2021: One. Tiny. Commitment.

I’m totally someone who is into New Years resolutions. I have lists going back to high school. I believe in marking transitions. The start of a brand new year feels full of hope and possibility and wonder.

I have so very many goals, intentions, hopes, and dreams for 2021. I’ve written about them at length in my journal. But after reflecting on the past twelve months, I decided to commit to just one thing for 2021. Rather than an outcome oriented commitment, I’ve committed to a practice. And it’s a tiny one, one so small that it almost feels ridiculous not to follow through. Special thanks to my dear friend Elizabeth Henry-McKeever who introduced me to the work of Kendra Adachi which inspired this “start small” approach.

In 2021 I commit to sitting in intentional silence for 60 seconds each day. That’s it. Just one minute of silence a day. Cultivating a practice of daily silence just 60 seconds at a time.

The Chosen Tools

Even more than a good goal, I love a good system. I’ve used the app Calm for a number of years and Fitbit recently added meditation to their app, which is really convenient because I already track my daily steps. But neither of these apps offers a timer for just one minute. Luckily, it’s 2021 and an app that both tracks progress and offers a one minute timer does exist. It’s called Insight Timer and you can even customize a timed meditation with different sounding bells at different intervals!

I’ve decided to practice my minute of silence right before I go to sleep. Why? Habit Stacking. As James Clear explains, “One of the best ways to build a new habit is to identify a current habit you already do each day and then stack your new behavior on top.” I’ve absolutely found this to be helpful in the past. Rather than trying to remember to take a medicine once a day “at some point,” I take the medicine after I brush my teeth in the morning. I already have a habit of brushing my teeth each morning, so I just tack on the habit of taking the medication right after.

The Temptation of a Solid Pro/Con List

As I look back on 2020, it is so tempting to categorize all that took place in to pros and cons – the good and the bad – the pain and the joy…

I endured unpleasant physical isolation in 2020, but I’m grateful for the birth of my first Godchild. I endured a stressful season of work, but I’m grateful to be employed. I endured complicated interpersonal interactions around navigating COVID risk taking, but Richard and I bought our first house.

In my desperate desire to manage the events of my life, to impose order and control and find safety in a level of certainty, I want to make this list and I want to tally it up at the bottom of a page with the pros/goods/joys/gratitudes outweighing the other list. I’ve read dozens of social media posts over the last twenty-four hours that seem to do just that (just me?). Perhaps others find that helpful and hopeful – if that is you, peace be upon you! But such lists don’t sit right with me. There are aspects of 2020 I can give deep thanks for. However, that joy and gratitude does not negate the suffering in any way. I need a framework that allows for the independent existence of a range of experiences from the past year. On the surface it seems appealing to neatly sort them into categories – but that does not feel true to the experience.

Uncertain Hope

The past year has been one of such anxiety and uncertainty. And honestly, 2021 promises much of the same. No matter how quickly we all get vaccinated for COVID-19, we will still be in the midst of a global climate crisis, a racial reckoning, and extreme national wealth disparity. The COVID vaccine will not heal all of our personal struggles – such as the chronic health issues I’ve experienced since 2010 – or the deep political polarization in this country.

Sitting with this reality, feelings of despair and powerlessness bubble up. I can feel them in the tightening of my chest and restlessness of my fingers.

And yet, the past year has been one of resilience and transformative love, in my own life and on a global scale. Just “look for the helpers” of 2020 and you’ll find an abundance of loving action, selfless compassion, and resilient hope.

I expect that the feelings of despair and powerlessness will be close companions in 2021. And truly, I have very limited control over deforestation, institutional racism, growing income inequality, large scale political divides, and the trajectory of my own healing.

But limited control is not the same as no control. And, after all, I believe in a God for whom all things are possible. Perhaps my one tiny commitment will provide a container for wrestling with this complex existence of pain and joy, despair and resilience. A place to make room for a range of experiences and emotions – without judging, categorizing, and assigning meaning. Perhaps it will help me live in a way aligned with my values of groundedness, presence, deep listening, and prayer. Perhaps it will be the birthplace of uncertain hope. And, of course, perhaps it will provide extra space to ruminate on my to do list. After all, I’m only human.

In all likelihood – this one tiny commitment will be a both/and. More than just one thing. I’ll keep you posted. Cheers to a nuanced 2021!

Photo: Muddy hike on the first day of 2021.

Despair & Hope: My Last Forty-Eight Hours

On June 8, 2020 Richard and I put a “Black Lives Matter” sign in the front yard of our new house (we moved in on March 27th).

This past Monday, October 26th, Walter Wallace Jr., a 27-year-old Black man experiencing a mental health crisis was shot and killed by police in Philadelphia.

On Wednesday, Richard found the following note in our mailbox:

Nothing like moving to a new state, town and neighborhood and immediately isolate yourself from 98.5% of the residents by placing your sign out front for all to see.

Congratulations……Welcome to the hood!

Despair

I was already having a really hard week after a bad interaction during a staff meeting on Tuesday. So when Richard checked the mail Wednesday evening and showed me this note. I was speechless. I stared at the note for a long time, feeling rage and sadness and fear. I thought:

“Wow. The world is an even worse place than I thought it was.”

“How do people of color ever find peace or joy or safety in a society so filled with hate and white supremacy?”

“What if we actually purchased a home in a place where we will never form meaningful friendships and find community?”

