Tag Archives: Neighbor

Yep, It Is That Simple

Humanity has a way of complicating the simple. As if anything worth doing should be difficult. Christians are currently in the second millennium of overcomplicating two simple instructions: love God and love your neighbor.

Love God. Well, I’m busy. My kids are busy. My grandkids are busy. There is a new season of my favorite show.

Love your neighbor. Who, precisely, is my neighbor? How much do I really need to care? Will it cost me money? Can I draw a border? Do I have to? Can’t the neighbor meet me halfway? Isn’t it someone else’s job?

My life as a wife, mom and pastor may appear complicated and is when I overcomplicate it. But really, it is simple. I am to show up with Christ’s love. Nothing more, nothing less. I am to be present one person at a time, one moment at a time, not worrying too far ahead, and letting go of what has been done.

In Matthew 6, Jesus demonstrates how prayer is also simple, providing words to guide our way. We need not overcomplicate a conversation with God. Pray for justice on earth, basic needs to be met, forgiveness given and received, and protection. Pray to the one whose name is most holy, with assurance that your meager words are enfolded into God’s eternal love story with God’s people.

The Lord’s Prayer is a guide that not only offers you words, but offers you community. Billions of people have prayed this very prayer for over 2,023 years. These particular words have been spoken by believers and doubters, the living and the dying, at kitchen tables and hospital bedsides, by people under the thumb of dementia, by nearly ever flavor of the Christian experience, and by martyrs for whom these words were their last. The words of the Lord’s Prayer might be the most unifying words ever spoken.

These words, simply put, are your guide whenever you need them.

Photo by Hello I’m Nik on Unsplash

Gratitude Can Be Dangerous

Gratitude can be dangerous.

When gratitude becomes one way to recognize one person or family as more blessed than another, it is dangerous.

Gratitude is not meant to open our eyes to how good we have it and how bad others have it. “At least we aren’t him,” Job’s friends said in the pitying look they exchanged. Gratitude is not eye-opening, but heart-opening. It is the moment our hearts open up to the hard truth that life, at times, can be too much for any of us. Gratitude recognizes that even a moment of peace is a gift from God.

Gratitude is meant to turn our attention away from ourselves to the hand of the giver, who gives not unjustly, but in hopes that all we have would involve a borderless we – a we that stretches and expands like the pantyhose that left all women itchy and irritated.

Gratitude is never dangerous as long as covers the bold and the meek, the haves and the have nots with the same sheer delight that somehow, somehow, a planet full of broken human beings keeps spinning.

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An American Advent: What Does Justice Have to Do with Advent?

Fighting for justice is the daily work of a mom of young kids.

While the word justice addresses big concerns such as hunger, poverty and racism, justice is also a concern at the Lego table. Years ago, the 19-month difference in my little boys’ ages nearly did me in, especially when Legos were involved! The more aggressive brother hoarded the Legos or disassembled his brother’s creation. Whatever each one had was never fair enough and the tantrums that erupted were Vesuvian. My job as a mom was to advocate for justice at the Lego table by asking questions of my two little boys:

  • Why can’t you at least let me shower before you fight?
  • But seriously, why are you so angry?
  • Can you tell your brother what you want?
  • How can you share what you have so the Lego table can be a fun place for both of you?

Justice is what happens when people work toward the same equitable goal. Justice is two little boys sharing Legos, even though it lasts only long enough for a mom to take a shower.

In America, justice is a touchy word. Currently, Americans are rather possessive of their notion of justice, applying the word only to their own political party – blaming the opposing party for threatening justice. But justice is not a partisan word, it is an Advent word.

The Narrative Lectionary reading for the first Sunday in Advent is spoken by the prophet whose name is pronounced more than one way. Habakkuk (HAB-ah-kuk or Hah-BAK-kuk) is advocating for justice. He is waiting for God to bring about equity for God’s people caught between the superpowers of the day: Babylon and Egypt. The future for God’s people is grim, so Habakkuk turns to God and says, “O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen?”

This is the faithful cry of Americans today, waiting for justice. How long, Lord, will our nation cling to their political parties? How long will we stand for the news to be delivered without integrity, deepening the divide between neighbors? How long will everything that’s wrong be the fault of everyone but our own selves? Lord, how long?

Next week, I will share the story of someone who believed it was her responsibility to advocate for justice. It was not the responsibility of the political powers of the day, or even the more powerful gender. She believed it was her own work to advocate for justice, which changes everything.

This week, consider your own understanding of justice.

