"God is Many Different Things...

On the tac board in my office there is a picture colored by one of the children in our Learning Community.  It's a butterfly--and Anaya has colored the butterfly boldly using shades of orange and yellow, among others. It's a beautiful picture and she has done a wonderful job coloring it but it's not the image of the butterfly that prompted me to tack this picture up on my cork board when Anaya gave it to me over a year ago.  No, it's what she has written above the butterfly that moved me.  Above the butterfly, in her most careful handwriting, she wrote "God is Many Different Things."   These are wise words coming from such a young person.  They are words I find myself thinking about even more these days as I prepare to transition out of my position here at University Christian Church at the end of June.

"God is Many Different Things..."

It's easy to see God in the beginnings: the birth of a baby, the gleeful laughter of a young child, the first flowers blooming in Spring.  Yes, it is easy (at least most of the time) to see God in these beautiful moments of new life, of fresh starts. 

It's not always so easy, however, to see God in the endings, the changes, the transitions: the death of a dearly loved grandparent, a child leaving home to go to college or head into the work force, the grayest day in December when snow blankets the ground.  It can be so challenging to see God when things are cold, when we're a bit sad; when we don't know what the future might bring. 

But Anaya reminds us that "God is Many Different Things..."

God is not just the resurrection, God is also present in the death that must come before the dawn.  God is not just the birth of Jesus in a manger but also the Jesus we see on the cross.

"God is Many Different Things."

Death and resurrection. Hello and goodbye. God is present in it all.

As I pack my books in boxes, sort out my files and label them for safekeeping, it is my hope that I will remember that just as God was present in the first greetings I received here at University Christian so God is also present in the last goodbyes, the final exchanges of hugs and farewells.

"God is Many Different Things" Anaya reminds us. May we have the wisdom to learn this truth.

The tac board (butterfly included) that holds Anaya's wise words and beautiful work: 

Extra-Ordinary

Yesterday I had the privilege of preaching at University Lutheran Church, one of our sister church's here in the University District.  It was a true joy to worship with them and they received me with warmth and hospitality.  The text from my sermon at University Lutheran is pasted below in case you'd like to see it.

Rev. Jamie Haskins

University Lutheran Church

May 8, 2011

Luke 24: 13-35

                                                                Extra-Ordinary

Duct tape. You know—sticky, gray, something we use it to make minor repairs in a pinch.   It hangs in the aisles of hardware stores—you find it at Fred Meyer or Target.   Most of us probably have a roll sitting somewhere in our house: whether it’s back in the depths of your junk drawer or neatly organized on a utility room shelf, we’ve all used duct tape before.  It’s ordinary.  Nothing special.

At least that’s what I thought until I read about the “Stuck at prom” scholarship competition —the Stuck at prom scholarship awards $10,000 to the lucky couple who create the best ensemble for their high school senior prom using only—and I bet you can tell where this is going—using only duct tape.   When I first heard about this particular scholarship, I couldn’t believe it—couldn’t believe that high school seniors would celebrate such an extraordinary, important night in their young lives by creating clothes out of duct tape, by dressing themselves in duct tape, in something so ordinary, and so I looked online and do you know, it’s actually true: I saw pictures of elaborate, beautiful dresses, tuxedos, jackets with tails even, all made out of duct tape.  

--so run of the mill, something we use all the time, the ordinary—made beautiful, made extraordinary.

Our scripture this morning starts out in a place that looks a bit like duct tape in its ordinariness.  It is in the wake of Jesus’ crucifixion that two regular folk make their way home from Jerusalem to Emmaus.  They are not a part of the 11 disciples locked there in that upper room after the crucifixion and they aren’t the women who found the empty tomb and first spoke the news of Jesus’ resurrection—no, they’re just two ordinary people.

And there’s nothing special about Emmaus either—no famous festival, no reason we would ever remember this city were it not for this story.

Yes, the beginning of this gospel scene is almost startling in its normalcy. Jesus isn’t appearing to anyone; there’s no resurrection, no empty tomb, no one who once was dead is coming to life and so for the first time in at least a little while, it’s all relatively mundane: two ordinary folks, walking down a dusty road, toward a nowhere kind of town.