I went to bed, but slept fitfully. I woke up around 1:00 am thinking about the note and about Walter Wallace Jr. I read a few news articles about his death at the hands of police officers during a mental health crisis. Wallace suffered from bipolar disorder. I thought about my beloved aunt who struggled with the same mental health condition (yesterday was actually her birthday, Happy Birthday Aunt MA, we miss you).

I composed part of this Facebook post and fell back asleep for a few hours.

Response

I finalized my Facebook message and hit “post” over breakfast. A few hours later Richard reached out to our neighbors in a private group on Nextdoor (you can read his thoughtful note below).

At the time of this writing, my Facebook post has received 150 supportive comments (ok, 40% of those are me thanking people… because it’s a global pandemic and I’m starved for connection) and 12 shares, including a share from the Absalom Jones Center for Racial Healing (they do great work, you should go like their Facebook page). The commenters on my post have ranged from best friends to folks I have not spoken to since High School. They have been friends of color sharing their gratitude for our commitment to racial justice and white friends sharing stories of similar experiences – having signs stolen or even ripped up.

A dozen neighbors have responded with support on our Nextdoor post. Here are just a few of their responses:

“Richard and Sarah. This is unbelievable. We live right across from you at —. I have seen your sign and felt comforted that our neighbors are like minded and stand for equality. We are with you. This has been a tough time for all of us, no doubt. It takes a coward to go to the trouble of typing a note to leave anonymously in your mailbox. How hurtful and ignorant. Know you are not alone and have plenty of neighbors who stand with you. And, welcome!!”

“This individual (more like perpetrator) doesn’t have the right to speak on behalf of the neighborhood and our household recognizes that this world is full of all kinds of beautiful and different people. We’re about inclusion and open dialogue, not division and hate. We’ll be glad to take part in any civilized conversation on the matter. That goes for political sign stealing too by the way. Other people are allowed to have different opinions than you.”

“I love your sign. it’s what inspired me to put a Biden/Harris sign in my yard along with a Black Lives Matter flag. We are so glad you are in the neighborhood. I don’t know who left that nasty note, but they certainly do not speak for the neighborhood.”

Hope

I imagine that whoever took the time to type that note and put it in our mailbox wanted us to feel scared, intimidated, and isolated. But ultimately, that is the opposite of what happened.

This note has led to reconnection with old friends and new connections with the folks living near us. It has led to a sense of righteous anger shared among many others in the world. To a sense of support that has bolstered our confidence and inspired us to even more courage. It has led us to recommit to working for justice and peace among all people and inspired some of our neighbors to order BLM signs.

I certainly have a complex relationship with social media (anyone else watch The Social Dilemma on Netflix?), but this week I’m grateful for it.

I may have felt fear, despair, and isolation for one night, but forty-eight hours later there is hope and connection and resolve. Somehow, a hateful note led to an increase of love. All I can say is that God must have been at work here. And I’m grateful.

Richard’s Nextdoor Post

For anyone who may not be aware, my wife Sarah and I live at —-, and we have a “Black Lives Matter” sign in our yard and have since early June. We strongly believe in racial equity and social justice. We believe that systemic racism is a pervasive and deeply rooted issue in this country. We wish to do everything in our power to be anti-racist allies to the people of color in our neighborhood and surrounding community.

When we originally ordered the “Black Lives Matter” sign, we knew there was a possibility it would upset someone. After much deliberation, we decided that a public display of our own allyship and support to the people of color who live or work in this neighborhood was more important. More important than our own or anyone else’s discomfort. Choosing whether or not we want to live in this discomfort is, in and of itself, a privilege.

We refuse to apologize for these beliefs, and the purpose of this post is not to debate them.

Last night, a full 4 months after we put the “Black Lives Matter” sign in the front yard, we found this anonymous note in our mailbox. It reads:

“Nothing like moving to a new state, town and neighborhood and immediately isolate yourself from 98.5% of the residents by placing your sign out front for all to see.

Congratulations……Welcome to the hood!”

Purchasing this home was one of the most exciting times in our lives. We closed on the house in late March. A global pandemic hitting its stride as our moving truck pulled out of the driveway was never how we imagined establishing our first home in a new neighborhood. We have really struggled with how to engage our new neighbors without compromising the health and safety of ourselves or anyone else. The few of you we have interacted with in person or on Nextdoor, you have all been incredibly kind and friendly folks! We’re hopeful that this person is wrong and that 98.5% of you won’t “isolate” yourself from us because of our views or how we choose to express them.

It saddens us that someone felt this was an appropriate way to communicate with us. This person took the time to type this note up, print it out, and walk it over to our mailbox instead of engaging us directly. Neglecting to sign their name shows that they know its wrong and want to avoid associating themselves with such an action. Whoever you are, our emails and cell phone numbers are publicly available in the neighborhood directory if you’d like to make a different choice in the future.

All that to say, anonymous note writer, whoever you are, know that we got your note, we will not be intimidated by you, and we will not be taking our sign down.

Respectfully,

Richard and Sarah Bentley Allred

Meaningful Work For This Moment

Much has happened in the last two months, in the world and in our own lives. Six weeks ago Richard and I got on a plane to Little Rock, Arkansas to meet our first Godchild, Lydia Marie McKeever. We enjoyed a low key week of baby snuggles, family dinners, walks, boardgames, and local dining with our best friends from seminary. All the while we watched the news as reports of the COVID-19 spread grew worse and worse.

We returned to North Carolina on a Friday and Sunday was the first day of St. John’s now indefinite building closure. Thus began three marathon weeks of moving into being the church dispersed, the church without physical gatherings.