  • In a journal or a conversation with a person or the Lord, what would justice in America look like and how much does your own political preference shape your understanding of justice?
  • Turning back to the questions at the Lego table, but seriously, why are you so angry?
  • Can you tell your brother and sister in Christ who may disagree with you how you want justice to look?
  • How can you share what you have so the Lego table America can be a fun place for both of you?

Eventually God responds to Habakkuk. In 2:1-5, God’s response threatens anyone who depends on wealth and pride. Wealth and pride do not bring about justice. Justice requires as much giving as getting, which is very difficult to teach both at the Lego table and in America. May justice begin in our own nation with your own honest reflection.

Photo credit: Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Has Neighborliness Lost its Value?

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A couple of years ago, Marcus and I planned a neighborhood get-together. We know most but not all of our nearest neighbors and we both believe neighborhoods are safer when we know one another. And familiarity with neighbors makes it easier to locate a cup of flour at the last minute for cookies.

Because delivering invitations is a thousand times easier with a cute 8-year old, Karis and I left invitations in a dozen of our nearest neighbors’ doors. They could RSVP to my cell to host part of a progressive party or simply attend. Two neighbors responded (who also happen to be members of St. John) that they were bummed they would miss it. A week or so later, another neighbor asked if anyone responded to me. When I told him no, he knowingly said, “I didn’t think anyone would go to something like that.” (At least he was honest!)

I am so curious what it might mean when neighborliness loses its value. When we are less inclined to gather, what are we missing? When we do not need our neighbors in the same way as the first generations in the Midwest, what is lost?

It has always mattered to me for our kids know at least some of our neighbors so they have trusted adults if something happens when Marcus and I are not home. In my head, we do actually need our neighbors. And if I need those neighbors, I also care for their well-being. I care that my kids are safe and I care that my neighbors are safe.

“And who is my neighbor?” the first century lawyer asked Jesus to clarify. Anyone who needs help, Jesus began to explain, making the answer more broad until it became specific. Your neighbor, Jesus zeroed in, is anyone who needs help whom you would rather not help.

Humanity has never been great at following Jesus’ command to love our neighbors, especially the ones we would rather not help. It is not new that neighborliness demands more of us than most of us can give. However, what does it mean that bearing arms seems to be easier than neighborliness in particular corners of our nation? Have we become so suspicious and even fearful of our neighbor that someone may be more inclined to purchase an assault weapon than attend a friendly neighborhood gathering with snacks? Are we failing at neighborliness?

Let me be clear, I am not advocating for gun control. I am part of a family who hunts animals. We can have conversations around gun laws without extreme solutions. I am more interested in conversations around neighborliness, which I suspect are just as hard but yet more productive.

As we move through this devastating time of mass shootings in my own country, I promise to pursue discussions around neighborliness. I promise to practice inviting my neighbors to gather, even if it may seem a ridiculous idea to some of them. If Jesus was ridiculous with his mercy, I can lean in that direction, too.

Be Wary of Being Wary of Strangers

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In the past few weeks, two strangers have given me hugs. (Notice your reaction.) Strangers and hugs do not always belong together, I realize. And at times, they do. Individuals have a responsibility to be aware of one another without becoming too wary of one another.

STRANGER #1

Church buildings are regularly visited by people looking for financial help. People who have lost jobs, lost a battle with addiction, lost hope might swing by a church to ask for help. In Western N.D., stories abound of the striking increase in these visits during the Bakken energy boom. Young men came in droves treasure hunting for hope. Nowadays, these visits are irregular.

A few weeks ago, one young man stopped by St. John looking for a help. After listening to his story in hopes of assuring him he is seen and cared for, a fellow human being, we provided a bus ticket for the following morning and a motel room for the night. He was overcome with gratitude, which seemed to me to be genuine. When I walked him to the door, with tears in his eyes this stranger carefully reached out his arms to give me a hug.
Hugs with strangers have a long history in the Christian tradition. The Old Testament is structured around one particular commandment that did not explicitly make it into the top ten. The command that drives the story of the Hebrew people is this: Welcome Strangers. The Christian Church only exists because of first century households who welcomed a stranger named Paul, whose sketchy story involved miracles and name changes.

STRANGER #2

Yesterday I had the honor of presiding at a funeral and remembering a beloved child of God who is held forever in Jesus’ arms. It was a sad day for the community gathered around this family I have known and loved a long time. I made it through the service but not out of the building before my face became a wet mess.

I was nearly to the doors, nearly to safety of my car when a woman I do not know saw me and reached out her arms. “Thank you,” I muttered, smearing her shirt with my tears.