These two travelers: Cleopas and an unnamed companion, are talking things over when a fellow traveler sidles up beside them—a fellow nobody they probably assume—because he’s walking unaccompanied on a desolate road outside of Jerusalem—he comes along side them and asks what they’re discussing with one another.

This fellow traveler has got one of those faces—you know, one of those faces that you swear you’ve seen before, you know you have met them but you just can’t figure out where—you can’t place them.  When he asks Cleopas and his companion what they are talking about they tell this stranger that they are discussing all the things that have happened in Jerusalem over the past few days, about Jesus’ crucifixion, the women going to the tomb and not finding his body there. How could he have missed it?

And then their fellow traveler, he interrupts them, breaks into their explanation and begins to speak about scripture, teaching them about the sacred texts until this newly formed traveling party makes their way all the way back to Emmaus.  When the two veer off the road and head toward home the stranger continues on, acting as though he will journey on alone, and so they ask him to stay, extending an offer of hospitality to this one they don’t even quite recognize:

“stay with us for it is nearly evening the day is almost over” they offer.  Stay with us.

On the road to Emmaus these travelers extend a simple invitation to a stranger, someone they cannot quite place, and he takes it.  They gather around a table there in Emmaus—and it is only then, in the gathering and the sharing of food—only when their traveling companion takes a simple loaf of bread, breaks it and blesses it as they begin their meal together that the two travelers recognize this one they are with as the very person they have been speaking about, as Jesus—the text tells us that “their eyes were opened, and they recognized him and then he disappeared from their sight.”

Suddenly these nobodies, in the middle of a nowhere town, are aware that they have walked with, talked with, and broken bread with their risen Lord.

It was revelation.  It was Easter news.  And all of it—all the way up until Jesus vanishes completely right before their eyes—all of it sounds a bit like, well, duct tape.

A spoken word. An invitation of hospitality, breaking bread: these are normal things, ordinary moments, everyday occurrences: you know, duct tape types of experiences.

During Holy Week and even in the early wake of Easter it is good to celebrate the miracles of our faith: the resurrection, the empty tomb, a Jesus who walks through locked doors and tells Thomas to place his fingers in the mark of the nails.  But now, now that we are fully immersed in the Easter season, we find ourselves back in the duct tape, the normal,

there aren’t anymore special occasions. No palm branches to wave or sunrise services to attend.

And that’s part of the good news this morning, part of the Gospel we learn on the Road to Emmaus with these two travelers—these two nobodies—we learn that

more often than not we experience Jesus, we encounter resurrection,  we know the Easter news in the

duct tape of life.

The ordinary.

The every day.

In a spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine. 

This past week was called extraordinary by some: extraordinary because late Sunday night we learned that Osama Bin Laden had been killed.  Masses of people gathered across our country to celebrate: they sang in the streets, they chanted rhythms of victory.  Others, however, raised their voices in lament.  They raised their voices and they continue to mourn the fact that violence in any form, that bloodshed and the taking of human life, no matter what it looks like, could ever be celebrated.  They grieve that some within our nation and our media would celebrate the loss of any person, any human being. 

The death of Osama Bin Laden—and larger questions, questions about violence, about life and bloodshed, these questions are mammoth—they are vast—they are emotionally charged and, for many, unbelievably complex.  In times like these, when wars of words and battles of brutal violence and bloodshed rage across our nation and our world, it is easy to feel like nothing short of the extraordinary, nothing short of an empty tomb, nothing short of Jesus’ appearance to Thomas and the other disciples in the upper room, could ever even begin to serve as an adequate response, an adequate answer, to such complexity, such daunting questions, such violence.  How do each of us: one person, one voice, one individual, and how do we as a church, a neighborhood, an ecumenical parish: how do we even begin to address the complexity and the pain evident in our world today?  When we are so ordinary, so small, and the injustice, the violence, the anger feels so large, so extraordinarily big?

A spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine. 

As we journey to Emmaus this morning, scripture is discussed, a loaf of bread is broken; and before crumbs can even fall to the table the two travelers realize that they have been in the presence of the risen Lord and their hearts have been warmed.  Resurrection, salvation, redemption…all of it is found there in the smallest, most ordinary of things.

A spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine.

and ever since that encounter on the road to Emmaus the church has been acting out this scene again and again.  Every Sunday we—mere mortals, mere human beings, you might even say mere “nobodies”—we travel together—and in our travels we discuss Scripture, we issue invitations, and we break bread.