That Monday, we closed on a house in Wake Forest. March 16, 2020 will forever be the day we became homeowners! Social distancing practices were increasing rapidly and local businesses began closing. So we decided to change our moving date from April 24th to March 27th. We packed our entire house in less than two weeks while working overtime.

We’ve been here in the new house for three weeks today. The kitchen table is still covered with miscellaneous objects waiting to find homes. Only two pieces of artwork have made it onto the walls. Each room has at least one unpacked box sitting on the floor. And today our bed is stacked high with laundry to be folded and put away.

We leave the house only to walk the dog, visit the store, or get gas. So there is no escape from the mess, and I hate that. But everyday as I work on my computer in the living room, I can see butterflies and bees buzzing around the azalea just outside the window. We look down upon a stunning flowering dogwood from the master bathroom and there are literally roses budding in our front yard.

It seems to me that the strangest thing about this season is the emotional complexity many of us are experiencing. There is the obvious anxiety, fear, loneliness, boredom, frustration, disappointment, grief, and heartbreak. We are afraid of catching the virus or having a loved one catch the virus. We miss physical intimacy with people outside our own households. We miss activities and routine. We are grieving the birthday parties that will not take place, the trips that are canceled, and the milestones that will be missed or postponed. We are heartbroken as we learn of the suffering around the world – both the literal physical suffering of those with COVID-19 and the catastrophic impact of the pandemic on billions of people’s ability to thrive.

But there is also immense gratitude, relief in a slower pace, innovation, excitement, and joy. We are discovering new levels of thankfulness for everything from clean air to video conference technology. We are inspired to reconnect with old friends. We are excited to have time for gardening and long walks and books we’ve been meaning to get to. We are so glad to be healthy, housed, and fed.

My hardest work over the last few weeks has been in holding it all together. As in, feeling multiple emotions at once. Often this feels like what Brené Brown calls “foreboding joy.” As soon as I lean into the joy of a walk in perfect 70 degree weather, I think, “Don’t get too comfortable or happy. The next dead person could be someone I love.”

It certainly could be, but that is not happening today. And no amount of anticipatory fear will keep the people I love safe. So, day by day I’m reminding myself that Dr. Brown’s research shows gratitude is the antidote to foreboding joy.

I’ll be here, in my chair by the azalea bush, for the foreseeable future, praying for the world and trying to cultivate as much gratitude as I can. It seems like meaningful work for this moment, and I think meaningful work is one of the best things we can hope for in this lifetime.

Landing Fully In This Beautiful Moment

As some of you know, I’ve struggled with stomach issues for almost a decade, but I have not shared the whole story with many people. The way my condition unfolded has left me with significant emotional baggage – I have a distrust of Western medicine, I’m afraid of contracting even minor illnesses, and I am embarrassed to ask others to accommodate my diet. Over the past few months I’ve been working hard to reevaluate how I think about my health and the stories I’ve been telling myself about the fall I got sick. As part of that work, I’d like to share some of my health story and a bit about where I am today. This process has made me so grateful for the folks who have walked with me on this journey – especially my parents who have never stopped searching for ways to help me feel my best. Thanks Mom & Dad! This is long… sorry in advance!

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A few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend and I saw her wince as she moved her left arm. “I may have an issue with my rotator cuff,” she confessed. “Have you seen a doctor?” I asked right away. She sighed, “Not yet, I’ve been hoping it would get better.”

I know that feeling. The mental aerobics one does to justify ignoring a problem: “the discomfort is not that bad,” “it hasn’t been that long, I’ll give it some more time,” “it’s probably nothing,” “it seemed a little better yesterday.” I am also all too familiar with the nagging voice that says, “No, this is not getting better. You’re going to have to see someone about this.” And the sinking feeling of fear in the pit of your stomach that something might really be wrong.

It has been nine years since the summer of 2010 when I began getting nauseas after eating and struggling to get through the day without a nap. But I remember the mental aerobics well. It’s the heat, I thought. This summer is hotter than last summer. I’ll feel better when camp is over and I’m back in school.

In September, I didn’t go back to college. The study abroad program I was planning to attend was canceled. And I was definitely sick.  I had been home from camp for a few weeks, relaxing and soaking in the air conditioning. But my nausea and fatigue grew worse.

Before long my initial mild anxiety shifted to panic as dozens of blood tests came back negative, medication after medication made no impact, nothing looked abnormal on the ultra sound or the endoscopy or the gastric emptying scan. Each new doctor said they could find nothing wrong. And yet, I couldn’t eat anything without feeling sick to my stomach. I was constantly fatigued and spent many hours a day in bed.

Months dragged by. I dropped pound after pound and my hope began to fade. What if I never figured out what was wrong? What if I never got better?

I spent the little energy I was able to muster that long fall working as a youth ministry intern at a local church a few hours a week. Everywhere I went I carried ginger chews, mint gum, sea sick wrist bands, and a plastic grocery bag in case I needed to puke while I was driving or standing in line at a store (this never actually happened, but the ever-present nausea made me anxious it would). At church I would sit in the back row so no one would notice if I didn’t have enough energy to stand for all the hymns and prayers. This is how I spent my first few months as a 21 year old.

Eventually, my doctors sent me to a psychiatrist. They could find “nothing physically wrong,” so it must be psychological, they reasoned. Anxiety was causing my nausea.

In December, my parents met with an acupuncturist. They came home encouraged for the first time in weeks. That first acupuncture session was long and exhausting. It was the most detailed medical history I had been asked to give, and the first time anyone had asked what I was eating. It was also a major turning point in terms of my health, the acupuncture helped. It allowed me to return to college in January (though I was still sick and weighed only 115 pounds). 

