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.

Ash Wednesday: Part I

As a seminarian, blogging about my internship experience, I feel like an Ash Wednesday blog post is rather obligatory.  I'll include my sermon in a different post, but here are some thoughts about my first Ash Wednesday from the other side of things.  

I've grown up in the ELCA at a highly liturgical congregation, which means that I've participated in nearly ALL of the services that we could possibly have at a congregation: all of Holy Week, mid-week Lenten services, pet blessings, Ascension Day, etc.  If there's a reason to have worship, I've been there.

I've always loved Ash Wednesday.  It's one day a year where I am reminded of how big God is.  In high school, I remember my mom saying that some people were critical of parents who brought their child to receive ashes.  I felt this way then, but now that I have the seminarian language for it, I would say that all ages of people are welcome in the sanctuary for any reason and at any time.  If we only give Eucharist to adults who understand it, then none of us will receive communion.  No, seriously.  Yes, as a candidate for ordination in the ELCA, I understand the concepts of it, but how God appears in those elements and what the depth and breadth of God's love looks like is out of my grasp.  I feel the same way about ashes.  Regardless of what kids "know" about the ashes, if they feel like receiving a cross on their forehead to remind them of who they are and whose they are, then I say go for it.  We mark the foreheads of children as a blessing during Eucharist, so why not add ashes to that?

This was the first year that I've been on the other side of placing these ashes on foreheads though.  Prior to the services that I participated in, I knew that the ashes had to be prepared.  When I worked as the Assistant to the Dean of the Chapel last year, I participated in the service to burn last year's palms into ashes.  This year, it was up to my supervisor and I to burn the palms into ashes, with no community around to witness it.  She had never done it and honestly, other than watching the seasoned liturgical professionals do it, I had never done it.  When I don't know how to do something, my first step, as a Generation Yer, was to Google it.

I chuckled to myself as I read this article.  Two and a half years into mastering the divine and I'm on eHow to figure out how to make ashes.  I also emailed my friend Dan, the cantor at LSTC, to ask for a service to burn the ashes; he provided an awesome one!  I also emailed my friend Kevin, a current pastor, to ask his opinion on the proper way to add the olive oil into ashes, since this article didn't explain.  I knew through chapel work that it was easier to burn the ashes if you cut them into smaller pieces, so out came the scissors.

As I cut the dry, dusty palms into a small, metal can, one of the community members asked me what Ash Wednesday meant.  I love these awkward, challenging moments for me here on internship.  In every community, we develop common language and common experience.  I take for granted that I grew up in a congregation that was full of people who either knew what Ash Wednesday meant to them or were too afraid to ask.  Here, in a community where Christianity is still associated with the white Colonizers, I can't assume that people know the traditions or practices of the Church.

After explaining my understanding of Ash Wednesday (check my sermon for more thoughts), I took my materials outside and began to burn the ashes.



There was something humbling about taking the palms and actually turning them into the ashes.  I've only ever been privy to seeing the ashes in their fine, perfect powder, without remember where they came from.  I will admit that my ashes were not the fine, perfect powder that I remember of my childhood, but I was glad for this.  When I got to put my fingers into those ashes, chunky and messy, and smear the cross on the foreheads of toddlers to people in their eighties, I was reminded that we are messy.  We are incapable of being fine and perfect, but God loves us anyway.  That's the essence of Ash Wednesday to me.

I was further reminded of the awesomeness of God's love when we held our children's service that night.  I had preached and led worship at St. John's Episcopal for a noontime service, but Karen led the children's service.  I helped put ashes on the kids who wanted them.  For most of the kids, this was more about the excitement of something different, rather than a somber reflection on their mortality.  Many smudged theirs or rubbed the crosses completely off.  One boy was distressed that he had wiped his cross off by accident.  I didn't want to give him a new cross, since we could end up with 40 kids wanting new crosses.  To be clear, I'm happy that it mattered to them; I didn't want to spend hours playing the wipe-on/wipe-off game.  This boy was upset later in the service and refused to come upstairs to eat dinner.  I went down to check on him and he was crying.  He wouldn't tell me what the matter was, but eventually agreed that he'd like to receive new ashes.  I gave him the privilege of putting ashes on my forehead, since my noon-time ashes had washed off when I was at the gym in the afternoon.  He was thrilled.  There was something sacred in this moment, crouched on the floor, marking the cross on the forehead of a child with tears still streaming down his face.  There was something incredibly humbling about receiving ashes from this child.  I remembered that I was dust in a way that I don't think I've ever felt and it was awesome.