The letter to the Hebrews features a famous verse instructing us to show hospitality to strangers. They might be angels in disguise, we learn, which sounds more like a line from a Disney movie than an epistle. Strangers may not look like angels, but they certainly look like human beings. And sometimes, that is reason enough for a hug.

Why Should I Have Coffee While They Flee?

(Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels)

While I was writing Spiritual Longing in a Woman’s World, the death of George Floyd set the spotlight on black voices begging to be heard. My eyes were opened by Austin Channing in particular. I began to wonder whether my book had a place at a time like that. Who am I, with my long history of supportive family and pastoral calls that came easily to me, to speak of longing? After more prayerful wondering, I understood there is never a perfect time for anything. If I waited to publish my book, there would certainly be another set of voices longing to be heard.

Today, ordinary women (like me) seek refuge in places far from home while their ordinary husbands (like mine) stay put to make possible their return. And here I am, a half-turn of the globe away, with my hot coffee and apple scone. Yesterday, our congregation prayed for peace from the safety of our building tucked into a quiet, ordinary neighborhood. How are we to live in the luxury of peace while there is no peace for so many ordinary humans?

I offer two responses to living in a world where one person is at peace at the same time another is a victim of war. One response is faithful and the other is not.

  • Be so thankful you are not them. I hear this from parents whose kids go on mission trips. “I just want them to learn how lucky they are.” Yes, that is what happens when we experience someone else’s struggle. We go home because we can, thankful we are not them. Today, we can tell our kids, “Eat your vegetables. At least you are not fleeing Ukraine with your mother.” This is a helpful way to deepen the divide between lucky us and unlucky them.
  • Recognize “them” are actually “us”. (Sorry, grammar people, that can’t be right. It’s the best I can do.) We are all people with families and homes who live in countries and are vulnerable to dangerous leaders. We = each and every one of us. There are no exceptions. The pain of the Ukrainian mother is my pain, too. I might feel thankful to enjoy peace, but more than that I feel deep sadness that someone else doesn’t get to enjoy it, too. Offering my kids this fuller picture points to Jesus in the gospels.

I am still drinking my hot coffee, however. And, I am fervently praying. Prayer shapes our hearts to see beyond ourselves. I am also giving money through Lutheran World Relief and the ELCA’s Lutheran Disaster Response. The latter nonprofit passes along 100% of your giving and retains zero dollars for administrative fees. I trust these two established organizations knowing they will not disappear when the crisis is over.

Teaching kids to recognize “them” are actually “us” takes turning the globe around and introducing them to our neighbors and wondering what “peace” looks like here and there. Most people in the world do not live with the luxury of food, shelter and clean water. We do, which means we have resources to share. Peace is not a luxury to be hoarded. It is what Jesus gave away, so that we might do the same.

We Live Here in 2022

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“Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce…But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.” (Jeremiah 29:5&7)

     The two verses above need context. The surprising words are spoken by the prophet Jeremiah to God’s people who were displaced by the Babylonian army. Far from their homes in Jerusalem, they were now refugees in a foreign land: Babylon. The words are surprising because God’s people did not want to live in Babylon, they wanted to go home to their old, familiar routines.

   I have found myself returning to these verses ever since they showed up in the Narrative Lectionary in November. (If you happen to be a person who reads annual reports, and you know who you are, you will find these verses in mine!) We all wish to return to a pre-March 2020 world where we went in and out of gatherings without worry, and the medivac didn’t constantly traverse from Dickinson to a larger hospital day after day after day. I miss the days when vaccines weren’t so hard to discuss and masks were more about Halloween. I miss the faces of the folks in the congregation I serve parked in the same church pews week after week. I miss the old, familiar routines.

   And so did God’s people stuck in the unfamiliar land of Babylon! It comes as a surprise to me that Jeremiah did not tell God’s people to wait it out. He didn’t say to stay the course and cling to the future promise that they would return to their old, familiar routines. Nope. Jeremiah told them to settle in. Build houses in the unfamiliar land and move in. Plant a garden and wait for it to produce as you make this unfamiliar place your home.

   I can long for the old, familiar routine, or I can embrace these unfamiliar times because I live here now. I can spend time wishing for life to go back to pre-March 2020, or I can settle into this time I might not love and certainly do not understand. I do not understand the division and stubborn stances on both sides. I do not understand why a call to the common good cannot overcome the fences we have all built between one another, even within our own families. While it is true that fences create order in neighborhoods like mine with lots of dogs, fences can be dangerous for communities. Too many fences give us permission to disregard the welfare of the city. We can focus on our own fenced in area, make it beautiful, insulate ourselves in a comfy chair, and become indifferent to the needs of the people we cannot see over our fences.

