and is funding the Occupation, whether or not we want to believe.  Here, on the reservation, my country is still oppressing.

I've struggled with this, since I am only third and fourth generation American.  My brother often speaks passionately about how our people, the Irish immigrants, were oppressed and stigmatized during the major immigration area.  I appreciate this, Chip, I really do.  I also believe that we need to acknowledge how the US government affects and has affected the First Nations.

I can't remember who said this quote, since Nerburn quoted someone, but this person said:

"I am responsible not for the house I built, but for the house in which I live."

Boom.  That's where we respond as humans of 2013.  See, we can wax poetically about how it "wasn't me" or it "wasn't my ancestors" that committed the worst genocide of human history.  Adolf Hilter studied the US Government's mass-murder of the Native people for his work in Nazi Germany.  Similarly, though I don't know as much as I should about this, the key players in the Apartheid in South Africa also studied the work of the United States.

When we claim that it wasn't us, we deny that it happened.  We're staring up and avoiding that there is blood on the ground, the blood of thousands and thousands of people who were forced off their land, into boarding schools, away from their beliefs, values, culture, livelihoods and humanity.  We stripped people of their value, whether we were here or not.  One member of the Spirit Lake Reservation said, "I've learned good English, I'm a good Christian, but I'm now somebody else."  This man was stripped to look like the conqueror.

Now, don't go getting all white-guilt on me, because that's not helpful either.  While we have to acknowledge the blood on the ground, we also have to acknowledge the human beings sitting across from us at the table.  We have to read news articles with the wisdom to discern where the implicit racism lies.  We have to think critically about the statistics of people who are incarcerated.

Furthermore, we need to acknowledge the humanity in each individual.  By saying that Oprah is a successful black woman, we say that she is a "credit to her race" and her sex, because she is successful.  She then becomes the exception, rather than the norm.  Do we say that Bill Gates is a successful white man?  Generally not.

Someone asked, "What do we do in the face of this experience?"  My friend Jonathan, a member of the Oglala Sioux Tribe, said, "We have to make damn sure that it never happens to anyone again."

Because, friends, the last step in genocide is the denial of genocide.

This conference allowed important conversations happen and important voices to be heard, but it merely scratched the surface of bridging the cultural gap.

On a completely different note, one of the ways that I bridged a cultural gap at this conference was to participate in a South Dakota cultural activity.  I went trap shooting.  And, I'll be honest, I got pretty good at it.  The first rule of trap shooting though?  Keep your face on the gun.  For you city folks, trap shooting is when you use a shotgun to shoot at clay disks.  This vegetarian didn't shoot anything living.

Christ the Lord is Risen Today!!!!! *cricket cricket*

Last night, I attended and assisted in leading a community Easter Vigil service at the Chapel in the Hills.  I had never been to the chapel, which is a beautiful little chapel designed to be a traditional Norwegian church, tucked into a small neighborhood in Rapid City, in the Black Hills of South Dakota.  Parts of it were even constructed in Norway.

I was excited to participate in the Vigil, since Easter Vigil is my absolute FAVORITE worship service/liturgical event/holiday/thing ever.  I'm not kidding.  Ask me to describe Easter Vigil sometime and you'll see my face light up, likely becoming pink with excitement as I describe the movement from darkness into light, from Christ's death into resurrection, from the beginning of creation to Christ restoring creation.  It's beautiful.  All of it.

The love and adoration of this service grew out of my childhood experiences with the Vigil.  I was raised in a "high-church" and highly liturgical congregation, called Zion Lutheran Church in Indiana, PA.  For as long as I can remember, this service has meant the world to me.  I can smell the Easter Lillies that they hide behind the screens.  I feel the bits of hot wax drop onto my hands from the small candles we each held after lighting the New Fire and the Paschal Candle for the year.  I start to laugh when I hear the reading from Daniel about the "Satraps, the prefects, the governors, the advisers...," since my sister and I always started laughing at this long list.  As the anticipation builds, while we sit in the dark hearing the stories of our faith, the history of the Christ-followers, I feel excited for what is coming.

Then....BOOM!  The lights go on, the brass comes out, the organ is blasting out hymns like "Christ the Lord is Risen Today!" and "Christ is Risen, Alleluia!", the screens are pulled back to reveal rows and rows of Hyacinths and Easter Lillies.

It's big.  It's loud.  It's beautiful.

The beauty of this comes, for me, after being in the darkness.  After sitting through the stories of God saving God's people and caring for them for centuries.  It comes after we've listened and felt the sting of Christ's death in the Triduum of Holy Week.