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My body has healed slowly over the last nine years. For the first few years I focused on treating the anxiety and depression that doctors told me must be the cause of my nausea and fatigue. I was strengthened enough by the acupuncture and antidepressants (and the grace of God) to complete college and get a full time job.

In the fall of 2014, my therapist suggested tracking my stomach discomfort along side my anxiety. I recorded each time I felt anxious and each time I felt nauseous on a scale of 0-10. After three months, it was clear that there was no correlation. So, I sought out a naturopathic doctor. During my first appointment, she diagnosed me with “leaky gut syndrome” and prescribed significant dietary changes.

During Lent 2015 I did my first elimination diet. The program I used is called Whole30 and requires cutting out all grains, dairy, legumes, alcohol, and sugar. Six weeks later I felt better than I had felt in the last five years. I have not eaten gluten or dairy on a regular basis since.

My nausea and fatigue significantly improved over the next two years, but in 2017 I found myself waking up in the middle of the night feeling very nauseous on a regular basis. My parents heard gastroenterologist Dr. Robynne Chutkan on The Peoples Pharmacy and suggested I read one of her books. When I realized she had an office in DC, I decided to make an appointment. Dr. Chutkan agreed that I suffered from leaky gut syndrome and also diagnosed me with dysbiosis, an imbalance of gut bacteria. While I had made great strides in cutting out foods that contributed to my leaky gut, I had not been eating enough vegetables to support the good bacteria in rebalancing my microbiome. I soon added a strong probiotic and daily green smoothie to my diet which has made a significant difference in my nausea.

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I’ve come a long way in nine years, but this healing process is taking so much longer than I ever anticipated, so much longer than I desire. I still carry seasick bands in my purse and I still have ginger tea in the kitchen cabinet, although I only feel so sick I have to stay in bed once every few months now.

Crossing the threshold into my third decade this past summer provided a good opportunity to survey my life. I found myself married to a fantastic partner with a dog I love dearly. Successful in my vocation, with a masters degree and two jobs I love. Surrounded by deep friendships and loving extended family. And more functional, less sick than I used to be.

Nine years after spiraling into illness at the age of 21 I still consider myself a sick person. A person improving, coping, functional, but sick. A person panicked by feeling nauseous and fearful of illnesses of all types. The healing of my mind, heart, and soul has not quite kept up with the healing of my body. I even had a comprehensive evaluation by a new integrative doctor here in Durham this past summer. Because I have not fully landed. I’m still searching for a fuller explanation. I know I don’t always eat what I should and that causes nausea. But why am I still fatigued? What if all the doctors missed something? What if there is an additional underlying cause for my symptoms?

Well, maybe there is. But maybe there is not. Maybe I am healthy, maybe I am just someone who needs to live a particular lifestyle to feel her best. Maybe I’ll always need 81/2 hours of sleep a night and a diet primarily comprised of fruits, vegetables, and clean meats.

This November I’ll be doing a second Whole30 – and I’m so excited Richard is going to join me!!! I’ll be focusing my food reintegration on beans, corn, oats, rice and a few other items to see if there are some additional foods I need to avoid to feel my best.

My hope is that I will feel significantly healthier at the end of theWhole30 and this will help ground me, help me accept that I am no longer sick, this is just the new normal. I am a healthy person that needs to live a certain way. I can stop searching, my anxiety can rest. I can land fully in the present moment of this beautiful life I have with all of you.

 

Photo Credit: Richard Allred

I’m Taking You With Me

Less than two weeks ago, on July 2nd, I left home and headed to my first day in the office at St. John’s Episcopal Church in Wake Forest. It’s a bit of a drive, forty minutes or so along NC-98. I put on some music, inspected the beautiful North Carolina countryside out the window, and let my thoughts wander.

So many of you came to mind.

I thought about my many classmates starting new jobs the same week, especially my neighbors Elizabeth and Elisabeth entering small parishes in Little Rock, Arkansas and Bovina, Mississippi.

I thought about the people of St. Mary’s, how I had been saying goodbye to them just three short years ago. How glad I was to be back in the Diocese North Carolina.

I thought about my family, how good it had been to be together at the beach just a few weeks earlier, how grateful I was that they were proud of me. I prayed for all those who have strained relationships with their loved ones, for people who do not feel that their parents are proud of them.

I thought about Richard and all that had happened since we left Charlotte in the rearview less than three years ago. I gave thanks again for his willingness to support us financially so that I could take this job I felt called to, though it had not been the most lucrative offer.

I thought of the many people I spoke with and met in person on my job search. I wondered if the other churches I interviewed with had filled their positions.

I thought of my mentors over the years. I gave thanks for my chance meeting with Lisa Kimball at a conference in 2015 that led me to start exploring the idea of going to seminary in earnest.

I thought about the many experiences, from the churches I attended growing up and the mission trips I participated in to the formative experiences I had in college, that had led to this job. The unique chain of events that landed me on the precipice of this moment.

I thought about Brad Thompson, the Director I worked with for three summers at Camp Kanuga. At every staff meeting between camp sessions he had us “close the book” on the last session and “open the book” on the next. I was living in that moment – the space between the close and the open. The end of the old and the beginning of the new.