    Jeremiah instructs God’s people to care for the welfare of the unfamiliar city in which they are now residents! This is strange. God is so caught up in neighborliness that God’s people are to care for their neighbors in a land in which they did not choose to live. They were not allowed to fence themselves in.

   Could this be a guiding verse for 2022? We did not choose to live in this time. We might not like how our society has responded to the pandemic. It is likely we all long for the old, familiar routines. But we live here, and we live here now. The needs of our neighbor matter as much today as they did when  Jeremiah preached these words in chapter 29. How might you peer over a fence and care for the welfare of your city? How might this be the year you settle into this time if only because your neighbor’s wellbeing matters more than your political opinions?

    Jeremiah, as far as we know, was not voted “most popular” in high school. He received no recognition for his community-building work. In fact, he likely had very few friends. But he knew the whole point of a city had to do with watching out for the welfare of the people, even in the time and place they did not choose. At our best, this is what churches do. We set aside our differences, “peace be with you”, and settle in for the sake of our neighbor. Here. Now.

Why You May Never Want to Be Lutheran

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If the term “Lutheran” is unfamiliar, it is a way to practice the Christian faith. There is a wide variety of denominations (branches of the Christian church) within the Lutheran faith that range from more conservative to more liberal, based on how that denomination reads the Bible. I serve as a pastor in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA). As I refer to the Lutheran faith in this post, I am speaking of the ELCA because it is the Lutheran practice most familiar to me.

I am a Christian who is Lutheran, which is something you may never want to be. Yesterday I complained to my colleague how challenging it has become to choose hymns for worship, when the tune that is more familiar might be the one with the term “scepter”. Prior to “Game of Thrones”, that word, for some people, might have called to mind Christ the king, but now, it is less likely.

We love our old hymns and our old ways in this relatively old faith tradition. In the 500+ years the Lutheran faith has existed, the world has experienced droughts and wars and fascist leaders and economic disasters. Hurricanes have devastated countries and native people in parts of the world have been mistaken for objects.

Each time tragedy strikes, the Lutheran faith has had something to say, albeit sometimes too late. You may never want to be Lutheran because we have a deep-seeded belief that this world’s tragedies do not become our story. We need not be consumed by the state of the world, no matter how messy that state may be, because we proclaim a faith not shaped by hand-drawn boundaries. To be Lutheran is to be less caught up in “faith over fear” and much more caught up in “faith for the sake of our neighbor”. A Lutheran’s focus does not land on personal freedoms and rights, but on our neighbor’s well-being.

But that’s just a Lutheran thing. Again, it might not be your thing.

This old world has a way of returning to times of unrest, based on how much we don’t like “the other”. We simply change how we identify “the other”. “The other” has been the Jews, the slaves, the Yankees, the AIDS victims, the women, the immigrants, the homosexuals, the blacks, the Native Americans, the liberals, the conservatives. When Ecclesiastes wrote almost 3,000 years ago that there is nothing new under the sun, he may as well have written that yesterday!

A couple of weeks ago I deleted Facebook from my phone. To post devotional material for Devotions from the Badlands and my writing page, I have to go the long way and log on from my laptop. That simple omission from my iPhone has brought a great wave of relief. I no longer lazily click the blue logo that lures me into the maelstrom of memes and misinformation. I feel so much better! And to tell the truth, I’ve been sleeping better, too.

Even I, who know a few things about the Lutheran faith, can get turned around amid the intensity of this pandemic. Even I can forget that God alone is our refuge and our strength, which Lutherans interpret to mean we wonder how to provide refuge for the neighbor who lacks strength. For example: the immunocompromised, people too young for vaccinations, families who have experienced so many quarantines because they have followed the CDC’s guidelines, long-term care residents, and people who live in impoverished American neighborhoods where the average life expectancy now falls even further behind where you likely live.

The Lutheran faith is not for everyone. It’s much easier to keep the anger streak going on Facebook than it is to face the needs of our neighbor. Logos like “faith over fear” are much more compelling than “faith for the sake of our neighbor”. That would make a terrible meme. It’s not catchy at all. Not even the word “scepter” could redeem it.

I suspect there is a well of good questions that might create conversation with kids to notice how our actions impact the vulnerable. What our faith has to say when we share memes that demean another human being. Who “the other” is right now and when you were growing up. How the needs of our neighbor matter more than our being right and more than our individual rights.

The Lutheran faith is old, but not as old the Savior (with the scepter) whose love was first and foremost for “the other”.

