Prepping for Good Friday

It's a weird thing to think about preparing for Good Friday - which is decidedly not named to reflect the heartbreak and cosmic grief that day represents in the Christian tradition. Yet, it's my favourite service of the liturgical year in our church! I'm honored to be among the 7 preachers at the service again this year - it'll be my 4th year offering a 2-3 minute reflection on one of the seven last "words" (they're actually sentences - at the very least, phrases) of Jesus. This year, my assigned text comes from the Gospel of Luke - chapter 23, verse 43. This "word" is a response to a criminal's request to please remember him when they both get to heaven. 

Here's the scene - Jesus is hanging on a cross that's situated between two other crosses where 2 other people are hanging. The place they're hanging (literally - there are spikes in their hands and their feet, they're suffocating, people are beating them and watching them slowly die as if it's a spectator sport) is called "The Skull". It's a horror movie - there's blood, there's gasping, there are people who can't look away despite being scarred by what they're seeing. And the two men hanging on either side of Jesus (who is a true, historical figure AND the Messiah) are in rather a pissing match. One is taunting Jesus - "So you're the Son of Man, eh? Prove it - save us and save yourself!" (v. 39) The other is in the midst of a deathbed reckoning and is coming to faith - "DUDE - how can you be such a dolt? Can't you see this man did nothing wrong? I mean, you and I are guilty as charged, but this guy in the middle is innocent. Jesus - please remember me when you come into your kingdom." (v. 40-42) And Jesus looks at the man who's contrite in his last minutes of life and says, "Don't worry, you'll join me in paradise today." (v. 43)

OK - here's the curveball! Just a few verses prior to this whole exchange Jesus prays to God, "Father forgive them, they don't know what they're doing." (v. 34-35) This is the "word" immediately preceding the one I'm assigned and if I hold this word alongside Jesus' promise to the contrite criminal, I don't know that I actually believe Jesus is lifting up the one who sees him as Messiah any higher than the one he's asked God to forgive just a few verses prior. I've often heard this passage preached in such a way that made me think the taunting criminal was going straight to hell, and the one who saw Jesus as blameless and wanted to be with him was going straight to heaven. However, I'm really not all that sure... Jesus knows the condition of humanity and has appealed to God in heaven on our behalf to forgive us, offering not only his physical body as a sacrifice but also asking God directly to forgive our inability to see the truth. So, really, what I hear in this story when I hold the words together is that Jesus is making space for all of us to be with him in Paradise. Maybe that sounds heretical? 

It also makes me feel some level of comfort because I am 100% confident I've been the taunting criminal before - trying to test God as a means of protecting myself. I wish I could honestly say that I have always identified with the contrite criminal, but I KNOW that's a lie. When I consider the number of times I've been blind to the presence of Jesus right beside me, I'm a little embarrassed. I'm probably unaware of the times I've responded to Jesus right beside me with snark and disbelief. I'm going to be pondering on this awhile and reading up on commentaries to see what scholars think about the whole exchange. I wonder what you might think? Did Jesus admit one criminal to heaven and kick the other one out? When Jesus asked God to forgive the people because they didn't know what they were doing, did that forgiveness extend to these criminals too? Does it extend to me when my vision is clouded and I'm being sassy? 

3 Weeks Since Ash Wednesday

Three weeks ago tonight I stood with friends in church, smearing ashes on their heads, reminding them they were dust and would one day return to dust. It was powerful and heavy and somehow it was three entire weeks ago. Simultaneously it feels like it was 3 years ago and yesterday - that seems to be happening more and more often as I grow older. Time seems to collapse - my hair turning more silver than brunette and the little crow's feet that have appeared around my eyes seem the only giveaway that years have passed in what seems only minutes. I'm glad time's not linear when it comes to living - I find its 3-D nature does more justice to the textured layers of experiences that become swells of memories with the power to lift us up and lay us flat.