Lots o' Worship!

I'm sure I've mentioned on here before that I'm at a non-parish based internship site.  I think this makes me the only ELCA intern who is not formally attached to a congregation.  When I knew that I was coming to Pine Ridge, I will admit that I was a tad worried that I wouldn't have worship opportunities.

It has been QUITE the opposite.

In addition to all of the daily programming that we do with retreat groups and community members, we host worship for the children two nights a week.  The kids are here every night, but the other nights are only for "safe play."  In addition to this, we lead worship services at St. John's Episcopal Church twice a month and Cohen Home, an assisted living facility, twice a month as well.  Then, we plug in wherever we can assist in other communities.

Tomorrow, I'll be preaching/leading the service at Makasan Presbyterian Church in the morning, St. John's Episcopal Church in the afternoon and Cohen Home in the evening.  As I sat at my desk this morning putting together the three services, I just started to laugh.

Here's the pile of resources that I used and will use for tomorrow's services:

The black binder is the worship binder that I've created to hold all of our various services.  Then, my Harper Collins Study Bible, complete with my scribbled margin notes of profound thoughts by the great Ralph Klein, the Evangelical Lutheran Worship hymnal, the With One Voice hymnal, the Lakota Presbyterian hymnal--Dakota Odowan, the Episcopalian Lakota hymnal--Wakan Cekiye Odowan and the Book of Common Prayer.

Not pictured: my sermon manuscript, past worship plans for the various services, Bible commentaries and the Internet.

All of the items in that picture will go with me to these services tomorrow as I move from congregation to congregation and from denomination to denomination.  While I'm not at a "parish-based internship site," I think I'm getting my share of worship planning and leading, as well as preaching.  And hey, what other ELCA Intern can immediately find the various services in the Book of Common Prayer and sing the Doxology in Lakota?

Culture and Foster Care

The moment that I knew I was coming to live on an Indian Reservation for my internship, my eyes have focused in on any news articles that I come across regarding Indian culture and life.  While doing my morning perusal of the New York Times today, I came across this article.  I encourage you to read it, but for the sake of this blog post, I'll give you a condensed version.

Basically, the article discusses the disproportionate number of Indian children in foster care and the struggle between cultural ties and a safe, healthy home.  In Montana, only 9 percent of the entire state's population is children who are Indian, but they represent 37% of the children in foster care.  The Indian Child Welfare Act  of 1978 requires that children be placed with Indian families whenever possible, which also means that the tribes have a say in the custody cases.  The difficulty now is that there aren't that many Indian foster homes.  "In Bernalillo County, for instance, there are 65 Indian children in state custody but only 5 Indian foster homes, prompting Gov. Susana Martinez to publicly appeal for more families last March."

As I live and work in a Lakota community, I am keenly aware of how important culture is to any race or ethnicity of people, but most especially to a race and ethnicity of people who are being slowly exterminated.

I love to talk about culture and heritage.  I'm quite proud of my Irish ancestors or even the Czech ones.  I wear a Claddagh ring that my mom bought me in the town that my great grandparents lived, Westport, County Mayo, Ireland.  I loved being in a place where I saw my family's features all around us in the noses, hair, eyes, etc.  As much as I love to claim that being a quarter Irish is significant to me, I'm not culturally Irish.  I don't know any Gaelic.  I don't know how to step-dance.  I don't really eat any Irish food, other than absurd amounts of mashed potatoes at every holiday gathering.  But the thing is, Irish culture isn't disappearing with each generation.  Yes, there are a few less Gaelic speakers, but the culture as a whole is still intact.

Thinking about what it would mean for an Indian child to live with a non-Indian foster family would be incredibly detrimental to their development as an Indian person.  Yes, the child would miss out on Pow-Wows and wouldn't learn any Lakota, but the child also wouldn't learn about kinship, which is the way that family matters above all else.  I can tell you that my mom, sister and brother matter above all else, but it's different in Indian culture.  No one seems to question skipping work or cancelling any responsibilities--church services, meetings, etc--if someone dies.  Everyone goes to the funeral, because that's where you need to be.

The family structure here is key for survival and for culture.  Traditionally, families would send their oldest child to live with their grandparents.  I haven't quite caught on if there was intentional motive for either side in this, but it was tradition.  You can still tell the adults who were the oldest child in their families, because they speak the most Lakota and seem to embody the strongest Lakota virtues.  