By the time I pulled into the mostly empty parking lot at St. John’s, I was no longer alone, but surrounded by a vast cloud of witnesses. Though most of the folks I had thought about on my drive were hundreds of miles away, the sense of closeness was palpable. I sat for a moment in the parked car, a smile crossing my lips and a tune on my breath…

“Wherever I go
I’m taking you with me
Wherever I go,
You’re coming along
Cause you’re in my blood
Capturing my soul now
Yeah you’re in my heart
And thats where you belong…”

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*As I’ve officially “closed the book” on seminary, moved back to North Carolina, and begun work at St. John’s and writing for Building Faith… I really cannot consider this a “Letter from Seminary.” However, I’ve enjoyed writing on this platform so much, I’ve decided to keep going. I’m opening a new book, and I’m taking you with me. So, this is the first edition of “Letters from Seminary… And Beyond.”

Photo Credit: Richard Allred

This Place. These People.

I’ve been reflecting a lot lately about my arrival at Virginia Theological Seminary, those first few rocky months, and all that has taken place since. I remember going to chapel during the first few weeks of school. The space felt bland. Morning prayer felt unfamiliar. The congregation felt like strangers, the congregation was made up of strangers. And every day during the prayers of the people when the intercessor said, “We give thanks for the blessings of this life, aloud and in the silence of our hearts,” one of my classmates would loudly proclaim, “for this place and these people.” In those first few weeks, I always bristled when I heard his prayer. “Yeah,” I thought sarcastically, “this place is so great. These people are wonderful. They are really bending over backwards to make sure the dyslexic kid can succeed and that families are comfortable while they wait for apartments and all their stuff is in storage…”

In time I made peace with the people and the place. Things became more grey than black and white. I could see a beautiful, if imperfect, collective striving towards the Kingdom of God. I would hear the voice in chapel ring out, “for this place and these people,” and I would find a soft smile spread across my lips.

A few weeks ago, as classes were concluding and deadlines for final papers creeping up, I stood in chapel praying the intercessions yet again. As I paused to silently contemplate my blessings, the voice of a first year student sitting close behind me clearly declared, “for this place and these people.” I was flooded by warmth. My soul reverberated with the same sentiment. As my time here comes to an end, I too am so grateful for this place and these people.

 

 

A week ago today I entered Immanuel Chapel for the last time as an Mdiv student at Virginia Theological Seminary. Commencement was a joyful celebration of hard work, true transformation, and meaningful relationships. But soon after the reception, it turned bittersweet as the first of my classmates got into packed cars and drove away.

In the end, I loved this place and these people with my whole heart. And I am not ready to say goodbye. I’ve gotten to explore my passions, to learn from incredible professors, to teach Godly Play, to sit drinking coffee with friends, to worship every day of the week, to laugh and cry with people I love. I don’t want the courtyard baseball or the “does anyone have a tablespoon of coriander” texts or the Sunday night neighbor dinners to end.

But every day for a week I’ve said a good bye, or two, or three. The truth is this season is already over. It is time to step out into something new. I’ll be carrying with me a deep gratitude for this place, these people, and our last three years. For both the joy and the pain. And most especially, for the powerful love of these people that remains. While it will be different, may our new chapter of friendship be just as rich, just as sweet, just as deep. Here we go.

 

Photo Credit: Richard Allred

Bated Breath

Last night, around 7:30PM, my friend Elisabeth, Elisabeth’s mother, and  I stepped out of a parking garage elevator onto a stone courtyard with the magnificent edifice of the Washington National Cathedral towering above us. We hurried inside to find seats among the hundreds of other worshipers gathering for the Easter Vigil, the most significant liturgy of the Christian year. As we waited for the service to begin, the excitement in the room was palpable. The setting could not have been more splendid. Large arrangements of spring flowers decorated the lectern, pulpit, baptismal font, altar, and many columns. Large silver vessels were set out for communion. Multiple torches and crosses stood ready for procession.

At 8:00, the dimmed lights faded into darkness and the crowd grew still. Turning to face the back of the church, we could see the glow of a new fire, just kindled, begin to flicker and grow, spreading light up the stone walls.  Then the voice of Bishop Mariann Budde rang out into the stillness:

“Dear friends in Christ: On this most holy night, in which our Lord Jesus passed over from death to life, the Church invites her members, dispersed throughout the world, to gather in vigil and prayer. For this is the Passover of the Lord, in which, by hearing his Word and celebrating his Sacraments, we share in his victory over death” (Book of Common Prayer, page 285).

I stood on tip toes to look for the Paschal Candle, I knew it was being lit from the first fire of Easter. I could not quite see the candle over the crowd, but I could see the light begin to spread forward and the top of the processional cross begin to move down the aisle. It was the most quiet I have ever heard a crowd of hundreds. We stood with bated breath, holding our small taper candles, and waiting for the light to reach us. As the loooooong procession moved down the aisle, the choir members paused every few rows to share the light. I lit my candle from the candle of a stranger standing next to me and I watched the light spreading, slowly and quietly (you can see it happen on the video from the live stream here). From somewhere in front of us the shrill voice of a cantor sung out, “The light of Christ” and we responded, “Thanks be to God.”

The service was a slow and steady movement from darkness into light, sadness into joy, despair into hope. When we left the service over 2 1/2 hours later, the world outside the Cathedral was essentially the same as we had left it: Christians in Louisiana and Paris were still unable to worship in their churches due to recent fires, devastating climate change still barreled down on us, and billions of people worldwide still lacked access to clean water. I cannot speak for anyone else who attended The Great Vigil of Easter last night, but when I left the National Cathedral something substantive had shifted within me. The light of Christ made visible in the new fire of Easter, the Paschal Candle, and the hundreds of individual candles held by worshipers touched the light of Christ within me. My hope was renewed and my desire to respond to the violence, pain, hatred, and suffering in this world with love was reaffirmed.

