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.