This year's Easter Vigil was beautiful.  Tucked into this little Norwegian chapel, feeling almost like we were worshiping in a doll house, I heard the same stories of my faith and listened to my friend Cassandra preach an awesome sermon.  I led the prayers and gave communion, looking each stranger in the eyes and saying "Blood of Christ, shed for you."

And yet, I got into my car after the service and felt, well, low.  I didn't have the same high that Easter Vigil normally gives me.  We sang my favorite hymns--I helped design the service.  The lights came on and the organ played loudly.  But what was different?

I started to drive down the hill from the chapel and found myself with tears welling up in my eyes.  I think part of my low was missing my family, since it's been a rather lonely year at times.  I drove back to my apartment, crawled into bed and felt rather numb.

This morning, I needed to get up to start cooking the turkeys that we'll take to two of the three places where we'll have Easter worship today.  I desperately wanted to go back to sleep, but I chose the opportunity to go for a walk, when it would be quiet around town.

As I walked, along with my trusty sidekick, Steve, I realized that I have spent the last twenty-six years of my life (I probably didn't remember the really early Vigils in my lifetime) focusing on the celebration of Easter, the way that the women probably exclaimed to each other or the way that Christians in the 21st century are permitted to celebrate with one another.

This morning, I realized that before all the brass, the organ, the Lillies, the satraps, the prefects and the governors, there was a quiet stillness in the morning.  Christ didn't resurrect with a big boom and a professional brass ensemble--I think some people might have noticed.  Instead, it was quiet.  Jerusalem was fast asleep.

I wonder then, where else in my life am I jumping ahead to the celebration, to the party, to the loud scene, rather than savoring the moments of calm and quiet, the real moments of resurrection.

Sunset over Jerusalem in 2008

Car Cross

About a year ago, I pulled into the garage at LSTC, parked my car and opened my door.  When I looked down to step out of my car, I found a small wooden cross stuck in the crack of the pavement.  Something about this cross struck me.  I pulled it out of the crack, since it was wedged in there, likely having been run over by other cars, and placed it in the cup holder in my car.

I've driven around with that cross in my car since then, thinking often of how Christ is in some unexpected places.  Sometimes, Christ is jammed down into a crack in the desolate pavement.  Sometimes, Christ is forgotten and left behind.  Sometimes, Christ appears when we think we've got a good, academic understanding of Christ's essence, but haven't thought much lately about Christ's love for us.

I think through these thoughts and many others, every time I drive, since that cross goes with me.  I envisioned one day using it for a sermon illustration, even holding up the actual cross to show off the simple design.

On Thursday, one of the kids who comes regularly to our Sanctuary program needed a ride home.  It's pretty typical for me to end up driving at least a few kids home.  Occasionally, it's because they don't feel safe.  Often, I think it's because they want the extra few minutes of special attention, which I am happy to give.  I only had one passenger on Thursday night and he's a boy that has touched my heart over the last few months.  His smile makes the room brighter and he is an absolute sweetheart.  I've given him rides home in my car before and he usually asks if he can have something.  This week, he asked for my cross.

I hesitated for a moment, thinking about all of my conversations with God regarding this little wooden cross.  I thought about those questions I've asked about where Christ is in the world today and about the future sermon illustration.  I quickly snapped out of my selfish desire to push that cross of Christ back into the pavement crack and agreed to give him the cross.  I told him that this cross has been very special to me for awhile, so I hope that it's special to him too.

The cynical side of me wonders if the cross even made it into his house before being dropped and forgotten. Regardless of where the physical cross ended up, it was my job to share it.  It's my job to share Christ's love, no matter if they take it the way that I want them to receive it.  It's not my job to shove Christ back down and far away from our conversations, from our interactions, from our lives, because that's not who Christ was and is.

I hope and pray that the cross, Jesus' life, death and resurrection, means that this little boy feels loved in his life, regardless of whether he holds the wooden reminder of this in his hands or not.

Febru...whaaaat?

Since February and most of March have blown by without much blogging action, I posted the last couple sermons that I've preached.  Life is busy here, as per usual.  When talking with my mom last night, she asked what has made things so busy and I'm not really sure!  We haven't had a lot of groups, but we've had a few meetings here and there, a funeral or two.  You know, the normal.

In fact, that's what I've noticed about my life in the last month or so.  Things are normal.  Yes, there are plenty of difficult days still, but I feel like I'm beginning to fit in here, in some strange way.

