The Voices of St. Johns Youngstown

That day I drove for ten hours. I zig-zagged across the northern edge of Ohio four times. I spent 35 dollars on tolls, sat in traffic behind an accident, and drove through flooding-condition rain. Oh, and I dropped off my first-born son at college that day. It was a day among days.

We began with a packed car and high hopes, my son and I. A three-hour drive ahead, he took the wheel, and I set about the task of putting the screen protector and case onto the 2-day-old laptop. Hopes were crushed early; the computer would not boot. A windows icon, then a black screen. I quickly googled the fixes, tried the five surefire ways to reboot or restart your system, pressing start buttons and volume buttons together and in fancy sequences. None worked.

As we arrived at the dorm for move-in, the unresponsive computer loomed in my mind. We unpacked, chatted with staff, but finished early and went to the college store that shipped the laptop. Same results–buttons and sequences and a looming black screen. We arrived late to the luncheon where my son ate while I phoned Microsoft Tech support and pushed the same series of buttons to the same unsuccessful end.

Frustration mounting, the choice emerged:  I could wait a week for the local store to diagnose, ship, repair and return, or travel two hours away to the retail store for a possible exchange. I hastily hugged my kid (hardly the emotional parting that I had envisioned that morning) and told him I would see him in five hours.

The rain started one hour in–buckets of water on my windshield in single-lane construction with hydroplaning. I called the Microsoft hotline twice to push back my appointment, and finally arrived, dripping, to the mall lobby. The saleswoman met me at the entrance, and I don’t even remember what I said: probably rambling chatter about how I was not going to leave the building without a working computer, and that I had dropped off my kid at college that day. While I imagine myself to be a composed, in-charge, confident customer, I am sure that I was a frazzled mess. She led me to the service area, and asked a simple question that I am sure she was trained to ask: “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Had I not held onto the last of my composure, I am sure I would have burst into tears.. Instead I said, “My God, yes.” She asked me about how I took it, led me to a chair, and brought me coffee and creamer and a container of sugar, laid the array before me and smiled. In that moment, that cup of coffee, that kindness, that caretaking was world-changing. In a day where I was the mom, I was the computer tech, I was the organizer of college stuff, I was able to take a breath and switch roles. I was no longer responsible for it all, and for an hour, this stranger shouldered my stress in that cup.

And she will probably never know what she did. While it is easy to get cynical about corporate sales pitches and forced hospitality, none of that mattered. Instead, her smile, her kindness mattered. They mattered deeply. And I wonder how often this moment happens. Times where a kind word, a kind gesture, an often-practiced polite gesture can drastically change the trajectory of a person’s day. And how often, in the giving, we don’t even know that it happened.

I’ve come to understand that God calls us to be deliberate, to be intentional about our kindnesses. To practice kindness in our daily life and work–that this is part of the “the work that [God] has given us to do.” Those small gifts that we give one another are truly part of our call to be “faithful witnesses,” even when we may never know that others have seen the face of God in our actions, especially when we don’t know where this intentional kindness may lead another person.

I received another gift that day. Joseph, the Microsoft tech, swapped out the computer without the infuriating series of tests. He simply said, “Give me that glitchy computer. It is Microsoft’s problem now.” He proceeded to spend the extra time setting up my son’s laptop, and I drove back to the university refreshed. Mind you, the drive was grueling, and I was worthless the entire next day, but amid one of my worst days, that coffee was indeed spiritual food.

This adaptation of Psalm 46 is taped inside my locker at work. I usually need the reminder of Who is really in charge. It’s a physical reminder of my faith in God. It also helps to blend my spiritual life into my work life.

I usually read it but the other day I reached in and placed my hand over it.

I felt the cold metal of my locker and the rough texture of the tape. For a few seconds it felt real. This thing I call faith had a form, a shape, something I could touch. A prayer I could touch. I started to think about all of the other things that I touch through out the day and wondered if I could also think of them as a prayer or somehow show my faith in each touch.

A hug given to a friend fighting cancer. Holding my terrified terrier during a thunderstorm. A handshake meeting a new coworker. The food I prepare for our women’s ministry. The kiss I give my husband before he goes to work. The paper texture of the Host during communion.