The work I have been called to these last few months (and these last three years) has been good work. I have visited over a dozen different congregations for my independent study on intergenerational worship. I’ve interviewed for jobs and anxiously discerned. I’ve read about spiritual direction, ministry in small parishes, and liturgy in the context of trauma. I’ve been to the National Museum of African American History and Culture three times to witness the intertwined stories of violence and resilience. I’ve laughed and cried with friends as we hold each other through good moments and bad.

It has been good, hard work. But as graduation draws near (25 days from today!), I find myself waiting with bated breath just as I did last night. I know new life is coming. I know it is coming, but until I begin to live it, I don’t really know what it will be like. I will have new work. I will live in a new place. I will make new friends. There will certainly be some great adventures, but there will certainly be some pain too.

We were talking about church change in one of my classes recently and the professor noted, “People are not afraid of change, they are afraid of loss.” So true. This recent sense of bated breath is a combination of excitement for what is to come and the fear of what I will loose, what I will leave behind. With change there is almost always loss. But “change is gonna come.” What remains is love. May love be enough!

The Sacred Imperfection of Worship Created Together

Time fell away for me this past Sunday. It was one of those rare days in which I was truly present. Seven hours flew by with only a few coffee hour nibbles, but by body did not protest as usual. I remember nearly every detail, and yet I barely realized time had passed at all.

It was sprinkling as I walked from Thinkers Café to St. Gregory of Nyssa Episcopal Church in San Fransisco, coffee in hand. The outer doors were wide open. Just outside I took a moment to close my umbrella and take a deep breath. Here I was. I flew hundreds of miles for this moment, this place, this experience. As I pushed through the inner glass doors my gaze lifted magnetically to the icons on the walls high above: vibrant images of our cloud of witnesses, from Elizabeth I to Malcom X, dancing together following Jesus’ lead.

Back on ground level I was greeted warmly and invited to make a name tag (red sharpie for first time visitors). I picked up a bulletin and the St. Gregory’s music book and moved from the open rotunda to a spot in the seating area and prepared for the 8:00AM daybreak service of psalm singing and silence. I searched for stillness, but found myself overwhelmed by my surroundings. I had never in my life been in such a worship space.  It is hard to even find the words to describe it: eclectic? engaging? imaginative? colorful? sensory? Certainly unique. The ninety dancing saints were complimented by many other icons around the edges of the space. Lovely oriental rugs covered parts of the floor. Many high windows let in streams of morning light. Green cloths of various shades and patterns covered tables and hung from crosses of various sizes marking the liturgical season. Soon, the smell of incense began to waft my way and the sound of psalms chanted unaccompanied mingled with the sound of a strong rain on the roof. Later, the warm embrace of strangers passing the peace would mix with the taste of wine and homemade bread to complete the sensory experience.

I took three pages of notes during my extended morning at St. Gregory’s, pencil scratched across the blank spaces in my bulletin and later typed out in an organized form. Of course, my curiosity was peaked by many different liturgical elements: Where did that Eucharistic Prayer come from? What do the multitude of processional crosses forming the backdrop for the reading of scripture mean to the community? Do both priests preach at alternating services every Sunday? All good questions. But what intrigued me even more (no surprise) was the way children participated in worship.

• An elementary school boy was invited to ring a large bell at the beginning of worship. He did so quite confidently, as if he had done so before, and moved quickly back to his family smiling.
• A toddler pointed at the colorful icons on the walls from a carrier on his father’s chest.
• A teenager was invited to light some candles at the beginning of worship. An adult stepped up the help with a few she could not reach.
• During the sung Lord’s Prayer, a child danced in the aisle for a few moments then returned to her seat.
• As the worship service continued children moved around, fetching clay from a shelf of children’s items, going to the bathroom, sitting with a friend then returning to their parents.
• As the presider chanted the Eucharistic Prayer, many children held up their hands in just the same way.
• When we were invited to place our right hands on the shoulder of the person next to us and join in the Christ-led dance pictured above our heads, the children led the way grabbing percussion instruments from under the altar.
• A “shy” six-year-old was ushered forward for a birthday blessing by a multitude. During coffee hour she sat on so many laps that I could never figure out which adult(s) she came with.

As children led worship, I never once saw an adult give a high five, a thumbs up, a pat on the back, or exclaim “Great job,” as if the child had unexpectedly accomplished a demanding task with great expertise. Instead, the same generous, grateful smiles were bestowed upon the adult who read from the Old Testament and the child who rang the bell. Worship leadership at St. Gregory’s is shared by the young and the old, the newcomers and the long timers, the experts and the novices. No one is congratulated for a job well done in a patronizing fashion and no one is scolded for below average functioning of some kind.

Certainly, in this sort of worship culture things might not be done “right.” Someone forgot to announce the book from which the scripture would be read and a priest jumped in. Times of silence were marked by the noises of children. Two people with chalices approached the same person to offer wine as we stood in the round. Many of us stumbled through the music from a new music book. But, these minor liturgical blunders were inconsequential in comparison to the holiness of shared leadership. Dancing together. Praying for each other. Passing the cup to one another.

On this day, if not all days, things done together, imperfectly, fostered more sacred worship than things done “right” could ever have. As a good friend of mine says, “Nothing. Nothing. Not even a liturgical misstep can separate us from the love of God.” And for this I am grateful.