Here are the three signs that I feel like I belong a bit more than before:

1.) If you've ever been to Pine Ridge, you know that there are lots of dogs roaming the streets.  Most belong to somebody...somewhere.  Most dogs are, well, free-range here.  They'll stay with their owners sometimes but then run off and chase another dog at other times.  There was an article recently about somebody wanting to come eliminate the dog problem here.  Granted, driving through town when there are at least twenty dogs off-leash in the middle of the road, in addition to people, horses, cars, etc, makes driving a little bit scary.

There's a dog that used to belong to a guy who was a friend of the Center.  Her name is Whitey and I just adore her.  She grunts at you, rarely barking, but she's very sweet and always looks happy.  She sleeps near the building frequently, but roams about as she pleases.  I was walking back from the post office the other day and realized that Whitey was following me home.  As simple as it sounds, this little bit of recognition, even from a street dog, made me feel like I belong more than someone who shows up for a week or a day.

2.) Another day at the post office, when getting the mail, the post master said that there was a package with my name on it in the back.  I was shocked and impressed, since hundreds of people go in and out of the post office every day and she remembered my name.  Again, probably sounds simple, but when you live in a community where you have had to work to make two friends and your work is pretty consuming, being recognized as sorta belonging there is huge.

3.) This one is huge.  When my supervisor is presiding over a wake and funeral, she usually has us sing a couple of songs.  We may sing a few English hymns like, "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" and "Softly and Tenderly," but we also sing a few Lakota hymns.  Sometimes, the Lakota hymns are ones that I know in English, like "Amazing Grace."  Other times, it's a hymn I only know through singing it in Lakota.  At the last funeral I was at, I sat down with one of the elders who's a matriarch at one of the congregations we work with.  Her granddaughter was next to her and points at me and says, "My auntie said that you sing Indian real well.  Do you speak it too?"  This 80+ year old woman is a Lakota speaker.  She didn't grow up speaking English and she still speaks Lakota to her family and friends, using English only when necessary.  I was speechless.  Here was this Lakota-speaking elder complimenting me on my Lakota, which I really only have survival singing skills--I don't even know what I'm singing!!!!  I also had a man compliment my Lakota singing at one of the Presbyterian congregations the other day.

Again, this may not sound significant, but when I'm responsible for leading the singing in every worship community that I participate in and we sing Lakota hymns, this was huge.  The Lakota hymns often don't have music and are actually Dakota hymns, which means that while singing the words, without music, in another language, you also have to transpose all the Ds to Ls, the Qs to Ns, drop the N at the end of words, turn the Cs into a Ch sound, the Ss into an Sh sound, etc.  It's a lot of work to sing and I'm incredibly honored that elders feel like I can do it well.

It's the little victories that get us through the dark days.

Sermon: Isaiah 43.16-21

Sermon: Isaiah 43.16-21

Makasan Presbyterian Church; March 17, 2013

*Pound pulpit*

Boom.  Boom.  Boom.

The sound of a hammer nailing the lid shut to the rough box, the simple plywood box lowered into the freshly dug grave, filled with the casket, which encases this person we love.  The lid in place, one of the pallbearers jumps down into the grave, on top of that rough box, and pulls the hammer out to nail down the lid, sealing the box around the casket.  He climbs out of that grave and the rest of the pallbearers begin to shovel dirt onto the rough box.

Thud.  Thud.  Thud.

The sound of each shovelful of dirt thrown down onto the lid of the freshly nailed rough box.  The rest of us stand and watch as the pallbearers shovel down the pile of dirt to fill up this tomb and cover the casket.  The mound is eventually smoothed out and the flowers are placed on this new pile of dirt.

I am always entranced by the burial process here.  We stand on the edge of a grave, dug hours before, and watch this whole process, knowing that at the end, we turn our backs on this mound and walk away.  The person in the ground will not join us for frybread and potato salad at the funeral meal.  Nor will he make new memories with us tomorrow, or the next day.  Instead, we buried this person who we love.  With each nail going into that rough box, the finality of this death strikes us to the core of who we are.

And as we turn our backs to return to our vehicles, I often find myself covered in the dirt and dust of this whole event.  See out here, the dust comes up in clouds and seems to move through the prairies in waves, crashing against the side of buildings and covered our faces with the fine, gritty powder of the earth.

Each time I try to brush this dirt off my pants and wipe the dust out of my eyes, I’m reminded of the Ash Wednesday words: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  You were once dust and to dust you shall return.  Standing on the edge of a grave is a time when I truly understand these words.  I started as dust, was formed by God and will return to dust, just as I was reminded at the beginning of Lent. 

Thus says the Lord, the prophet Isaiah announces that God is about to say something, and that something is pretty awesome.  The prophet goes on to describe God’s accolades, God’s resume.  This, the God who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters, the one who destroyed the Egyptian army chasing after you Israelites as you fled from slavery, this God, this all-powerful God is about to say something, so listen up!