What I came to realize was that faith and prayer take many forms. I just needed to be open to the possibilities of what that could bring.

My prayer today is that we find our faith in different places and stay open to the possibilities that will come.

The elephant in the room is that I went ax-throwing when I was in Chicago last weekend. It was my friend Stacy’s fault. She is always looking for new, fun, out of the box things to do, and she knows I am willing to try almost anything. When she suggested this I thought it was a joke, until I got the receipt she had bought the tickets. With our friend Carrie, the three of us giggled on the train as we made our way there, nervous, unsure but determined not to be the one who chickened out.

When we got to the event we were put on a team with a group of young Muslim women.  The opposing team was a tech company having a bonding experience. You could tell some of them had done it before because they were good. The worker, who was hysterical (funny), coached us in how to throw the ax with maximum efficiency, and then we played three games. One was simply which team got the most hits, then a game where you added up the score to exactly 31 and then it was an elimination game to end it. I have to say while I wasn’t that great, I did hit the target a number of times.

I am competitive, but I don’t consider myself violent. My friends and I are practitioners of nonviolence, so the whole throwing a weapon thing was like this guilty pleasure, we couldn’t stop laughing about it all evening. There was something physically quite satisfying about hitting the target. It felt powerful.

But much more fun was cheering for everyone, even the other team. Giving high 5s as the young women we were with explored being strong and powerful. Laughing when everyone inevitably did something humorous. I hit the floor several times. It was the bonding that really made the evening, the shared experience of doing something out of the ordinary and taking pictures of it.

What I realize in retrospect is that the power didn’t come from the ax. I don’t have the ax now, it was just a moment. It came from believing that we were strong, bold and daring. Those are the qualities that will get me through the next crisis in my life, not a weapon. Because of that moment, we were able to believe in ourselves a little more, gain some confidence, and possibly scare our children. That made it well worth it.

I was walking through the Target parking lot Tuesday after work for a quick pre-holiday run to the store. I had a project I wanted to get done-hanging a new shower curtain- and I most needed hangers. So I probably had a determined look on my face as I was fighting against the incredible heat of the day to get back to my car. I never park close because I want the steps for my daily total, but sometimes I regret the optimism of arrival.

So I am pushing the cart to the back of the lot when I pass a young black man. Like I said, maybe I looked mean in the heat of the moment, literally. But he was looking at me with a resigned, cautious look. I smiled, he smiled, and it was all OK. But I am haunted by that look.

I realize I have been distracted from racism in our community by the racism happening on our southern border. I am so heartbroken by children being taken from their parents that my energy for compassion overall is wounded.

But as I thought about it later, that young man was anxious about me. And he had every right to be. Not that I am bad or dangerous in any way. But the news reports almost daily white women calling the police about black men for ridiculous and arbitrary reasons. I would be wary about me too. It is so irrational that anything can seemingly set off alarms.

In the Gospel this week, we hear Jesus sending his disciples out to heal. And, by the way, it worked. Healing happened through them because of their belief in Jesus. They called upon God and God answered them. They healed people.

One of the YSU signs flashes something about peace beginning with a smile. Every time I have seen that I have thought, what a low bar. But it is true. Peace was given to that young man and I in that moment because of a smile. Maybe that can be the heart of our healing mission, that we treat all people with the smile of kindness and assurance and solidarity. We are sent out to heal. And that can happen even in the Target parking lot.

Sometimes I find my deepest faith in the darkest corners of an abandon space. Neglect and decay consume most people’s view, a bleak rotting wasteland, a forgotten place that is an unsightly eyesore. I understand this opinion, most people don’t like to live with ruins. It’s hard to look into these spaces and find beauty of any kind. It’s a challenge that is often met with closed eyes. Yet if we look beyond the surface we may just be surprised at what we will see.

I’ve been fortunate to witness new life in these spaces. A mother opossum with her babies clinging to her side scurrying away from me as I carefully weave my way through her territory. A hive of honey bees working hard to create and maintain their nest. Numerous pigeons cooing from the rafters eyeing me cautiously as I climb a ruined stairway. Sometimes is it just a vine or a sapling that catches my eye. This raw creation in the depths of decay has become a constant and I find myself aware of it on every adventure.