Trading Stories: How a museum visit compelled me to change part of my personal narrative

November and December flew by. Final papers, holiday gatherings, wrapping paper, and board games with family danced across our lives faster than the sugar plum fairies at the Charlotte Ballet (I HIGHLY recommend the Nutcracker in Charlotte by the way!). But one experience keeps crossing my mind in vivid detail…

Just before Thanksgiving I stepped onto the elevator at the National Museum of African American History and Culture with more than a dozen other visitors. As we descended three floors below street level to the history galleries, I yearned to know the stories of these fellow travelers. Older adults, young couples, families with children: why are you here? What does this mean to you? These thoughts permeated my slow hours at the museum. I stood side by side with strangers reading about medical experiments preformed on enslaved people without their consent. I listened to a soft, tearful conversation between a mother and preteen daughter as we looked at an old newspaper picture of a brutal lynching. I followed the crowd as it circled around the statues of our founding fathers contemplating “The Paradox of Liberty.” I will never know the names or the circumstances of those who walked through these exhibits next to me, but I hope the experience was as powerful for them as it was for me.

The power of the museum comes, in part, from the effective use of images. Allow me to give just three examples. In a small case near the looming statues of the founding fathers sit Thomas Jefferson’s glasses, spectacle case, penholder, compass, and paperweight. The sign below them is titled, “Thomas Jefferson’s Tools” and reads, in part, “Jefferson wrote justifications for both American independence and racial inequality.” I spent some time looking at these “tools,” particularly the glasses. They evoked in me a flare of anger which quickly dissolved into sadness and a sense of irony. How could this Christian, so passionate about freedom, write “all men are created equal” and enslave more than six-hundred people in his lifetime? As I thought about the different narratives of Thomas Jefferson, for example those presented at Monticello, William & Mary, or the University of Virginia, I realized how often we justify such paradoxes rather than doing the painful, uncomfortable work of sitting with them. According to the website for Monticello, “Throughout his entire life, Thomas Jefferson was publicly a consistent opponent of slavery.” That does not make his slave ownership ok, though I’ve heard this kind of justification before. In fact, I’ve used it myself. I know my great-grandmother grew up on a plantation in Georgia and was raised by a black woman. I’ve always thought, if my ancestors had enslaved people or underpaid African-Americans who worked for them, it was just how the world was at that time. I’m sure they treated them better than some other families. In wrestling with the image of Thomas Jefferson’s glasses, I traded in my former narrative, informed by cultural relativism, for a different story. A more painful story. My white, middle class privilege is a direct benefit of the wrongful enslavement of people of color by my ancestors.

Around the corner from Jefferson’s glasses, I found a set of “Gynecological Surgical Instruments, ca. 1852.” These instruments, a speculum, needle holder, needle, and silver wire, were used by Dr. J. Marion Sims. Sims experimented on enslaved women without using anesthesia. What he learned from these experiments made him a fortune and he is remembered as the “father of American gynecology.” This story evoked a fury within me. What injustice! Sims got rich and is remembered as a medical pioneer. Lucy, Anarcha, and Betsy were forcibly, painfully operated on multiple times and we do not even know their last names.

I imagine they had no power to prevent these agonizing operations. Again, power and privilege taken at the expense of people of color. And again, I benefit directly. I visit a gynecologist yearly. Whether I think about it or not, when I receive gynecological medical treatment, my story is inextricably linked to Lucy, Anarcha, Betsy (and so many more women whose names and faces I will never know) because of professional knowledge gained through their pain.

One level up, I was confronted by vivid images of lynching during the Era of Segregation. Not one or two, but many images, including a room dedicated to the story of Emmett Till who was brutally lynched at age fourteen. In the midst of this exhibit I found a glass case with a small piece of rope, no more than six inches long, that was used in the lynching of Matthew Williams. The rope had been saved by a photographer, Paul Henderson, who reported on William’s murder. The rope was displayed in such a way that I was able to get extremely close. I could see the individual fibers that made up the piece of rope. It provoked in me confusion and frustration. Rope is so neutral. I’ve used rope to go rock climbing. To hang laundry while camping. To secure furniture while moving. To play jump rope. But this rope was a murder weapon. Like the glasses of Jefferson and the needle holder of Sims, this neutral object was given meaning by narrative and became a powerful symbol of injustice. When I use rope, I am connected to all other rope users across history, from those who built the Great Pyramid of Giza to those who murdered Matthew Williams in 1921.

As I reflected on these three images, I realized that the basic narrative I brought to the viewing of each, and African American history and culture as a whole, was distance. I had a sense of separation, otherness. A sense that “their history” was a story of injustice and that “their culture” was born of oppression. But the only way I could make sense of the images, the only way I could sit with them without justifying, was to connect each to my own life and, therefore, acknowledge my personal responsibility in the injustice that still exists in this world. This experience forced me to connect my story to the story of African Americans and the story of racism, oppression, and injustice in this country.

By no means was visiting the National Museum of African American History and Culture a joyful experience. But it was an incredibly important experience. An experience I have come to believe could lead to at least a small degree of racial reconciliation in this country. For starters, the museum acknowledges wrongdoing and recognizes victims. It is a public, government sponsored acknowledgement of centuries of wrong doing. It makes a definitive claim: this is not how the world should be. The curators went to great lengths to recognize victims, by name if possible. For example, the display showing gynecological tools used by the “father of American gynecology” included the names of three enslaved women he operated on without anesthesia, Lucy, Anarcha, and Betsy. The definitive moral judgement made by the museum as a whole, the way African Americans have been treated throughout history is not how the world should be, provides a doorway to healing memory. Healing memory can take place when those who have been wronged feel the injustices they have experienced have been authentically recognized.