“I am about to do a new thing.”  As if God’s great acts weren’t already enough, God’s got something else planned, so forget about the past.  God says, “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” 

Standing on the edge of the grave, we experience the dry, dustiness of the South Dakota prairies.  The ancient Palestine, much like modern Palestine and the desert around us here, is incredibly dry.  And God says that rivers are going to appear out of nowhere.

In The Message translation of this passage, it describes that God will make rivers in the Badlands.  Drive up the road a few feet and you’re in the Badlands.  When you drive out to Georgine’s house, you see the rocky dirt on either side of the road and the dried up riverbeds.  I haven’t lived here that long, but I don’t hold my breath waiting for rivers to appear in this dry dust.

There is nothing growing out there no water, no life, other than Georgine and her dogs, and the vast miles of dust. 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  You were once dust and to dust you shall return.

We began Lent with these words, being marked with the dust of a cross on our foreheads.  And just as we walked out of those Ash Wednesday services, feeling the gritty reminder of our mortality on our foreheads, so we walk away from the fresh mounds, with the dust clinging to our clothes and stinging our eyes. 

When those nails go into the rough box, when we think about the finality of death, we may resign ourselves to hopelessness.  Life has ended, as we know it, and here we stand, covered in the muck of life and death with nothing new. 

But God, the God who carves a path through the mighty waters and tramples down the chariots and armies of oppressors, is about to do something new!  Don’t remember just the old stuff that’s been done, but wait on the edge of your seat for the newness.

Sealed by the cross of dust on our foreheads, we live into the Easter promise of hope and new life.  Jesus Christ was placed on a cross.

Boom.  Boom.  Boom.

Nails were pounded into his wrists and his ankles to seal off any hope of leaving that cross.  Christ wasn’t getting off the cross alive.  He wasn’t going to join the disciples in the funeral meal, following this gruesome death.  Instead, he was removed and placed in a tomb, separated and isolated from his family and friends, who thought that there was nothing left to look for.  They turned their backs and walked away from their loved one, our loved one, dead and gone.

Be present and wait for this new thing that I’m about to do, thus says the Lord.  I can destroy armies and put rivers in the Badlands, and you know what else?  I can rise from the dead, blasting open the tomb, the rocks, the rough box, the casket, the hopelessness that clings to our dusty clothes.  God destroys this bad by raising into new life and giving us the Easter joy, not just in two weeks, but every day.

God tells us not to cling to the past, to the death, to the desperation and sadness, but to brace ourselves for the Easter morning celebration, when our faces are washed clean and our clothes are like the new, clean linens, left in the tomb after Jesus resurrected from the dead.  God promises us this new life after death because of Jesus’s own sacrifice for us, for being on the cross under those nails, the same nails that seal off us from the bodies of our loved ones. 

And while we don’t know what this looks like for us after death, after our loved ones walk away, we know that life with God means that God can do the impossible—rivers in the badlands.  We don’t cling to the past then, but Isaiah calls us to be present and to prepare for what God is about to do, this new thing.  And this new thing will be even MORE glorious than the first time God led the people out of exile, out of the desert, out of the dry, parched land.  God places rivers in the dust storms and hope in each one of us, through Christ’s death and resurrection.  Thanks be to God.

Sermon: Luke 15.1-3, 11b-32

Sermon: Luke 15.1-3, 11b-32

March 10/11^th, 2013, Woyatan Lutheran Church

I am the middle child of my family.  Now, middle children get a pretty bad reputation in the world of childbirth order and I resent this.  The oldest children are supposed to be the mature ones, the ones who lead the way and care for their younger siblings.  Studies have shown that the oldest children tend to have IQs that are one or two points higher than their siblings and 43% of CEOs are oldest children, compared to the 33% who are middle-borns and 23% who are last-borns. 

And the babies of the family?  Well, they’re the babies, so they’re the cute little ones.  They’re also typically the jokesters of the crowd, since that’s one way of getting attention and mixing up the birth order.  My little brother is certainly the jokester and since he was raised at the end of a line of three of us, his upbringing was not as strict.

And the middle children.  We’re the ones with the issues, since we’re not the oldest, mature ones, nor are we the funny, younger ones.  So who are we?  Researchers continue to be puzzled by the role of the middle children in the family.