In these moments, I am reminded that God is constantly at work in the world. Forever challenging us to view the world with new eyes, with hope, with love. To look beyond what is on the surface and see the possibilities among the ruins.

I was in a conversation yesterday about violence. We were reflecting on recent events-a woman shot answering her door, a mother killed during a car jacking in front of her children, gang violence in schools. With each example there was a little more despair, a little more hopelessness. And in frustration we both wondered what could be done.

I have thought about that. Children are taught to be who they are. And as a culture we have to be honest about what we are teaching our children, how we are creating a world where this behavior can be conceived. Unfortunately when you think about the root of this behavior, you come back to the values and examples our children witness every day.

So what to do. Let’s start by taking away the guns. We have a system that makes it way too easy for people to shoot other people. Regardless of where you stand on this issue, there are things we can do to limit the availability of guns in our society. And when we do not, we teach our kids that using guns is acceptable, and that how we use them ultimately doesn’t matter.

Then we might consider how we treat our children. Aside from the obvious, horrifying examples playing out on the news of taking children seeking asylum away from their parents and locking them up, what is the message we send to our children when we underfund education, when we say it is acceptable for a number of them to be hungry or homeless, when we pay daycare providers and teachers low wages? Kids understand that in our culture it is money that is valued and not people. So how can we be surprised when they behave in ways that devalue people?

In the most practical sense we need to widen our circle. We need to love and intentionally form the children in our families to be compassionate and kind, to take care of people and themselves. The impact of this cannot be underestimated. We lead our children into what they become, and we are the examples they have in their lives to see how to be a humane, decent adult.

And we know there are plenty of kids just beyond our reach that need attention, affirmation, a chance to know they matter. There are kids in our neighborhood who are short a parent and could use some attention. There are kids in our schools who need someone to reinforce the values of critical thinking, reading and continuing education. There are kids in our churches who hear us talk about what Jesus would do but don’t always see us doing it, who need to figure out how that plays out in daily life. There are kids in our city who are hungry, homeless, whose parents are making bad choices. They need someone to care and intervene in order to be resilient enough to make good choices when they count.

So, we need to be an example, we need to love beyond our families, we need to send a message with our time and treasure that children in this country and other countries matter! We need to be a part of the solution in whatever way that makes sense for us. We need to speak up when our society, our government, our church acts in ways that devalue any person, take away the humanity of any person. That is how the world begins to change—one loved child at a time.

Because I want to be conscious of the log in my own eye, I have been examining the times when I have called people animals. And I have narrowed it down to two scenarios. The first is at sports competitions when people are achieving spectacularly. I would call someone an animal to lift up their extraordinary speed or strength, in astonishment and awe. In other words, it was a compliment.

The other time was when someone committed a particularly heinous crime, like hurting a child or being a serial killer. I would call these people animals to indicate the lack of humanity towards other people, the lack of human characteristics like compassion and empathy. This was not a compliment.

Now that I hear the President calling people animals, I am ashamed. I have done this, and so I cannot sit on that comfortable moral high ground. I realize that any time we dehumanize anyone, make them seem less that we are, take away the responsibility of being a person, we pave the way for even greater sin. If I don’t see someone as human then when their rights are taken away, when they are treated with disdain and disrespect, when their children are put in cages, I won’t pay attention. I won’t care.

We can only have a safe, holy and dignified world if everyone is my brother and sister, if everyone is equal and regarded with respect, if everyone is held accountable and considered trainable. The minute we treat people as less than people, I can be treated that way. My children can be treated that way. Because the problems and challenges for person at the bottom of the ladder is my problem, because we are part of the Body of Christ together. And any slope that leads to dehumanizing anyone is a slippery slope.

We have to fiercely hold on to each other’s dignity. We have to rigorously protect human rights for every person. We promise this in our baptismal vows. Do not let yourself be goaded into being less than you can be. Do not let someone convince you that any person is not created in the image of God and therefore does not deserve compassion and love. Taking away someone’s dignity demeans your own dignity.