And today I read in one of the writing blogs I subscribed to the words:

"even in the dark, we are alive"

Perhaps that's why beginning the season of Lent remembering our mortality is the best way to start this season of pensive reflection. We're preparing for the literal ground shaking events that culminate in resurrection. Spending time in the reality that we're finite and will return to dust is dark. Yet even in the darkness of that truth, we are alive. Spending a semester in a hospital chaplain setting made me see how different being alive is from living. On this side of the grave, I intend to be about the work and joy and 3D layers of living because I am from dust and to dust, I will return. I want to travel a full 360-degree journey between my dusty beginning and end. I want to squeeze every ounce out of this life as a catapult into the next. Twenty-one days into this 40-day journey and I'm realizing that stripping down to basics as a means of communion with creation is really a wakeup call for all the senses. There's more to see and hear and taste and touch and smell in this world which I was dreamed into than I'll ever be able to absorb - so I better get to it. I want to slide into my eternal dust with flair - knowing I've felt deeply, loved authentically, lived intentionally, and noticed every little detail set before me. If we are fully alive in the darkness, imagine what the light will bring.

Lent - Week 3; Official Post 5ish...but there's more to the story

Sunday (two days ago) was Children's and Youth Sunday at our church. It was GLORIOUS and watching preschoolers and elementary kiddos and youth lead worship reminded me of how quickly time passes.

Y'all - this was on vacation at least 15 years ago but I swear it was 15 minutes ago...

I record this fact because, while I didn't write a blog post daily, I DID write daily - and the writing consisted of liturgy and approximately 6 drafts of the sermon I gave at 8:30 worship, and a 7th draft that made its debut at 11am worship. Publicly confessing this feels like a mea culpa, but when I got to feeling really slack about keeping up with my proclaimed Lenten practice, it dawned on me that writing doesn't have to look the same way every day. Then I felt better acknowledging I'd engaged in quiet reflection and spent time grounded in God's presence despite not having a daily 'product'. Isn't that a sign of the times - thinking we have to produce something to "get credit" for following through? What a silly half-truth I told myself for the entirety of last week! Presence is the more important part of this practice notion, I've decided. Taking time to slow down, be fully present in the moment, savoring each word that appears on the page and wondering if it's just the right one, that's the practice. The product, perhaps, comes after we've practiced enough to feel like we've approximated capturing exactly the image/feeling/thought springing up from within.

Yesterday I wrote a newsletter for parents of children and in it I suggested a few ways to help make Lent more concrete for minds that aren't quite ready to deal with abstractions. Funny enough, the concrete suggestions are what jolted me into realizing the power that comes from practice. It reminded me that the earth gives us clues about how to move through liturgical seasons and what a privilege it was to bear witness to some of them on Saturday when I played in our yard and cleared out flower beds. I discovered the bare winter ground that had just months before let go of last year's growth and taken time to shed its old skin was making space for this year's springtime blooms. Seeing little stalks of Hosta peeking through the soil made me slow down and walk more carefully, so as not to step on them. Clearing out leaves from a flower bed revealed the lilies we planted two years ago had multiplied and made me slow down and use the rake a little gentler. I also discovered the harsh freezes we had this winter killed seven hydrangeas we planted last year, so I pulled them up and slowed down to grieve their loss a little.

Being outside in the sunshine, amid the new growth, clearing out the old growth, was a reminder that I have to do those same things internally, too. The world is harsh, just like those winter freezes, and it's taken some beauty away in the past year. AND - the world is surprising and beautiful and resilient, with miracles to celebrate all around us. This Sunday's Children's/Youth Sunday was the perfect reminder of miracles during this season of pruning and preparation. The new life that buzzed in our worship space was a tangible experience of the renewal we are preparing for at Easter. The practice of pruning and preparation, while laden with hard emotions and experiences, makes the new growth, blooms, and resurrections all the more meaningful. As a diehard preschool teacher to my core - last week reminded me it's so much more about the process than the product - as a worship leader, a mama, a yard lady, and a human. My prayer is that I do better at slowing down, remembering that truth and giving myself, and other people, more space to lean into the process. May it be so.

Lent Day Something; Post #4 or #5?

We're in the messy middle of a season - the space where I lose track of what day it is or whether I ate lunch. But I was stopped dead in my tracks by the subject of an email from one of those writers' blogs I joined a few weeks back for inspiration and accountability:

How do you deal with being seen?