So, Jacob, the younger of the two sons, asks his father for his inheritance.  We don’t know if Jacob is the youngest or just the younger of the two sons, because there may be some girls in this mix of people.  I’ve assigned the younger the name Jacob, just for ease in understanding the story.  Jacob’s older brother, Joshua, sticks close to their dad’s side, as the mature, older brother, understanding of family duty is supposed to do.  But Jacob?  Oh man, he’s the wild child that insists that his father give him his inheritance and runs off with it. 

When Jacob asks his father for the share of the property, it’s like he’s saying, “Dad, I wish you were dead, so that I could get my stuff.”  Inheritance is supposed to happen post-death, not pre-death.  But, since Jacob’s father loves him, he hands it over. 

At this point, we all know this story, right?  The Prodigal Son, as it’s often called, is one of the most well-known stories in the Bible.  Boy asks for father’s inheritance.  Boy runs off and spends all the money.  Boy comes back.  Father is thrilled.  Older brother is angry.  The end. 

Or is it? 

I think we know the story, the story about the boy and his brother and the feeling of sibling rivalry, but do we know the story of Jacob and Joshua’s father, the man who loves his children so much, that he’s willing to give up half of his belongings to Jacob before he dies?  That’s the thing with the inheritance—it currently belongs to the father.  That’s his money, his land, his stuff, that he’s still living on, but he gives half of it to Jacob.  So, when Jacob comes back from eating with pigs, which is inappropriate for a good Jewish boy to do, his father is without the money and resources as well.

When we hear the story of Jacob’s life after leaving the family home, we hear that he spent everything, then a famine came and he began to be in need.  Was he broke because of his poor money management?  Was he broke because of the famine?  Was he broke because nobody even gave him the pods for the pigs, nobody in the community helped him out in his time of need?

In my brief time in the Lakota community, I’ve learned about the significance of family.  This is not just my big sister and my little brother family, but “mitakuye oyasin,” the whole family.  We are all related.  When my brother is hit hard with a famine, and perhaps makes less than wise choices, he’s still my responsibility to care for. 

But then, this side of me, the older brother in me, says, “No, no, no.  Jacob, you took from dad, ran off and wasted it at the bar, the casino, Walmart and everywhere else.  You blew the check.  You wasted dad’s money and now you want to come crawling back?  Not fair.”

Who are you in this story?  Regardless of whether you are the oldest or the youngest in your family, or even one of those strange middle children, hear this story and find yourself in it. 

Are you Jacob, the youngest child, who has taken from the parent, the father or mother, the Creator, Tunkashila, and ran away, ignoring that God has created you and wants to be in relationship with you?  Instead of loving God, you ran off and ignored God.  For some, ignoring God comes in the way of an addiction, but for others, leaving God is because you think you’re better than what God has to offer you.

Are you Joshua, the oldest child, who has stayed faithfully by the parent’s side, believing that because you were raised in the Church and because YOU never left God to be alone and figure things out and because YOU never wasted God’s love, that you are exactly the child that God is proud of?  “For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command.”  How many times have we yelled that?  God, I have been doing what you told me to do: to love you and your people.  I have been an ambassador for Christ since day one, and yet, you’re going to let this person in, when they’ve been so unkind and so bad? 

Are you the father, the loving parent of these two, the one who welcomes your children back in after they’ve made decisions that you may not love?

And, to be fair, even if you hear this story and hear my descriptions of the characters, you don’t have to pick just one.  As the middle child, I find myself angry at some of the youngest children in our world, the people who don’t do what I want them to.  I also find myself as the youngest child, forgetting that God is GOD and that I am incapable of living a life that is Godly, which is why I am loved and welcomed back in, each time, by Jesus Christ.

This passage begins with a complaint about Jesus.  “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”  Thank goodness, because we are all sinners, whether we run off and away from God or we stay faithfully by God’s side.  Thank goodness that Jesus welcomes us in and dines with us at this Eucharist table and in every meal of our lives, because we aren’t worthy.  We haven’t done what we’re supposed to and we confess these things every week together.

God forgives us.  God welcomes us back in.  God looks for us at a distance, even when we are still far off, and God drops everything to run to us.  When the father in this story runs for Jacob, it’s not something a dignified man would do.  But that’s just it, God doesn’t care what is “dignified” or “appropriate,” because God’s love is so huge and so full, that there is no room for what is expected. 

The parent greets the child and before the child can even squeeze out the words for an apology or even acknowledgement that he has come back, the parent starts preparing a feast.  It doesn’t matter what we’ve done or where we’ve gone, because God loves us this day and every day.  We are never worthy of receiving this party, regardless of whether we stayed around as a good, well-mannered older child, or if we ran off to waste our gifts and turn our back to God. 

