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.