It has to stop somewhere. Time to step up to being a bold Christian.

It has been a great week to be an Episcopalian. Presiding Bishop Curry’s amazing sermon at the royal wedding has given him, and by extension all of us, a lot of positive attention and praise. I have seen his appearances on Good Morning America, the View and the epic portrayal on Saturday Night Live, and my pride at being a member of this church has only increased.

We are now the church that stands for love. And really, we have always been. But the nagging question is, so what? What will we do with this moment to extend its profound effect on the church and the Jesus Movement? How will we take advantage of the moment to God’s honor and glory?

The low hanging fruit is clearly to talk about the church. The opening is there, “what about that sermon???”. The follow up is to tell your own story, why you come to church, why you love God and how you do that in the world. What does love mean? Come and see. It should be the easiest ever to invite someone to come to church, or at least to an event.  You might even mention the great sermons every week…

And it can’t end there. Because we aren’t special because we love one another.  How challenging is that? We are all pretty nice people who get along most of the time. We are a community identified with Jesus because we love our neighbor, as ourselves. So bringing people to church is great. It gives us energy and inflames our passion for justice and compassion.

But, the hard part in all of this is that people will be watching to see if we demonstrate this love in the world. Love is the way, and we have to show to what. Jesus is the example, and we have to show of what. This is a moment to reach out, to reach further, to show love in action by how we treat the world. Maybe even by saying no to hatred, violence and meanness. Now is the time to be constant and consistent in bringing the love of God into the world.

So come to church this summer and bring your friends. Come to the food pantry, the produce giveaway, and the women’s coffee. Come when we volunteer with the Boys and Girls club, or visit with people at the Red Door Café. Sit at the table at the Arts Fest and tell stories and extend the invitation. When you buy the hygiene items or the extra toilet paper, tell the store clerk or the person with you in line why.  

Love is the way isn’t theory. We make it practice, practical, every day. How will you support our Presiding Bishop’s message?

I spent several mornings last week at a murder trial. It was horrible. I had to listen to people that I care about and love recount terrible things done to them and their family. I was on the side of the victim. And I had a lot of time, especially when they were discussing the science of DNA, to think about perspective, and how that defines what justice means.

It is quite clear to me who is guilty in that trial. There is an eye witness, plenty of evidence, and my gut reaction. And I have to say I was irritated that it took so long to have the jury agree. I watched the case unfold, carefully painstakingly presented, crafted by the prosecutors. And I watched the defense try to poke holes, get the jury to think in other ways, essentially do his job. Justice is a slow moving thing.

It was easy to be exasperated with the defense. I can’t believe even they thought their client was innocent. And I was impressed. They had a job to do and they did it. I kept reminding myself everyone has a right to a fair and complete trial, everyone has a right to their day in court, everyone has a right to all of the protections built into the justice system. And the defense attorney was protecting those rights, and earned my grudging admiration.

We vow in our baptism to respect the dignity of every human being and work for justice for everyone. I prayed about that a lot. It is easy to stand back and say who deserves justice and who does not. It is much harder to put aside your feelings about the person and remember that they are a child of God created in the image of God. And even though we all have to answer for our sins, God is the judge, and God takes care of things.

The justice system isn’t always just. There have been plenty of verdicts and recent Supreme Court decisions that have sent me to prayer. I had to ask myself if I wanted retribution or justice, and what I was willing to do to get the justice I advocate for on so many other occasions. I am glad the perpetrator was found guilty. I still pray for God’s justice for the horrible things he did. And to be a witness to the rights of the victims is very comfortable for me.

And I pray for the conversion of hearts, and especially my own. I pray to remember that I am not the judge in any legal system, earthly or divine. I pray to help create a world where it is easier for people to be healthy, to get the treatment they need for mental illness, to be good. That is my responsibility in the justice system, to help build a just world. Sometimes justice is convenient and sometimes it is hard, and sometimes we don’t see it the way we want to, and I still have to pray and work and humble myself before things I cannot control. And to trust God, over and over again.

Let’s pray to be a sign of justice, to be loving to victims and perpetrators, and to be relentless in our creation of a better world.