It's a question that came from one of the author's subscribers who'd just gotten a piece accepted for publication (cue my envy...and the realization I must submit entries for consideration to be accepted for publication). Their excitement about having achieved a goal was tempered by the anxiety that lives on the flip side of excitement's coin - anxiety fueled by self-doubt and imposter syndrome. It's a coin I know well as someone who still kinda chokes on the words, "I'm one of the pastors at our church..." I put off for YEARS embracing this call - you'd think that by now I'd be able to stand tall and confidently claim what my diplomas and the certificate from the denomination affirm (in calligraphy, no less). And yet - I find myself feeling really vulnerable when I consider being seen as a pastor.

How can I call myself a pastor when I lost my marbles after scrubbing the same person's crumbs off the kitchen counter for the 975th time in 24 hours? How can I call myself a pastor when, if I'm being completely honest, I cuss with some regularity? How can I call myself a pastor when I just want to turn off all the sounds and hibernate away from people?

It turns out this email paired well with a podcast I just started listening to - I started it from the very beginning even though it has almost 300 episodes. It's called The Bible for Normal People and I LOVE IT (only one episode in) - 10 out of 10, highly recommend! Because we're all just normal people, no? And Rob Bell was their first guest - I like him a lot, too. He lifted up that when Jesus self-identifies, he most readily refers to himself as the Son of Man, not the Son of God - Jesus himself leaned into his own humanity. I suppose if it's good enough for Jesus, then Meri Kate should take a lesson from him, eh?

How do you deal with being seen? 

That's a question that's going to stick to my ribs for a while. I need to let it soak into my bones and take up space in me because I believe in its profundity. Tonight, my prayer is that I seek to truly see people I encounter, to see myself honestly, and to practice responding well when I feel seen by others.

Lenten Musings

I've decided my Lenten practice is an addition, not an abstention this year. There have been years I've given up meat, alcohol and such, but I realized that this year I would do well to add writing to my daily practice. Not only is writing my passion, it's also my sanity, often my therapy. When I think about how my faith is strengthened, it's by spending time with my head and my heart and trying to marry the two on paper. Note - it's Friday. Lent started on Wednesday. This is my first entry. It's 11:23pm, and so it's almost Saturday. The start is not auspicious, but it's a start, nonetheless. 

It seems natural that this first entry is happening from my room in Assembly Inn, in Montreat, NC. This place grounds my faith - it's where I first began to sense a call to ministry, it's where I formed my deepest friendships, it's where I cross paths with people who've shaped and encouraged me. And this weekend, I'm here as part of a working retreat. Our church has come to try and help a bit with Hurricane Helene recovery. It's an honor, really, and I'm humbled to even be part of the process. Lydia and I drove around today and were sad to see so much of this place we both love damaged, gone, littered, unfamiliar. The physical experience of seeing downed trees, empty stores, houses torn apart is heavy - and we're seeing the five months later, sanitized version of the story.

My heart is heavy tonight. It's heavy because this place and her people are suffering. It's heavy because people I want to respect are behaving badly. It's heavy because I worked really, really hard to make this weekend happen and it feels somewhat invisible. But in the heaviness, I am overjoyed to have had 2 days of driving with my daughter. I'm buoyed by the way her heart sees the hurt around us and that her sensibilities are so keen. She knows that we bore witness to sacred storytelling tonight as people who have lived this nightmare day in and day out shared their experience. She holds those tales tenderly and doesn't take the trust with which they were shared lightly.

Tonight is my first to practice this 40 day writing thing. And strangely I don't have a lot of words. There's tension in my thoughts and feelings and today feels super complicated. But I'm in the greatest of company - my girl and me. For her and for this time I'm grateful. For the work tomorrow holds I'm eager. For the lessons I'll carry home with me I'm curious. And for the sleep that awaits me I'm glad.

Lent Day 9; Post #3

I worked with a pastor once who said there was someone who sat on God's shoulder whose job it was to record every time we say "I will never..." or "I will definitely...". The natural response often seemed to be, "Heh - watch this!" Hence the lack of my surprise when after proclaiming I'd be writing daily, I had to leave work early yesterday not feeling well. Bless it. Writing yesterday was thwarted. Today I've been in Decatur in a full-day meeting as part of a Lilly Foundation grant committee. I'm back on my seminary's campus - a year ago I was finishing capstone classes, projects and papers. Today I'm an alumnus. What a difference a year makes! Nonetheless, it's well after 9pm (thanks to a 6am wakeup and the 1.5-hour drive to get the 25 miles from my house to campus - Atlanta traffic, how I loathe thee). But words are happening.