God is so eager to forgive us, to love us and to welcome us back with open arms, that God runs to the road to meet us.  Frankly, God doesn’t care what we say when we come stumbling back, hungry, sad and broken.  God doesn’t need us to give some big speech or some announcement of weakness, because it’s not about us.  God seeks us out, whether we have wandered far into another country and ate with pigs, or even if we are sulking behind the barn like dear Joshua, the older brother did.  Regardless of whether you see yourself as the one who ran away from your father, your Creator, your God, or if you see yourself as the one who has been dutifully doing what you thought you were supposed to do, God will drop everything to come find you, child.  God finds us, where we are, and pulls us back into the family, no questions asked and no apology required.  God loved us yesterday, God loves us today and God loves us tomorrow.  Period.  

And for this, we rejoice.  Amen.

Sermon: Deuteronomy 26:1-11

Sermon: Deuteronomy 26:1-11

February 17, 2013; St. John’s Episcopal Church & Cohen Home

So, take some of the first of all the fruit of the ground, which you harvest from the land, that God is giving you, and present it to God.

Give the first fruit to God.  This is not a demand regarding a sacrifice of animals or the gift of money, but this is a commandment to give to God the first fruits that come from your land.  According to Jewish tradition, the best of the harvest was brought into the temple in Jerusalem, with the first fruits being a bit of each of the seven native species to the land.  These were wheat, barley, grapes, olives, figs, pomegranates and dates. 

So, let’s do it.  Let’s give God the first fruits of our harvest.  You’ve got some grapes, right?  What about pomegranates?  Do dates grow in South Dakota?

In my limited time here, I know that these are not the fruits of our land.  This commandment to the Israelites and to us is not about WHAT the first fruits are, but that we give our first fruits, whatever they are, to God, as recognition that God has fulfilled the promise that God made to free God’s people from slavery and oppression.  God is giving us this land already and we take the best of what has grown in this land and give it back to God.

In Deuteronomy, Moses is speaking directly to the Israelites.  He tells them that the Lord has brought us out of slavery, out of the bad stuff.  Check.  God has given us this land, flowing with milk and honey.  Check.  The very fact that fruit and grain are growing in the land is proof that God has already done what God promised! 

What are the first fruits of our lives?  I’m not a pomegranate farmer, but I really love my family.  I feel blessed to be here, in this community, learning every day from each one of you. 

Perhaps this driveway, alternating between dust that stings our eyes and gumbo that devours our shoes doesn’t really seem like the land of milk and honey, but it is.  This is God’s land, which is not cut up by state borders or reservation lines.  This is the land that God has created, all of it, all over the world, and has promised us new life through Jesus Christ.  This is the milk and honey, the sweet nectar, the nourishment and extravagance of love.

This also calls us to celebrate what God has already done, as people of 2013.  We celebrate this freedom, this life, with providing our first fruits, the best of our hands and our hearts.  Lent is not preparing for Jesus Christ to be crucified again.  This has already happened, just as God promised.  Lent is centering ourselves to remember what God has already done, through the exodus of our people, through the gift of Jesus Christ, through new life and placing us in the land of milk and honey. 

And let’s be honest, this land of milk and honey, the promised land, the good stuff?  Doesn’t always appear so good here.  Yes, the phenomenon of dust AND gumbo in the driveway, but what about the problem after problem that we lift up in our prayer concerns every day and every week?  Addiction.  Health problems.  Lack of funds.  Death all around us.  Children who go home to violent households.  People who are beaten or attacked simply for what family they’re a part of.  Living day to day, not knowing if there is going to be food in your stomach or gas in your tank.  How is this, THIS reality of not knowing and struggling with the fear, anxiety, hopelessness, depression and violence living in the promised land of God?

Most days, life here feels more like the wilderness wanderings.  When I read the obituaries or hear the stories every day of people running out of money to take care of basic needs, I don’t feel like we’re living in the good part.  I feel like we’re still roaming around in the dark, hoping and waiting for some guidance.

Even though it may feel like the same path, we’re not in exodus anymore.  Jesus Christ came into our lives and led us out of the desert and into a life rich with the fruits and grains of community, love, fellowship and hope. 