Second, the National Museum of African American History and Culture is a place for African Americans, to honor their ancestors, those brutally murdered and those who fought for freedom across the centuries. The way the space is set, the phrasing on plaques, and tone of the exhibits all contribute to a narrative of respect and honor for the individuals and groups remembered in the museum. Many exhibits, especially the room honoring Emmett Till, feel sacred. There is a strong sense of common humanity, so showing fidelity to the dead feels most natural in this space. Beyond a sense of shared humanity, the museum provides an opportunity for the strengthening of the African American identity in all its complexity. There is plenty to mourn, but there is also so much to be proud of, African Americans throughout history who have fought for freedom and made unparalleled contributions to society from science and medicine to art and music.

Third, the museum helps consolidate our understanding of history and provide an outlet for emotion. The detail within each section, exhibit, and individual display within the National Museum of African American History and Culture is incredible. These details provide facts (dates, times, locations, names, etc.) that are beyond dispute, making it nearly impossible to deny or forget these events of African American history. The power of the history presented in this museum is its polyphony. Within a clear set of historical facts, the narratives of oppression, struggle, triumph, injustice, and freedom run side by side. While some memorials present a single story, the richness of this memorial comes from the multiple narrative meanings interwoven into each level of the museum. On the same floor, wood from the ships that brought slaves to the United States tell a story of injustice and a silk lace shawl worn by Harriet Tubman tells a heroic story.

While the power of truth-telling represented in the National Museum of African American History and Culture cannot be underestimated, I believe it is the multiplicity of narratives within the museum that contributes most significantly to the museum’s potential as a force for racial reconciliation. There are so many individual stories and so many overarching narrative meanings within the exhibits, it would be difficult for visitors not to connect with the museum on a personal level. It is almost impossible not to recognize yourself in one or more of the stories. I believe it is this personal connection that will create changes within individuals and groups that improve relationships leading to reconciliation.

There is a lot that the church could learn from the National Museum of African American History and Culture in terms of working for reconciliation. In concluding this reflection, let me highlight just one things. Christian communities are called to continuously remind their members and the larger society that the injustices of the world do not have the last word. If reconciliation is to take place, there must be people, groups, organizations, institutions willing to consistently hold the hope of a world without the atrocities of systematic oppression, torture, and genocide. Our liturgy holds this hope, together we enact the world as it should be, pray for God’s intervention to make it so, and go forth to be part of God’s transformation of the world that is mysteriously already and not yet.

 

Note: I visited National Museum of African American History and Culture for my Christian Ethics class this past semester. This blog is part of my final paper for that class.

Photos: From the National Museum of African American History and Culture, taken during my visit.

Turning Leaves

Fall set in just last week. September and the first weeks of October were so warm that coats, sweatshirts, and even heavy sweaters were absent from the pews outside the chapel, benches outside the refectory, and the backs of chairs in classrooms. But the leaves are starting to turn yellow, red, and orange and I’ve pulled out a warm coat for walking Grace in the mornings.

Even before the leaves began to change, a restless feeling began to ripple through my class. We’ve turned the corner towards the homestretch of seminary. For some it seems to feel like the last, long leg of a marathon. At any given time, a few of my classmates can tell you the exact number of days until graduation. But for me it feels like a candle burning down to the base. I want to enjoy the light for as long as it lasts because I know when the light dies out my closes friends will scatter to Mississippi, Arkansas, Wisconsin, and Kansas. Our impromptu gatherings on the porch, Tuesday dinners, and walks around campus will  morph into text message conversations and yearly gatherings (if we are lucky).

Of course in the meantime there are papers to write and books to read. There are the normal frustrations of living in community and the everyday joys of free coffee and deep laughter. In the midst of it all I wonder where the great dispersal of May 2019 will leave us. I am eager to put into practice all I have learned. But mostly I am impatient with the uncertainty. Will there be any open Christian formation positions in North Carolina? Will anything be full-time? Will I have to do youth and adult formation as well as children’s ministry in order to get a full-time gig? Will just the right job be in some super small town – or some random state far away from our families? What compromises will we have to make? Will Richard and I agree about which job to take? How much will it cost us to move?

I want to enjoy the last chapter of this once-in-a-lifetime seminary experience while knowing how the book ends. If only I could flip forward to the last page then go back and read the final chapter slowly and carefully. But as it stands, the leaves of this book will turn on God’s time, not mine. I want to dig in, to work harder, to send out more resumes, to allow the anxiety to propel me towards the first good option that comes my way. But oh how much better off I would be to trust in the slow work of God. I desire to “accept the anxiety of feeling in suspense,” but I am not there yet. Until then, I keep praying, day by day, “Trust in the slow work of God….” (a prayer from Pierre Teilhard de Chardin).

Leaves changing on campus (top) and a walk at Huntley Meadows, Alexandria with our neighbor, James (above).

Photo Credit: Richard Allred

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Trust in the Slow Work of God 

by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.

We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay.

We should like to skip the intermediate stages.

We are impatient of being on the way to something unknown, something new.

And yet it is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through

some stages of instability-

and that it may take a very long time.

And so I think it is with you.

Your ideas mature gradually– let them grow,

let them shape themselves without undue haste.

Don’t try to force them on as though you could be today what time

(that is to say, grace and circumstances

acting on your own good will)

will make of you tomorrow.

Only God could say what this new spirit gradually forming within you will be.

Give our Lord the benefit of believing that His hand is leading you,

and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself

in suspense and incomplete.

                                                Amen.