Week 3 of 3: The World Needs You to Pray (yes, the world)

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Have you noticed lately the size of the world?

A couple of weeks ago, I told you prayer is a conversation and relationship with God. Listen, talk. Talk, Listen. Last week, I told you prayer begins in your home. Prayer for family members changes your relationship with them.

Now, widen your perspective beyond your own relationship with God, beyond your relationships with family members, and take in a view of the wider world. Could your meager prayer really do something in the great big world and universe in which we live?

Madeleine L’Engle write a book called “A Stone For a Pillow”, part of a trilogy commentary on Genesis. In it, she tells the story of a time her friend confided in her, telling Madeleine a secret. Soon after, that friend wrongly and angrily blamed Madeleine for leaking the secret. Madeleine was ticked. She earnestly prayed to process her sense of hurt and betrayal. Who had actually betrayed the secret? She would never know. And would her friend ever confide in her again?

In one of her prayers, she heard herself say and mean, “Oh God, bless the bastard.”

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Blessings are sticky business in which human beings are entrusted to one another. If it is the people whom we love and who love us back that receive our blessing, our wide world shrinks. It is easy to bless people who like us, but something else to bless the one who betrays us.

In a time of deep divide and animosity in the world, what might happen if we pray for the ones who think and live differently? Could the world take a deep breath if we replace angry rhetoric with curiosity and humility? If our response to the news is a prayerful question instead of condemnation, you know what changes?

You.

And if you change, and then a few other you’s change, and a few thousand you’s change…you get the idea.

Your prayer means something for you, for your family, and for the world. Your prayer might be no more than, “Bless the bastard.” If you don’t believe your prayer means something, try for a week to pray for people you do not like and if it doesn’t do anything to you, you’ve lost nothing. If it does work…Look. Out. World.

Lent Week 4: Your Kiddo Really Prefers Store-Bought Granola Bars, So You Can Stop Making Them

If there is one thing I now know in the thick of the marathon that is parenting, it’s that I really don’t know much. And the things I do know have been learned only when I unlearned other things.

For example, my child will eat homemade baby food, and then homemade granola bars and mac and cheese, and then homemade everything because this is what I learned in parenting magazines (back when impressionable parents gleaned information from paper pages instead of web pages.) I unlearned much of what I had learned when my kids realized the world is much larger and in it exists a magical kind of Kraft Mac and Cheese and granola bars found in wrappers, like candy bars.

I learned from experienced parents the dream of being the parent who hosts the teenage gatherings in order to know kids’ friends. These wise parents taught me the importance of creating a welcoming, junk-food friendly home to attract teenagers like vape shops with their variety of cereal-flavored options. I unlearned such learning when I began to understand teenagers don’t always gather in the same room. I cannot offer said junk food to a teenager through an Xbox, even though I consider virtual gatherings valuable.

Parenting exists in a steady stream of learning, unlearning, and learning. It never ends. Ever. Which means there needs to be a space for the unlearning. We humans need space for the unlearning to lead to new learning. We learn to overschedule kids and shape our lives around their busyness. We learn to consume too much via cookies or Amazon or alcohol. We learn to work too much, complain too much, and accept the world for what it is too much.

I invite you to make space for the unlearning. In the unlearning, we make space to question what we think we know and let the Holy Spirit stir our imagination into new learning. What do you need to unlearn about the way you spend your time or your money? What might you unlearn about the way you understand your body or your neighbor or your nation or your religion or the world? What parenting practices might you unlearn to avoid making the marathon any freaking harder than it already is?

I have come to imagine Lent as a time when the church makes room for the unlearning to learn again the unlikely ending of the Jesus story. Based on all logic and reasoning and everything we have ever learned, the Jesus story should end on the cross with his last breath. The book should close with the power of death we learn all through life but of course it doesn’t. Instead, we learn an unlikely Easter awakening keeps the book from closing.

Unlearning death’s power means we live an entire life knowing the story doesn’t end as it should. So when I make a wrong parenting move, or realize what I’ve been doing was a sub-par idea, I can turn around (repent is the churchy word) and learn something new. New is the first and last word God speaks. New creation, new life, new wondering, new learning (after the unlearning).

A question for littles

What is one thing you know that grown-ups forget? (Kids can be great teachers of what to unlearn.)

A question for former littles

What is something you thought was true when you were little that doesn’t seem to be true after all?

A spiritual practice

Think back to a time in your life when you felt at peace, and comfortable with your self? Is there something you need to unlearn to return to that sense of peace?