Today was lovely - we explored how the invitation to dream of ways to better include children in worship has grown into reality within our team and among partner churches throughout the world. We dreamed about how we might facilitate more learning and exploration with even more churches! And we got to be creative in thinking about ways to make it happen. [I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the Eli Lilly Foundation for their generosity and support of this project (no speed-talking about potential side effects needed for this work)]. In a moment of unexpected grace, the very work we were called to do today gave birth to a sermon I will preach in 10 days for Children's & Youth Sunday.

There's so much I love about working with children, and I've gotten more comfortable working with youth. Teenagers used to scare me, but now that we've almost made it to our own two having gotten to their 20s, I feel a tad more confident. Suffice it to say, today reminded me of how much richer my life is when I pay attention to the people far younger than me in it. I remembered today that I need to do my best to resist the urge to develop thick skin and fall into the trap of cynicism. I remembered today that life is fuller when I cultivate the eyes and heart of a child who sees wonder in so much more than my 48-year-old self does. It seems this season of remembering we're dust and to dust we'll return can feel more trap than liberation if I focus on what I've outgrown instead of remembering how much more growth I have to do.

Here's to reclaiming wonder and here's to the bit of a spoiler alert for the sermon I'll preach next week. I'm still surprised when people call me reverend or pastor - some days I feel like an imposter and some days I'm just deeply grateful. Today's a grateful day and I celebrate it.

Lent Day 7; Post #2

It's quite something to speak into the cosmos an intention to add a daily practice of writing as my Lenten spiritual discipline. So far, I'm crushing being sub-par in terms of practicing what I declared. I'm not a fan of mediocrity and admitting aloud (and to myself) that I'm falling squarely into that category when I'm the one who named the commitment is hard. Remembering that it's about progress not perfection is my new mantra, but it still leaves me feeling inadequate and slack. 

What's so hard about holding fast to something I know gives me life and keeps me grounded? 

Is it the tyrannical to-do lists that always wait for me to return to them in the morning? Is it my drive to finish allthethings allatonce? Whatever the reason, there's something that holds me back from closing my door, turning off noise, and entering into sacred territory where I am alone with my thoughts and feelings in the presence of my Creator. 

It's after 9pm - if this is the discipline I've chosen for these 40 days, I'm deciding now that I must schedule time for it earlier in the day. This (and the morning walk I often promise myself I'll take tomorrow) is how I intend to make this practice more regular - perhaps even to make it stick. 

I'm subscribed to 3 writers' blogs who offer me a prompt once a week. I thought they would help me make this practice of writing regular. Ironically, though not surprising, those emails are still unread in my inbox - signs that "I'll do it later" clearly doesn't work for me. I realize now where our daughter gets her pet phrase of "in just a moment" - I'm modeling it quite well. 

Tonight, I'm resetting my intention - it is about progress over perfection after all. I will walk AND write tomorrow morning...at least, I'll try. Walking the dog after work seems a fair plan too. I started this practice on the day I received ashes on my forehead to remind me of my own mortality. Turns out the to-do lists will one day be put on permanent hold, and I'm reminded I tend to give them too much power. But my words will remain - perhaps to pile up and gather dust themselves, or maybe...just maybe...they'll one day be a balm to my children as they grow old. 

I don't mean to wax on morbidly, but Ash Wednesday marked the beginning of this journey - appropriately so, I suppose. I'm dusting off these writing muscles that keep me sane in the midst of chaos. God knows sanity in the world of 2025 feels like a pipe dream so leaning into muscle memory as a pathway out of chaos gives me hope. 

I may have only written words twice in the last seven days, but it has felt really good both times. The first writing feels too raw to share so I'm cocooning those words until they're ready to reveal their metamorphosized selves. Tonight, however, I'm releasing these cobbled together thoughts as a practice of accountability to myself and to this art. May tomorrow hold more wonder and awe and clarity, and may this practice become a thin space of dancing with the Spirit.