Perhaps instead of seeing Lent as forty days to wander dismally through darkness, knowing that we are dust and that Jesus Christ’s death is imminent, let’s focus on the joyful journey to Jerusalem, the one where we march triumphantly into the city, praising God for the life and resurrection of Jesus Christ and to sing our gratitude to God with thankful hearts and voices for fulfilling the promise that we will be in a land of milk and honey.  Out of God’s bounty, we choose to present our first gifts, our best gifts, first to God, in appreciation for what God has done.  We remember the past journeys, the harder days and lift up that God pulled us through them.  God, we rejoice over Tim Kindle’s successful transplant.  God, we rejoice that Mildred and Myron’s chickens are laying eggs again.  God, we rejoice that this congregation provided an amazing Christmas to the entire community.  God, we rejoice that each one of us has life, air in our lungs, people who love us and who we love, and the opportunity to gather together in this space to worship you, God, our creator. 

Consider the first fruits also as the spirit plate, prepared to honor the Creator and feed creation, before we feed ourselves.  This is offering up the food which we will also nourish our bodies with, recognizing that Tunkashilah has already created us and provided for us in this place. 

God has provided for us and will continue to provide for us, just as God promised to the Israelites.  By offering up our gifts, our first gifts of ourselves in joyful praise of God in our hearts, we declare from the mountaintops that we trust God.  Believing in the promise of this land of milk and honey means that we put one foot in front of the other, dancing and singing our way into Jerusalem, praising God for creating us as living beings, capable of loving, hoping, laughing, forgiving and supporting.  And for this, we rejoice.

Peace. Love. Basketball.

I hate basketball.

Well, that's what I normally say.  After some reflection, I think it's because since I'm nearly six feet tall, everyone expects me to be good at basketball and I'm just not.  I grew up in an area where you had to start dribbling a ball before you came out of the womb and I wasn't interested in sports until late middle school.  I still laugh because my mom calls me the "jock" of the family, since I swam competitively and played softball in high school.  I play on the flag football team at seminary and I played in a community ultimate frisbee league in Chicago.  All these sports aren't basketball though.

In the last two weeks, I've gone to two local basketball games.  The first was Red Cloud Indian School against St. Thomas More High School.  It was fascinating to watch the game for a couple of reasons.

1.) I realized that basketball is a lot more exciting in person, in a fast-paced game.
     a.) I apologize for my earlier statement about hating basketball.

2.) I am curious about the difference between the students at a private Catholic high school on the Reservation versus students at a private Catholic high school in Rapid City.  Red Cloud has a fantastic reputation as the best school on the Reservation.  Nearly 100% of graduates have a post-graduation plan and 57 students have been awarded the Bill and Melinda Gates Millennium Scholarship, the highest per capita in the country (got this info from their website).  Tuition is $100 a year at Red Cloud and many get scholarships for that $100.  Tuition at St. Thomas More for "active Catholics" is $5,362; tuition for "inactive Catholics and non-Catholics is $6,751.  While this basketball game was known as the "Bishop's Bowl" because of the two Roman Catholic schools playing each other, the students clearly came from different realities.

3.) I realized that my "normal" here when I'm in a large room filled with lots of people, such as a gymnasium, is for a wake or funeral.  I actually looked for the casket when I first walked into the gym.
     a.) I need to get out more.

The second game I attended recently was between Red Cloud Indian School and Pine Ridge High School.  This was another fascinating game, because it was scheduled for February 9th in Rapid City.  Now, why would two schools from the Reservation, only a 10-15 minute drive apart, go all the way to Rapid City, about two hours away, to play a high school basketball game?  This is especially interesting since plenty of people around here don't have the extra money to put gas into their tanks to drive all the way there.

Apparently, the rivalry between these two schools is so great that this game hasn't been playing on the Reservation in 23 years.  The problem isn't in the teams playing on the court, but it's in the fans.

On Saturday the 9th, we were predicted to get eight inches of snow, with another three inches on Sunday.  We didn't get that much, but we got enough to reschedule the game.  This infamous game was rescheduled for Monday, the 11th, at Pine Ridge High School.  My friend Ashley teaches at Red Cloud, so she invited me to come along with her.  We went early, since rumors were that normally these two teams play each other in a place that houses 2,100 people; PRHS gym can seat 800 people.  We showed up for the 6pm girls' game at 5:20pm and the line zig-zagged several times and wound out to the school driveway.

We made the cut to get inside and crammed into our bleacher seats with the rest of the town.  The president of the tribe, Brian Brewer, was asked to speak before the game began.  I'm not sure if this is typical for games here, but it seemed special.  He said he believed that the game had to be rescheduled on the Reservation because it was time to end this fighting.  "Mitakuye oyasin!"--We are all related!  This is so true. Many families split their kids between Red Cloud and Pine Ridge.  After a serious warning to all of us fans to behave and support the teams, Brian Brewer made a few jokes about how he used to have a girlfriend at both Red Cloud and Pine Ridge!  He also ended his speech by saying how much he loves watching Lakota play Lakota in basketball.  "There is nothing like it in the rest of the world!"  He exclaimed.