Due to my experience here, I support this act and its desire to place children in homes where their culture is not only preserved, but nourished.  I don't doubt that non-Indian parents can do their best to encourage the child to remain in close-contact with the tribe, but it is different.  I have a friend who was adopted from another country as an infant by Euro-American parents.  She has been raised by them and loves them dearly; she's also realizing how many questions she has about her biological parents and the culture that she came from.  She referenced this feeling of being an outsider everywhere she goes, because she's not "quite" any particular race. This is an example of adoption as an infant, which is different than a 13 year-old being in foster care.  I lift it up as an example of how multiple cultures can pull at you and cause significant struggle in establishing an individual identity within a larger group.

The title of this article is: 

Focus on Preserving Heritage Can Limit Foster Care for Indians

I read the title when I started the article and re-read it when I finished the article.  I don't think the title represents the feeling that I have when I finished reading it.  The title implies that the hope in preserving heritage takes away possibilities for life with a foster family.  We're denying that work could be done to strengthen families through different support systems in the tribes.  We could also encourage more Indian families to consider fostering and adopting children.

I ask that you keep all children in your prayers this day, especially children living in unsafe situations all over the world, regardless of race, ethnicity, socio-economic status, sexual identity and ability.

"To love another person is to see the face of God."

In addition to learning how to be a pastor on internship, I've had to learn how to occupy myself.  I've always been highly involved in various clubs and activities throughout my educational career.  When I applied for college, I had a two page single-spaced list of clubs, sports and volunteer activities that I was a part of!  Needless to say, I don't have the time to be as "involved" due to my job here, but I've been trying to find things to do alone without spending a lot of money.  I've been working out a lot lately, singing in a choir and reading.  I've also taken to going to the movie theater.  I've seen more movies out in the last five months than I've seen in the last five years.  The two closest theaters, Chadron and Rapid City, both have fairly cheap tickets, depending on the time of day.

On Sunday, after not having morning worship due to mud, I decided to head to Chadron to see a movie.  I debated my whole drive there whether I'd rather see Les Miserables or Django Unchained.  I figured Les Mis would be better on the big screen, but I was really curious about Django.  I made a quick decision when I walked into the theater for Les Mis and paid a whole $4.50 for the show.  There are some perks to living in the middle of nowhere.  I don't think you can even Redbox a movie in Chicago for $4.50!  Kidding.  Yes, you can.

Anywho.

I took my seat in the theater, which is an incredibly liberating experience.  I love making my own decisions sometimes, without any thought as to anyone else's needs.  I don't mean this to be selfish, but so much of my internship is spent thinking through how my actions will affect my supervisor, my co-workers, the kids, the congregation members, the community members, my internship committee, my candidacy committee, my seminary advisor/faculty members, my friends, my family, etc, etc.  Needless to say, I do a lot of mental work with others' needs in mind.  Walking into a theater and picking the seat that best suits me in that precise moment, not to mention only needing one seat instead of multiple, is quite enjoyable.

I settled in for the singing and dancing of Les Mis.  I've read the book and I know most of the songs, but I've never seen the show.  About halfway through the movie, I realized that the woman closest to me was sobbing.  I wasn't feeling the emotions of the movie quite as she was, so it caught me off guard.  I began to think about this during one of Russell Crowe's less-than-enjoyable singing expeditions (I wasn't impressed).

I figured out that this felt silly to me.  I live in a place where death and struggle exists every day.  I can't remember if I wrote this before, but one of the schools in the area didn't have school for the first three weeks of January because there were so many funerals that needed to happen.  Last week, there were five funerals in the area on one day.  Five.

Seeing Ann Hathaway crying?  Doesn't quite hit me like life here does.  Call me bitter or jaded, but it's the truth.

At the very end of the film, I heard one of the singers say, "To love another person is to see the face of God."  And that, my friends, was the Good News of the day.  Seeing God in every person that I encounter is sometimes difficult, but so is loving them.  Let's be honest here.  There's all that stuff in the Bible about "loving one another" because Jesus knew how incredibly hard it was--check out his story of persecution!  This woman was crying because some part of her was moved by the story of the peasants suffering in France; I wasn't crying because I feel a little cried-out right now of the suffering here.  I think that's how God feels.  God cries at the pain and suffering; God also feels numb and exhausted by the amount of pain and suffering in our world.  When we look into each others' eyes, seeing each person as a human being and loving one another as God does, then we see what God's face looks like.  Good, bad, happy, sad, excited and so forth.

And so, we keep going, one more day, to see what the face of God looks like as we love one another.