It’s not new.  It’s nothing out of the ordinary.  And yet it’s absolutely extraordinary because each Sunday we meet with the risen Lord.

In a world where we can feel so small, when it may seem as though nothing we do could even begin to address the violence, in a present as complex as the moment we are living in now, we are reminded this morning that even the smallest, most ordinary things can serve as a powerful response, even the most simple actions are sites of resurrection, places where hearts are warmed and eyes are opened.  Even those nobodies, those everyday disciples like us who gather together, are people of extraordinary redemption.

A spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine. 

Bread is broken so that all can be fed as we prepare for communion and we witness to a world where broken things can be made whole.

Mere wine flows from a cup to our lips and we profess our faith in a coming reality where bloodshed and violence are no longer celebrated.

And an invitation is issued: you, University Lutheran, invite a lesbian minister of another denomination to preach from your pulpit and in doing so you lift your voice in response to the pain of discrimination, the division of our church and our world.

 speaking words,

breaking bread,

pouring wine,

the issuing of an invitation

Here, today, as we do every Sabbath, every Sunday, we meet our salvation.

Enacting the ordinary we revel in the extraordinary as we immerse ourselves in Easter yet again.

A spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine. 

And we are reminded that even in the face of the extraordinary, the confusing, the sad: what we do—these small things—the seemingly mundane—the duct tape parts of life—in these small things we meet Jesus and he travels with us a bit farther down the road—we see him just a tad more clearly,

in a spoken word; a bit of bread; a sip of wine,

Powerful responses in the smallest of forms,

resurrection made tangible:

an issued invitation, the ordinary made extraordinary.

This is what we do every Sunday in our gathering: mere elements—words, bread and wine, become responses to that which is so dark, to a world of brokenness and pain. 

University Lutheran Church: In all of our ordinariness, Christ meets us here on the road to Emmaus and he journeys with us.  Revealing himself in the simple, the ordinary, time and time again. 

And with these ordinary elements we together witness to another way of being: to resurrection, to Easter news, to the gospel.

A spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine. 

This is the good news my brothers and sisters.

Easter news.
Thanks be to God.

Candles with a Mind of Their Own

There are some things you simply cannot plan for: you can't plan for them because there's no way to even imagine that they might happen.  There are moments in life that are almost "too good" to be fiction--you just can't make these kinds of things up.

And so it goes that this past Sunday morning, during our Tenebrae service here at University Christian Church, one of our candles literally jumped off the communion table.  With no help from any human being, no gust of wind, for no reason at all--one lone candle took a nose dive for the floor.

It was a serious service this morning that began our journey through holy week.  In traditional Palm Sunday fashion, we celebrated Jesus' entrance into Jerusalem.  But we also began the long walk to the cross.  Jesus' journey from his entry into Jerusalem toward the crucifixion is one of the darkest narratives we know as Christians.  It is a valley that we walk through with somber reverence each year as we prepare ourselves for what will ultimately be resurrection and new life.

And so, in the midst of this somber, shadow-filled acknowledgment of the darkness you can see how absurd it is that a candle would propel itself off the table and onto the floor: and it didn't just "gently fall" off the table.  Oh no, this candle took a dive worthy of an Olympic athlete.  It went straight up into the air, arched downward and then sped toward the sanctuary floor.  You just can't make this stuff up.

You see, the candles are spring loaded--the outer candle actually has a hollow interior that you refill with new wax each time the inner candle burns down.  It includes a spring loaded mechanism that allows the flame to constantly burn at the top of the candle, where it's prominent and can be seen from everyone gathered in the sanctuary.  Normally, this is a handy way to ensure that the candles are always burning, beautifully and boldly.

Today, however, it meant that candles were randomly jumping off tables as we were trying to open ourselves up to the somber darkness of our faith.

I share this story because it strikes me that this is what the Christian life is all about: it's about journeying with Jesus through dark places, through valleys of shadows, through the tough stuff, while knowing--the whole time--that the unexpected might occur, that something different than we could ever plan for, totally out of the reaches of even our wildest imagination, might unfold in front of us before we take our next step.

So it was today at University Christian Church: candles propelled themselves off tables, we walked with Jesus through the darkest of valleys, and we moved forward.