It was awesome to be a part of this historic event, knowing how important this game was to all involved, but that "mitakuye oyasin" was at the center of it all.

Red Cloud Crusaders wear blue; Pine Ridge Thorpes wear red.  As a true pacifist, I wore green.

GO RED PINE CLOUD RIDGE!


Photograph taken from http://socialismartnature.tumblr.com/post/36289138227/mitakuye-oyasin-all-are-related-a-traditional

Here's the news article about the game.

Ash Wednesday: Part II

Social media is a funny thing.

On Ash Wednesday, my Facebook newsfeed was filled with status updates with some variation on, "Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return."  Lots of people changed their pictures to depict the freshly pressed cross of ashes on their foreheads.  I didn't really know what to think of it, since I preached on the text from Matthew 6:1-16, 16-21.  It's the one that talks about not bragging like the hypocrites in the streets about how much you pray or don't act dismal because you're fasting.

Here's my Ash Wednesday sermon, if you're curious:

Sermon: Matthew 6.1-6, 16-21

St. John’s Episcopal Church, Ash Wednesday

February 13, 2013

Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.

We’ll each hear these words in a few moments, as we have the opportunity to receive the sign of the cross in ashes on our foreheads.  The mark of Christ on our brow, visible for the whole world to see, labels us as Christ-followers. 

“But when you give alms, don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret.  But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret.  But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret.”

Our Gospel lesson on this day specifically cautions us against practicing our piety before others, showing the visible signs of our faith to others, on the very same day that we will paint your faces and send you out the door. 

Does this confuse anyone else?

In this very act of putting these ashes, these charred remains of last year’s palms, we defy what Christ is teaching here according to Matthew.  Right? 

While we gather in this community to mark ourselves with Christ, we have to read verse 21 again: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Where your treasure is, your heart will be there also.  What you value and hold onto is where your heart is.  These ashes on our foreheads are not to show off to others that we went to an Ash Wednesday service, but as a conversation with God about who we are and whose we are.

Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. 

Some reflect on these words as degrading or sad, but I find them incredibly inspiring.  Remember that you started out as nothingness and God created you into this living, breathing, loving, caring person, and that your body will return to the earth.  Our holy potter has created us out of clay, naming us and claiming us as the children of the Heavenly Grandfather.  God marks our foreheads with the ashes, not Karen or I, to remind us where our hearts are.  This very act is a way to center ourselves and purify ourselves for God in these coming days.

As a part of the Ash Wednesday service, we will complete Confession and Absolution.  Using words, we’ll acknowledge to God where we’ve fallen short and where we ask for the forgiveness to try again tomorrow.  Acknowledging that we are dust and that we will return to dust, regardless of how well we eat or how much money we put in the offering plate, creates in us a clean heart, ready to receive God into our hearts, despite being unworthy to do so.

In the traditional service at funerals, I’ve witnessed how a person’s face is painted with the sacred color of red.  It was first described to me as a way to make the person recognizable to the Great Spirit once the person entered into the afterlife.  Someone else shared with me that the painting of the sacred color on the face purifies the person who has died, recognizing that the good and bad this person had done was absolved to the Creator.  Similarly, when a warrior returned from battle, the cheeks are painted with black, with ashes even, as a way to get rid of the bad and cleanse the person, inside and out, to be a part of the community again. 

This mark on our foreheads today is like this act of sanctifying and purifying.  These ashes, the charred bits of plants from last year’s Palm Sunday, the time when we remember Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey, his final journey into the city as one of us, are rubbed onto our faces to claim us for God.  Our Creator knows us inside and out, up and down, left and right.  This marks us and reminds us of our humble beginning as dust.  Just as God created new life out of the dirt of the earth to form our bodies, God created new life in Jesus Christ, our savior and redeemer, when he came to the world for us, for our plain, dirty selves, completely incapable of creating ourselves and saving ourselves. 

No matter how pretty our prayers are or if we give up chocolate, the time of Lent is to prepare ourselves for Christ in our hearts.  If a life in Christ is what we value, then our hearts will be there also. 

As we enter into the forty days of Lent, I challenge you to think about this cross on your forehead as a way to purify your heart and to discern where your treasure is. 

Who are you?              What do you value?               

What does it mean to have the mark of Christ on your body, but more importantly, what does it mean to have the mark of Christ on your heart? 

Don’t answer these questions to me or to the person next to you.  Answer them for yourself, in secret, where God your loving Creator sees you and can recognize the seal of Christ on your brow long after the ashes have been washed away.