During this time of Holy Week, as we accompany Jesus from the gates of Jerusalem, through the loneliness of the garden, to the cross, the tomb and ultimately to the resurrection, my prayer is that we will be ready for the unexpected.

Not just be ready for it, but be open to it.  Open to receiving anything and everything that might happen when we agree to journey with Jesus.  It can be unpredictable; it can even be comical; it will certainly be something different than we ever would have planned. 

But it is the journey we have set ourselves on...it's the journey we walk together.

Thanks be to God.

Shining Christ's Light

For once you were darkness, but now in the Lord you are light. Live as children of light-for the fruit of the light is found in all that is good and right and true. Try to find out what is pleasing to the Lord. Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what such people do secretly; but everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for everything that becomes visible is light. Therefore it says, "Sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you."

-Ephesians 5:8-14

Several years ago I began working with an organization called Interfaith Worker Justice (IWJ).  The members of  IWJ believe that as people of faith, it is our call to name places where injustice is happening--where folks are being abused, where workers are not being treated fairly, where labor practices and procedures are standing in the way of human flourishing and the ability for a laborer to be happy, healthy and whole.  

As a part of my involvement with IWJ, I joined a group of 50 seminary and college students in Chicago a few years ago in order to protest a hospital's failure to provide its workers with adequate health care coverage.  As people of faith we stood outside of this hospital and we prayed. We sang songs such as "We Shall Overcome" and "Down by the Riverside;" we held signs with messages like "all religions believe in justice" and "Jesus was a low wage worker" to remind the folks in positions of power at the hospital that we are called to care for one another, to love one another, to provide for one another.

When we read this Scripture from Ephesians earlier today during our weekly prayer team meeting, I couldn't help but think of the work of Interfaith Worker Justice--the work of all those who gather together in order to expose places of hurt to the light, who work together to make sure that those places of destruction and damage in our world are revealed.  

This passage from Ephesians teaches us that to bring unhealthy things to light, to offer the hard places, the destructive patterns in our lives and in the lives of our organizations up to God and publicly name them, to do this is to actively and intentionally love. It might seem counter intuitive that holding a protest and calling people to account for mistreating their workers is loving them--but in bringing the truth to light, we are offering love.  It might not be our first instinct to name that which is harmful in our own lives or in our communities but if we are truly going to "rise from the dead" and invite "Christ to shine on us" then this naming of the dark places, the hurting places, this is what we must do.

It's not always easy to be a person of faith but it is always good; it is always meaningful. Faithful voices speaking the hard truths are always necessary in our world.  Holding those hard places up to the light, naming injustice, exposing hurt, bringing dysfunction to the light, this is hard work but it's important.  It's Christ like. It's loving.  It is our call. 

Gratitude

A few weeks ago I had the privilege of attending a retreat for Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) clergy in their first five years of ministry as a part of my participation in the Bethany Fellowships program. Approximately 40 young ministers from across the country gathered at a beautiful retreat center in Tampa, Florida to pray for one another, to share in fellowship, to reflect on the odd and peculiar journey that is congregational ministry, and to take an entire day of silence in order to be still, to rest, to realign ourselves with that which is bigger than us. 

During my day of silence in Tampa I did what any Seattle resident would do: I laid a big blanket out in the grass and curled up under the Florida sun, for hours upon hours. I soaked up as much sunshine as I could (and, unfortunately, gained a bit of a sunburn in the process). It was absolutely stunning.  Between the warmth of the sun, the incredible network of colleagues I had around me, and the deep prayerfulness that surrounded me all week, my time with the Bethany Fellows was truly a week of renewal and re-creation. 

In a world where we are constantly on the go, checking items off our to-do lists without ceasing, unfailingly bombarded with requests for our time and our space, I give thanks for University Christian Church and its willingness to grace me with the gift of time, true Sabbath time, where I was able to rest, be renewed, and resettle myself in the goodness of God's grace.  While I was not with you here in Seattle during my week of retreat I was with you in prayer and in thought.  I was with you and I was able to find renewal and restoration that will allow me to continue walking with you as a whole and rested child of God.  

So thank you University Christian Church: thank you for the opportunity to spend time wtih my colleagues in minstry, thank you for blessing my journey of Sabbath and renewal, thank you for walking with me on the journey.  

Below are some pictures from my time with the Bethany Fellows: