I had a moment to share just a few highlights from this past Sunday’s sermon because I received good feedback along the lines of, “I needed to hear that.”

Now that I am serving at Resurrection in Sautee-Nacoochee, there is a way for people to listen to my sermons online. Several of you have asked how to listen online, and here is your answer:

https://www.youtube.com/@resurrectionepiscopal-saut6063

The church shares the services online through YouTube. You can listen to the entire service or skip ahead to the parts that feed you.

And thanks for listening!

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Here is a quick look at the readings from this coming Sunday. Genesis and Romans are good for more detailed reflection. There are some sermons in them, but I find them better suited for a longer conversation to dig into some of the more problematic th…

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Last night, I tucked into a hotel over four hours from our house with my ex-husband and our oldest child on our way to college.

This summer, I have supplied several Sundays in Dahlonega since their priest moved in May. In June, this week felt so far away. I had six Sundays scheduled to help one parish, two for another, and preach at a third. The kids had activities, camps, and lazy summer days ahead of them. At the History Center, we continued to book field trips for camps, plan events, and looked forward to new exhibits and unique lectures. August 9 was months away, and the summer felt like it would stretch out before us, granting ample time for everything.

Yesterday, I awoke at 8, took my shower, considered my sermon, and then hopped in the car and drove north. On the drive, I reflected on the reading prescribed from Matthew’s Gospel for yesterday by the Revised Common Lectionary: the story of Peter walking on water to meet Jesus. I love this reading for the opportunity it gives me to find in Peter, yet again, a kindred spirit.

Peter has impulse control issues that manifest in his eagerness to model the perfect disciple. He jumps first, processes later. In this case, he courageously asked Jesus for proof that he was not a ghost but their teacher and beloved friend. He has the faith to tell Jesus to let him step out onto the water and walk with Jesus. Frequently in scripture, Peter blurts out the right answer without giving much thought to the reality behind it. He’s a “cut first, measure later” kind of a guy. I respect that. I, too, prefer to make three holes in the wall to hang one picture, rather than measuring or using a level.

When I preach on the reading from yesterday, I prefer to focus on Peter’s courage, his faith, and his natural reaction to walking on water. I also take the opportunity to share one of my favorite books: Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art by Madeleine L’Engle. Truly, this book has formed, empowered, and encouraged me throughout my ministry. I won’t go into a detailed description at this time, but commend it to everyone as a worthy read.

For now, I simply highlight one part of her thesis: we need to remember to forget that things are impossible. L’Engle argues that Peter did not have a problem walking on water until he remembered the impossibility of such an act. He stepped out on faith and made solid strides on top of the water. He did not begin to sink or call for help until he looked around, felt the breeze, saw the waves, and his rational mind took over, canceling out the courage faith had afforded him. He remembered that walking on water was an impossibility, despite actually walking on water at that very moment.

L’Engle posits that we need to be better at remembering to forget in order to accomplish extraordinary things through our faith. We need to forget what we’ve been taught as we grow and mature about what is and is not possible, what we can and cannot do according to societal rules and others’ opinions, and to step out in faith. Therefore, as adults, we need to remember that we should forget about those rules and “impossibilities” in favor of trying, of taking bold strides into the world in hopes of answering God’s call.

boa

When I preach on this passage and speak about L’Engle’s book, I focus on Peter and how we relate to him as people of faith. I try to put my listeners in Peter’s shoes and encourage them to “remember to forget” what they have learned, in favor of daring boldly to attempt large leaps of faith. I hope to inspire them to feel empowered to step out, even if they fail. Quite often, failing is not the worst thing that could happen, but rather never living a life fully rooted in faith.

The backdrop of my personal life today, however, has me considering the role of other people in Matthew’s story - namely, the disciples on the boat.

After yesterday’s worship service, I hopped back in the car to drive home, finish packing, and leave with my oldest child and my ex-husband to drive north. The destination? College.

This spring passed, and with it, high school graduation for my oldest. The summer flew by for my oldest with its weeks at summer camp, pool days with high school friends, a concert to hear a beloved singer, meals out with friends and family, and plenty of packing and shopping. The transition from high school to college requires lots of planning, buying, cleaning, loading, purging, meeting new people, last things with old friends, and more emotions than it feels possible to process.

Though I preached in the morning about Peter, last night I was thinking about the disciples on the boat. Many times in my life, I have needed to be Peter. I have taken my turn, time and again, being the one to step out of the boat and into the water. Those moments required that I face rules that would have kept me inside, away from the waves and uncertainty. I had to remember to forget ideas and lessons I heard and learned along the way.

This week, however, I’m staying in the boat. It’s not my time. Last night, I sat on a hotel bed next to my 18-year-old, knowing that on Tuesday, she will step out of the boat into the seas of college life. Wednesday morning, her father and I will sail back home, leaving her to sink or walk - actually, sink AND walk, sometimes alternately and sometimes concurrently. I might be the mom of a college kid, but I remember those college days very well.

What kind of a witness will I be to her journey? Will I empower her, or will I reinforce rules that hold her back? What kind of encouragement or discouragement do we as fellow disciples offer our friends and family when their turn comes to act?

We call our worship space a “nave” in the Episcopal Church because the church strives to act as a ship in which we navigate life’s waters together. We gather in the boat to worship so that we might recharge our spiritual batteries, connect with community, support one another, and learn about God’s love for us as we try to share that love with one another. In churches, in families, in communities, and in friend groups, we can become so comfortable inside the church building that the idea of watching others go forth into the world as the church can make us feel uneasy.

We can sit in the boat and say to the Peters in our lives, “That’s not a good idea…I don’t think you should do that…Don’t you know that’s impossible?... You can’t do that…Are you crazy?... Don’t be stupid…You don’t want to do that…I would never do something so dumb…Are you sure that’s a good idea?... What will people think?... We’ve never done it that way before…”

Or we can choose to be brave, even from inside the boat. We can opt to bear witness to their successes and failures, empowering them to remember to forget perceived impossibilities.

The Peters in our lives will walk out to answer the call of God, and some days they’ll succeed and some days they’ll fail. Peter was not successful in Matthew’s story. He started to sink, and Jesus saved him. He walked a few steps, and everything seemed promising, but then his courage flagged, he panicked, and he looked down to find the water rising around his ankles and his legs. But the story isn’t about Peter’s perfection or exemplary behavior. It’s about attempting the impossible with the power of God beneath us and the unfailing love of Jesus as he sits with us when we fail. Whether we succeed or fail, God is with us.

I read a meme online months ago that continues to reverberate within my heart and mind: “The hardest part of parenting is realizing you’re raising the ones you can’t live without so that they can live without you.”

Over the course of my kids’ lives, I have watched them take plenty of steps towards independence. This week, I will watch the first of my three kids step out into the bigger seas of college. I pray to be a helpful disciple watching from the boat. I ask the Holy Spirit to reign me in when I feel the urge to shout out, “Be careful! That doesn’t look like the best next step!” I know the Spirit will walk alongside my oldest every step she takes, and God will be there as she succeeds and fails. She doesn’t need an “armchair quarterback.”

I could not have picked a better passage of scripture for this week than that proffered by the Revised Common Lectionary. I love Peter and his eagerness. I embrace any opportunity to recall the wisdom of one of my favorite authors. I remember that I am not always Peter and that I should aspire to be the best witness from the boat that I can be for the Peters in my life.

I feel excited for my kiddo as she prepares to move into her dorm and begin Freshman year. My heart hurts that she won’t be tucked into her bed down the hall from my room when I get back home. I can’t wait to hear about her professors, new friends, first parties, and challenging class assignments. I feel anxious about the failures that await her, the times she’ll begin to sink in the seas, and wonder why she thought stepping out was a good idea in the first place. I look forward to celebrating her successes with her and standing back in witness to it all.

For all of those parents of first-year college students out there, I’m right here with you, feeling all the feels.

For us all, may we strive to be people, communities, parents, friends, and loved ones who create spaces where the Peters of our lives feel empowered to climb over the side of the boat and dare to attempt the impossible. May we help one another remember to forget when life calls for it, and commit to cheering others on when they defy the odds, or wait on the boat with a towel in hand when they fail and need time to dry off, recharge, and feel loved.

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Personally, I’m processing the readi…

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This is a very rough and quick summary of my initial thoughts for this coming Sunday. I find opportunity in Genesis to think about wrestling with God and what it means to admit our church doesn’t have the answers. I also share a quick word about how I’ve been using the Genesis readings this s…

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Long time, I know! I am holding back from making promises of regular postings, but do want to share some updates. The first bit has some life updates, including why I haven’t posted and where I’ll be on Sundays soon. The second part is a reflection on yesterday’s reading from Matthew. Those who have heard me preach regularly will not be surprised that I end with a challenge and “homework” for everyone!

I have Substack handle the transcription, so my apologies if there are any inconsistencies.

Sending love to all of you on this fine Monday!

M

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The readings for this coming Sunday, June 21, present a set of challenges, rather than a lovely set of sentiments. I’ve been reflecting on the theme of belonging this month, which continues for this Sunday. I dabble a little in the readings for J…

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Hello, Kitchen Friends.

Sorry for the long absence. I am tremendously grateful for your patience and loyalty. Our household has had a busy year, and I am hoping for a slightly slower pace for the foreseeable future.

I am officially the mother of a high school graduate. We watched my oldest walk the stage in threatening weather to hug her dad (a teacher at her school) and receive her diploma from him. I had anticipated that the spring of senior year would keep my daughter busy. I had not anticipated that it would provide me with so many tasks and chores - all of it worth it!

As most of you know, I started a new position last July as the Executive Director of the Northeast Georgia History Center. Stepping into that role filled my schedule to overflowing with exhibit planning and openings, marketing, programming, artifacts, and more! Blessedly, we have a new full-time educator who started on June 1, allowing me to hand off field trips, homeschool days, and more.

Could that all mean that maybe, perhaps, I’ll have time now and again to turn my hand back to writing? I hope so. I miss it.

In the meantime, I share with you my preaching schedule for the summer. Several of you have asked, and I try to oblige. Over the past few weeks, I’ve had the pleasure of serving at Resurrection in Sautee-Nacoochee, St. Luke’s in downtown Gainesville, and at my homebase of St. Mary’s and St. Martha’s in Buford.

For most of the summer, you can find me at St. Elizabeth’s, Dahlonega: June 21, June 28, July 5, July 12, and July 19.

On July 26, I take a break from the Daholenga drive to get back to my home parish of St. Mary’s and St. Martha’s in Buford. Then I return to St. Elizabeth’s on August 9 and 23. My fall schedule is wide open, save for a weekend here and there when I’m leading retreats.

I hope to see some of you in Daholenga this summer or back at St. Mary’s and St. Martha’s!

Thank you for your continued support, and say a prayer that writing time will materialize for me soon.

M

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We can’t stay up on the mountain top. Our faith demands that we travel into the muck and mire to engage with the challenges of this world. Mountain top moments inspire us. God never intended for us to build a home and stay there.

If you have had a mountain experience, you know the elation of being at the top and the pain of coming back down. Effective spiritual renewal weekends and church retreats fill our hearts and feed our faith, trade the distractions of daily life with meaningful interactions with others, and remind us why we love God and each other enough to continue calling ourselves “Christians.” In the parlance of my home region, they set us on fire for Jesus!

Then, likely groggy and tired from the high of it all, we load the car and begin to drive away, back to the daily grind and our regular, worn routines. On the one hand, we can’t wait to return to our own beds and family. On the other hand, the bills we set on the counter on Friday still wait for us, and emails have continued to flood our inboxes. The workaday back home does not care about how our weekend away changed our lives and perspective.

When my kids or members of various churches I have served have participated in a weekend, I have tried to prepare them for both realities. I send notes or share words of encouragement as they leave, sharing my joy and excitement as they embark on the journey into the weekend. I eagerly look forward to hearing the stories on their return about the people they met, the new insights they gained, how they felt their faith both deepened and challenged, and the good and bad of it all.

Upon their return, I listen with a smile on my face and joy in my heart. Inevitably, their enthusiasm and glowing ember in their hearts infect the locus of my faith, and I benefit from a contact high, as it were, feeling my faith bolstered as well. As I affirm their experience and express gratitude for it, I gently try to tune them in to a potential shift in mood over the following week. Sometimes the journey off the mountain dips us lower than our typical emotional and spiritual levels. It can feel like bottoming out on a rollercoaster. We feel our insides pushed down as heaviness builds inside of us. Returning to “normal” can feel anything but.

We dare not laugh at Peter in Matthew’s telling of the transfiguration. Peter, atop a literal mountain, watches as the two greatest prophets of his faith, Elijah and Moses, appear before him to converse with his friend, mentor, and (hopefully) messiah. Peter undoubtedly stands in awe and overwhelm, stupefied by the impossible scene playing out before his eyes. Of course, Peter wants to stay there! We crave staying in places that fill us with joy and wonder. The desire to build houses for the three of them and live on the mountaintop with the three greatest prophets of all time is an entirely human and understandable impulse. I would want to stay there too!

But God never calls us to remain on the mountain. Had Moses stayed on the mountain, his community could not have reached the promised land. They would not have the law and the commandment to guide them. They would have built bigger and shinier golden calves to worship. Had Elijah stayed on the mountain, the people would have continued to follow the apostate King Ahab, and he could not have inspired them with his deep and dogged faith. We would not understand the importance of looking for God not in the hurricane, the earthquake, or the raging fire, but to listen for God in the still small voice, a whisper.

Peter comes off the mountain with Jesus and assists him in his ministry. He helps feed and heal people. He listens to Jesus preach and learns to do the same. He pours his energy and hope, fueled by his witness of the transfiguration. He tries and fails to remain vigilant until the bitter end, drawing a sword to defend Christ in one moment, only to find himself denying him less than twelve hours later. Coming off the mountain isn’t easy, and the mountain top experience does not guarantee perfection in faith, far from it.

But the work of faith cannot happen atop the mountain. The people who need the love of Christ work, live, play, and die in the valley below. We cannot understand who we are as disciples on the mountain; we can only discover some of the reasons we identify as such. The mountain gives us the courage to enter the fray of the valley, to risk our emotional, spiritual, and physical health to live as witnesses to the power of God’s love through compassionate service.

Peter bottomed out on Good Friday, three times denying he knew his best friend and mentor. But he did not remain there. He was not one of the two who claimed Christ’s body. He did not prepare it for burial or wrap it in cloth to lie in a tomb. Only John places Peter near the tomb. But between the transfiguration, the resurrection, and Pentecost, enough mountain-top energy fanned the flames of Peter’s spirit to drive him to become the promised rock of the church.

I appreciate the honesty of the prayer provided for the day by the Episcopal Church, in which we pray, “Grant to us that we, beholding by faith the light of his countenance, may be strengthened to bear our cross” (BCP 217). With honesty, the prayer reminds us of the cross that awaits in the valley below, the one for us to carry as Christ’s followers. We cannot escape it, nor should we desire to. Showing up as a witness to God’s love requires sacrifice. We live in a world quick to condemn us for being “too soft,” “too generous.” Defying injustice and oppression, standing up for the powerless, demanding our communities and country care for the very people Jesus welcomed around his tables and at his feet, these are not mountaintop moments. Our energy and faith may bottom out; in fact, we should expect it. We were made for the valley, not for the mountain, but the mountain makes us able to stand.

I do not laugh at Peter for his supposed ignorance and naivete. I would have wanted the same. And I do not blame him for his supposed faithlessness on Good Friday. I would not have made it as far in the journey with Jesus as he did. Instead, I pray to be gentle with myself and others when the lowest moments test our faith beyond our limits, and I pray that in those moments the vision of the mountain top will remain in our mind’s eye, reminding us to hold on because neither the elation of the mountain top nor the cruel agony of the deepest valley lasts forever. And God is both between and in it all.

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RCL Gospel reading for Epiphany:

Matthew 2:1-12

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet:

`And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler
who is to shepherd my people Israel.’”

Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.” When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.

A group of men turn their faces westward for a journey out of their homeland, away from the culture and community they know, driven purely by the conviction of their faith. A guiding light, maybe in the sky and maybe in their hearts, leads them to a new place where the people do not look like them, speak a different language, and practice different beliefs. But the strangeness of the land and the people they meet on their journey do not stop them. They continue on, confident in their purpose and direction.

Then, by some divine force, the men know to continue their journey and point their faces east, not to return by the road on which they arrived, but to set out on a different path. This cosmic force opens their eyes to the dangerous and corrupt nature of the foreign land's leadership.

The revelation presents them with a choice: act according to the desires of the human ruler or according to the inspiration of their faith. Being wise men, enlightened and rooted in the wisdom of their tradition’s teachings, they hold fast to the mission of their journey: to identify and acknowledge the importance of peace and its power to transform even the most difficult, power-hungry, and confused of times and circumstances.

Over time, thousands of people come to hear the story of these men and want to learn about their journey. They hunger for the wisdom that pushed these men to aspire to undertake such a pilgrimage with no guarantee of safe passage.

Is the above the story of Epiphany, year 0, or Epiphany, year 2026?

This week, the Christian calendar marked the Feast of the Epiphany, when we recall the story of the Magi and their journey from afar to pay homage to the Prince of Peace by presenting gifts to Jesus. In their time, place, culture, and tradition, God revealed the birth of a Messiah—a king—in a world and faith unlike their own. Guided solely by their beliefs and confidence, they set out to seek the newest wellspring of peace, even though it belonged in a foreign land to foreign people.

During this same week, meanwhile, our nation has also begun following the journey of roughly 20 Buddhist monks as they walk in the name of peace from Fort Worth, TX, to Washington, D.C.

https://dhammacetiya.com/walk-for-peace

They did not begin their journey this week. As of this morning, January 11, 2026, they have walked for 78 days and covered more than 1000 miles. Thanks to the internet and social media, word is spreading, and hundreds (soon thousands) gather to see them pass near their communities. Organizations have offered safe places to rest for the night, including Christian churches and seminaries, opening their doors not only to this band of travelers but also to the growing number of onlookers and visitors who wish to be near them and hear from them.

The group maintains a Facebook page and a website to facilitate connections and support, and provides a live tracking map to pinpoint the monks’ locations. Witnesses to the journey post photos and videos of their interactions with the religious men, and the Facebook page shares experiences and reflections. In one image, a woman in an electric wheelchair meets a monk by the roadside. She smiles as he reaches out to her.

Lately, the news has become increasingly more difficult for me to bear. Broadly, we have traded wisdom for false wit, respect and balance for winner-takes-all, and nothing appears true or trustworthy anymore.

I love my family and my job. Personally and professionally, I cannot complain; I feel lighter and more energized these days. But when I check on the state of world affairs, the world OUT THERE, I often feel that I would like to get off the ride now. I love a good rollercoaster, but this one is proving too much, mostly because of the nastiness of it all. Decency no longer finds a place in the public forum - a space that should uphold at least the most basic rules of decorum in favor of debate that desires shared enlightenment. Instead, we kill the philosophers and theologians because they get in the way of the enthronement of the ideological demigod de jour.

And then, a light shines in the world: a baby is born in the worst of conditions, in turbulent times. Years later, that same light inspires a band of men in saffron robes, with their beloved dog in tow, to set out on a 2000+ mile journey in the name of the peace that brought that child into the world 2000+ years ago.

According to the Gospel of Matthew from the 1st century—and as seen in the 21st century support for a small band of monks—the power of peace transcends time and defies religious boundaries. In the Gospel, men from a foreign land traveled great distances to visit a child not of their own people, tribe, or religion and paid respect to the testament to peace found in that baby’s heart. Similarly, now men from foreign lands travel great distances, meeting people who are not of their own people, tribe, or religion, and millions pause to respect the testament to peace found in these monks’ hearts.

And for a moment, I find my own safe harbor on this journey in the hope kindled by a child born 2000 years ago and by a band of men walking as I type these words.

Peace blooms in quiet spaces. My prayer on this First Sunday after the Feast of the Epiphany is that we, as a collective “modern” culture, stop worshiping at the idol of shouting and sound bites. Instead, may we fight for spaces of quiet, for the restoration of a public forum that pauses to listen, not to each other but to the wisdom of the ages.

Sophia has not disappeared. We have simply become too arrogant in our own speaking, too in love with the sound of our own voices, to hear her. Today, she walks with the monks as they depart Columbia, SC, turning their faces north for the simple purpose of being witnesses to the power of peace in a bloodthirsty time.

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Yesterday we relaxed, ate, opened presents, and started all over again until the day was done.

The church I serve as an assisting priest gave me the honor of recording a brief Christmas message this year. I thought I’d share it with all of you a day late.

Join me sometime at St. Mary and St. Martha in Buford sometime. I’m there usually one Sunday a month. The rest of the time, I am either covering for priests in other parishes, leading workshops or retreats, working at the Northeast Georgia History Center (my full-time gig), or spending time with my family.

I’m glad we are made of the same star dust, you and I.

Merry Christmas.

Ingredients : 

1lb mushrooms, finely chopped (button or baby bellas work well)
1-2 mushrooms, thinly sliced for garnish
2 Tbsp olive oil                                        
Salt and pepper to taste
1 large onion, finely chopped       
3 ½ Tbsp butter 1 ½ Tbsp white wine                                    
¼ cup fresh Italian parsley leaves, chopped, and 5-6 leaves whole leaves for garnish
¾ cup flour                                                  
Ground nutmeg, dash (preferably freshly grated)
2 cups milk, preferably whole                                             
Crusty bread, cut into ¼ inch cubes and toasted (can also use store bought croutons)
8 ½  cups water or vegetable broth 

Instructions:

Heat the oil in a soup pot over medium-high heat.
Add onion and saute for 3 minutes.
Add the mushrooms and continue to saute for another 5-6 minutes, until onion is softened and the mushroom begins to brown.
Add the wine and cook until mostly evaporated.
Add the flour and saute 2-3 minutes until the flour begins to brown.
Add the milk slowly, stirring constantly.
Once well-incorporated, stir in the water or vegetable broth.
Turn down the temperature to medium.
Add the salt and pepper to taste (freshly milled pepper is best), add nutmeg, and cook for about 15 minutes.
Add the butter, stirring until butter melts into the soup.
Using an immersion blender, puree the soup until creamy. If you do not have a hand mixer, carefully transfer soup to a blender and blend until creamy, then return to the pot.
Taste and adjust salt and pepper to liking.
Add parsley.
To serve, pour servings into bowls and top with parsley leaves, croutons, and the sliced mushrooms.
Variations: substitute fresh thyme for the parsley or add it in addition to the parsley. Garnish with freshly-grated parmesan cheese.

Father, hallowed be your name.
Your kingdom come.
Give us each day our daily bread.
And forgive us our sins,
for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.
And do not bring us to the time of trial."

And he said to them, "Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, `Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.' And he answers from within, `Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.' I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs.

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I confess that I giggle a little whenever I read this story from Jesus. I imagine God, lying in bed, about to fall asleep, wondering who the hell keeps knocking on the door. God turns over, thinking the knocking will stop, but it just keeps going. The Divine tries every trick in the book: turns on a white noise machine, cranks up the box fan, pillow-over-the-head, everything. But some stupid person keeps knocking over and over and over and over and…

Finally, God stands up, walks to the front door red-eyed and very annoyed, opens the door, and growls, "What do you want?!"

There we stand, sheepishly, muttering, "My cat's sick. Can you do something about that? Thanks." Then we walk away. Does God lower the Divine head into their hands, and mutter, "One night. Just one night, I'd love a full hour of sleep without being interrupted."

If Jesus told this story in modern terms, he might say, "Hey, I've got this great prayer. It includes everything. Want to hear it? Great. 

God, you're awesome. I can't wait to meet you one day face-to-face. Give me enough to eat for today. I know tomorrow you'll do the same thing, so I'm not that greedy. Can you get over the bad stuff I've done? That'd be great. I guess if you do that, then I'll forgive the people who have been mean to me. Maybe they'll forgive me, too. We'll see. And if you could keep me away from some bad stuff, that would be great too. Thanks."

Then he would turn to his friends and say, "See? You just got to bother God with your problems. And I mean really bother the s*it out of him. If you get the feeling she's ignoring you, just keep pestering them. Whatever you do, don't stop. Really annoy God. I mean, if your friend wouldn't stop texting you, wouldn't you finally give up and ask them what's their problem? Yeah. Me too."

Bother the sh*t out of God.

Makes me giggle. 

I'm not so sure about this idea that God would consistently ignore our pleas. It seems there are plenty of references in the Bible to God's dedication to us and hearing our every cry. But I don't think that's the point of what Jesus is saying. Or, I hope not, anyway.

Instead, I consider what it means to be willing to stand at the door and knock, and knock, and knock, until something finally happens.

First, I wouldn't. We often, especially women, begin a request to someone else with, "I don't want to bother you, but..." or "If it's not too much to ask and wouldn't put you out too much, could you..." We're terrified of inconveniencing anyone. I suffer from this malady profoundly. I'll drive four hours out of my way to do something a friend could do in ten minutes, so that I won't be a burden or ask too much of them. We feel insecure in asking for help because we're afraid of losing the relationship for being too "needy."

Second, we don't want to be annoying either. Forget about being a burden, we simply don't want to be an annoyance. We think that if we annoy someone, even in the slightest, they will immediately leave us alone forever. Or, worse, they'll gossip about us and how aggravating we are, and even more people will shun us and not want to be our friends.

Isn't that all about not trusting ourselves or the other person? We don't trust ourselves to discern when we genuinely have a need. I could be bleeding out and insist on driving myself to the ER, not asking someone else to drive me for fear that I'll get there and the doctor will look at me and say, "It's not that bad." Then the person who drove me will get mad that I inconvenienced them for something that turned out to be superficial. Out of fear, we don't trust our abilities to know when we're in need and when we're not.

We also don't trust in the depth of commitment the other person has in our relationship. Even if we were to get up to their knocking on our door, we fear that if we push them to answer, they'll be completely turned off by our persistence and leave the relationship. Will this person love me enough to answer my middle-of-the-night fears and needs? I doubt it. 

Jesus challenges us by pushing the limits of our trust in God. We say we worship God, that we "hallow" his name in praise and worship. We recognize God's power and holiness. We say we trust that one day, the Divine will bring about the completion of the kingdom of heaven, and we proffer that we're looking forward to it. But do we trust God beyond the platitudes? Each petition in the Lord's Prayer digs deeper into our faith. We pray that God provides for today and today only. We extend trust to cover the next twenty-four hours: "today this daily bread." Having risked our faith for today, we express our desire for God to cover us tomorrow by extending forgiveness for the sins we may commit today. We lean into the Divinity by requesting something we are slow to give to one another. Having asked for this, we make a promise to try to offer the same to one another. We understand forgiveness does not come easily. With shaky legs, we take one further step into trust by requesting that God spare us from difficulties tomorrow and beyond. Life is difficult, no two ways about it. Most of the time, we believe we have only ourselves to rely on as we face the foes in the trials of life. If we're lucky, maybe we find a partner, friends, and/or family who become our ride-or-die in the storms that come. This last petition invites God into our most difficult days by asking not only for Divine presence, but also Divine protection.

"Keep knocking," Jesus tells us. I would not stand and knock all night on the door of someone I did not trust. In fact, I can think of only a handful of people I would trust with that level of persistence, intrusion, and annoyance on my part. We say we "believe" in God. We say we "worship and adore" God. But how much do we trust God? How much are we willing to test the boundaries of the love God tells us has no boundaries, a love unfathomably, incomprehensibly, unconditional? 

Bother the sh*t out of God? Why? Because it means you trust the Divine. It means you have faith that your relationship can stand up to you boldly petitioning God at any time, any hour, for a need you might consider utterly banal and mundane. God WILL open the door, every time.

For the first time in my 20+ years of ordained ministry, 24+ years of preaching, I felt hesitant to select this story as the focal point of my sermon. Politics these days makes preaching difficult for too many of us. What should be a simple message of helping people unlike ourselves - strangers and aliens - through the ears of some listeners becomes an indictment of our current administration. I consider it my job to preach the gospel and share the Good News. It falls to those who hear to interpret as the Spirit calls them.

With this last truth in mind, I pushed forward. I chose the passage from Luke because, despite my reservations and a desire not to offend others, it remains one of the pivotal parables of my faith journey and a favorite story in all of Christendom. Scriptures can be murky, contradictory, and confusing. Still, in this one story, Jesus clearly set forth a message about our responsibility to care for our neighbor, using the broadest understanding of the term. 

Having finally had time to type up my notes, I share with you a generally faithful rendering of what I shared with my home parish last week.

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Click here for the Readings for Proper 10, Year C

The collect prescribed for this Sunday doesn’t pull any punches: “grant that they may know and understand what things they ought to do, and also may have grace and power faithfully to accomplish them.” On the surface, it reads as a noble prayer, but that second part holds the key to the challenge of faithfully executing our calling. I often know what I should do, but I don’t want to. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I’m lazy. Maybe I just lack the motivation.

But maybe, I don’t like that doing those “things I ought to do” means those people benefit. I don’t like that group or what they stand for, and doing what God asks me to do might make them happy or give them what they want. Honestly, I don’t want them to benefit from my hard work. 

My aunt attended Oberlin College in Ohio in the 1950s. Oberlin was one of the first institutions of higher education to integrate, long before colleges and universities in the South followed suit. My aunt was ten years older than my father, and my grandmother, Gaga, decided to take him with her to visit my aunt. They boarded a bus and made the trek from Marietta to Ohio.

In those days, hotels weren’t as readily available everywhere as they are today. Instead, you would stay with your family member in their college dorm room. Young people, can you imagine your mom or dad staying in your room with you? Parents, can you imagine having to stay with your kids in their room? Since my father was a male, my grandmother could stay in my aunt’s room, but he couldn’t. In such cases, the college would place a male relative in a room with a male student who has no roommate. Moreover, can you imagine that? Putting a nine or ten-year-old boy in a room with a total stranger? Times have changed, thankfully.

The college matched my dad with a Native American student, a term we use today, but this was the 1950s, so to them, he was an Indian. I’ll talk about the significance of this change in terminology later, but it’s also pertinent for this story. My grandmother took my father to meet his roommate for the visit and sat and spoke with the young man for quite a while. She started going on and on about how wonderful integration was and how forward-thinking Oberlin was in leading the way. She waxed poetic about the subject, even as she began to notice the student’s tepid response to her enthusiasm. He nodded his head, but did not reflect her excitement. She stopped and looked at him, then asked about his seemingly apathetic response.

The young man shrugged and said, “I’m Indian. I’m not Black. I’m not White. No one accepts me.”

That was why he did not have a roommate and had a spare bed for my father’s stay. 

Today, we heard the much-loved story known as the “parable of the Good Samaritan.” I remember when I was a kid, thinking, “Oh! Samaritan! What’s that?” It sounded so exotic, so foreign. Through this story of the nature of neighborliness, Jesus highlights for us an essential first step in the process of other-ing people: O T H E R I N G, othering. The story of the Good Samaritan, often seen as a lesson in compassion, also serves as a powerful example of how we can overcome the tendency to 'other' people and instead see them as our neighbors.

In our translation, Jesus doesn’t refer to a “man from Samaria.” He speaks of a Samaritan. In turning an adjective into a noun, he shifts a modifier into an identity, signaling the otherness of the Samaritan: He is not like us. He is not one of us. He is one of those people, part of a community apart and adversarial to our own. 

The second we shift a modifier into an identity, we have pushed someone out of our world, our sphere, and into the realm of the other. That’s why we have changed our language from “Indian” to “Native American.” In making the shift, we acknowledge that someone is an American, like us, but native to this land, original to it. 

It is also the reason we have changed our language in the last decade from referring to “slaves” to using the term “enslaved peoples.” The second we made someone a slave, we turned them into something other than ourselves. It became easier to wipe away any concept of humanity from an entire population, allowing them to be thought of as property and chattel. An enslaved person is a fellow human being who suffers from the horrible condition of enslavement at the hands of another person. The phrase “enslaved person” places the modifier back in its proper position, demanding we recognize the identity as human and not as a slave.

Similarly, we see our language shifting from “homeless” to “unhoused person.” If we think of someone as “homeless,” or an entire population as “the homeless,” we have pushed them outside of our realm, forced them onto the streets, and below ourselves. Ew, homeless. “He is homeless” makes his adjective an identity and one that maintains a safe distance from ourselves. “Unhoused person” returns the modifier to its rightful place, holding space for identity as a human.

Jesus employed the term “Samaritan” in a clever rhetorical way that triggered his hearers to immediately think, “Ew. Samaritan. One of those people. Not like me. Lesser.” Then turns the story on its end, making the Samaritan, the person his hearers would have happily othered, into the hero and the role model.

We all make this shift. It’s in our DNA, a survival code from our ancestors to keep us safe when we lived in the woods. Our brains naturally and quickly categorize things for our survival: stay away from brightly colored animals or animals with large teeth. Don’t touch brightly colored berries or mushrooms. Large, dark clouds filled with rolling, angry thunder warn us to seek shelter on high ground. Unfortunately, our brains and instincts have not evolved as quickly as our culture and understanding of humanity, so we love to categorize one another. Other or different equals bad. The unknown or not understood is better left alone in case it means danger.

If you think you don’t other in this way, that you don’t quickly turn a modifier into an identity to distance yourself from other people, see how these words hit you: Democrat. Republican. Liberal. Conservative. 

I love how God subverts our human tendency to turn an adjective into a noun, to shift a modifier into an identity, by creating one in which all of creation belongs: Beloved.

“Beloved,” God refers to us, again and again. “Beloved,” no longer an adjective but a noun, an entire identity. “Beloved,” God calls each and every one of us. 

God created us in many shades and varieties. We do have differences, and humanity displays an incredible wealth of diversity. But those adjectives aren’t who we are. They are a part of us, sometimes essential parts of us, but they aren’t our identity.

God looks at our beauty, our uniqueness, at our differences and says, “Marvelous. There is my Beloved.” That is the one modifier worthy of becoming an identity.

We look around the room at one another and should first think, “Beloved.”

Imagine if we took that message out into the world. Imagine what our community would be like if we stepped out of our doors every day with the full understanding that every person we meet bears, first and foremost, the identity of “Beloved.” Any other word we might attribute to them is nothing more than a descriptor, a modifier, an adjective.

We are, each and every one of us, beloved.

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Hello, Kitchen Friends. Sorry, my writing is sporadic at best lately. I won't tell you that I hope to be more regular soon (even if that's the case). I start a new job on July 9 and will be adjusting my schedule accordingly. Maybe I'll be able to squeeze in some regular writing again??!! A girl can dream, can't she? Check my socials for an announcement next week as I start my new job. I'm excited to share with you my latest venture. I'll still be on staff (in a very part-time capacity) at St. Mary's and St. Martha's in Buford, GA, and will continue to write and host workshops and retreats, albeit very occasionally. 

In the meantime, here are my thoughts for this coming Sunday's lectionary readings. I'll be joining my friends at Grace-Calvary in Clarkesville, GA, again. If you ever happen to be there, be sure to go inside the historic church! I have to climb into the crow's nest of a pulpit in order to see my friends who like to sit in the back of the balcony, but it's worth it. 

The readings for Sunday are for Proper 9, Year C in the Revised Common Lectionary. Click here for a direct link to the readings, courtesy of The Lectionary Page. Also, I'll reference Working Preacher in one of my reflections. This ministry out of Luther Seminary provides excellent weekly resources for preachers and Bible studies. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Click here to check out their page and learn more about their work. Mostly, I take advantage of their podcast, which you can find on almost all podcast streaming services.

This week, the Gospel reading (Luke 10:1-11, 16-20) caught my attention, thanks to the Working Preacher podcast. One of the hosts, in passing, pointed out that in this passage, Jesus describes what it means to be a faithful guest. 

I've spent most of my life considering what it means to be a good host. I have cooked for one or two friends, as well as groups of 30 or more, often inviting them into my home to sit around my table. We hear many references today, in light of the immigration debate, to several passages of scripture that explain how we are to welcome strangers, particularly Leviticus 19:33-34. 

As a kid, my mom talked to me about being a good guest and the importance of being polite and courteous when staying in someone else's home. However, as an adult, I rarely hear conversations or instructions on how to be a gracious guest. 

Why is this? Do we prefer to discuss what it means to be a good host because that's the position of power? When we welcome someone into our homes, our community, our culture, our place of business, our school, and so on, we set the pace, direction, and action. We decide the how, when, where, and to what extent. Being a good host requires relinquishing a modicum of our power and control over the events to our guests, making them feel welcome and seen. We allow them to contribute to the decisions and choose specific elements of what we otherwise have orchestrated. We choose whether or not to let the guest through our doors in the first place. Americans love to discuss positions of power and the responsibilities that come with holding power, preferring not to address situations that make us feel weak or vulnerable.

To be a guest is to be vulnerable. Jesus made sure his disciples went into the world in the most vulnerable ways possible: no purse, no bag, no sandals. Nothing. He forced them to step into the world with nothing but the hospitality of strangers on which to depend. And whatever household first welcomed them, that household deserved their loyalty for the duration of their visit. And that's fair. These disciples showed up in a community with nothing but words to preach about some "Good News" and the "Kingdom of God," concepts not entirely familiar to most people. Only the truly charitable would welcome such a stranger as this. Can you imagine loading your groceries into your trunk at your local Kroger, have a pair of people approach with no shoes, no money, no bags, and decide to bring them home for a meal and maybe offer them a place to sleep merely because they said, "Let me tell you about my friend named Jesus"? I don't think so. 

Honestly, I don't have the guts to step out into the world as the type of guest Jesus demanded of his early followers. My stomach flips and twists with the pangs of vulnerability just thinking about it. I don't want to do that. I want a backup plan or three. I want at least one change of clothes, shoes on my feet, and enough money to buy me a meal and get me home, if necessary.

But how can we understand a guest in our home or in our land if we have not shared that experience of showing up with nothing, willing to eat, sleep, and drink at the whim of someone else, a host gracious enough to let us into their home? 

I think that's why the best reflections on being a good host include some acknowledgment of the bravery on the part of the guest. I remember, as a kid, being so nervous about spending the night at someone's home for the first time. In some cases, it was the first time I met other family members, including parents and siblings. What if I got homesick? Just kidding. Of course, I got homesick. What if their house smelled different than mine? What if they ate weird foods? What if I couldnt’t sleep, or I got sick, or something else horrible befell me, and I was stuck?

When we arrive relatively empty-handed but with a willingness to engage fully in the culture of our host's home, we learn much about ourselves and others. We try foods we would otherwise never have tasted. We watch television shows and movies that we never knew existed. Maybe the mom will serve fish for dinner (yuck), but perhaps the grandma will give you chocolate ice cream for breakfast and let you sit on the kitchen counter as you eat it in your pajamas (yay!). Maybe we'll get sick from eating too much chocolate the night before and wake up with a bellyache, followed by a trip to the bathroom to puke, then experience the dad bringing us cool compresses for our foreheads and a glass of ginger ale with crushed ice.

What does it mean to be a faithful guest? To put ourselves in that place of vulnerability and experience a different world? For Jesus, it includes sharing the gifts we have, whatever they may be. In the case of his followers, they shared a good word about a loving God and managed to heal some people along the way. They preached and served, then came back, not exhausted but renewed. 

We take ourselves, our experiences, and our faith out into the world with willing hearts, hoping we might benefit those with whom we share it. We return, thanks to open minds and the courage to be vulnerable, amazed by the world we encounter. We discover that there are many ways of being in the world, of serving God and one another, and that encountering people changes us.

That's my jumping-off point for the Gospel this week. I have more to consider and don't have a tidy bow for wrapping it up, but I commend the thought to you.

Two other thoughts I'm turning over in my brain for this week also come from short phrases in this week's Working Preacher podcast, both pertaining to the 2 Kings reading, if you're on that track in this season after Pentecost.

One is the question: Would you rather be right, or would you rather be healed? This has to do with Naaman being upset with Elisha because Elisha subverted the commander's expectations. Naaman hoped Elisha would say some magic words, wave his hands over Naaman, and heal him. Instead, Elisha gave him instructions for actions Naaman had to take.

The other thought has to do with the fact that, yet again, it's a young captive girl who points the way to the great prophet. Time and again, we find servant girls and enslaved women open the way to find God. They serve as guides, truthtellers, oracles, and seers. We should not be surprised to find Jesus and Paul acknowledging the importance of women as apostles, preachers, and leaders.

Grief Arrives, Unexpected

Grief turns her face to me and beckons

I had not planned to greet her today

She arrived unannounced

A thief of our quiet morning

Now, the day vibrates with the deafening silence of a life gone

Echoes of laughs remain

The shadows of smiles

The arduous task of grasping at memories before they slip away with the soul

I hurriedly search through photos to find one to hold onto

I don’t want to let go

I don’t want to accept too soon

The contours of grief shift in and out of familiar lines

She sings songs to remind me of past sojourns with her

While writing the fresh melody for this one

I sigh and listen to the rain

Letting loose from the sky the tears my eyes refuse to release

Reality failing in the wake of the freshness of the loss to penetrate the denial

Still standing guard inches below my surface

My heart and head comprehend more quickly than my eyes, my nose,

The hairs on my head

They begin to stand on end, but denial presses, “No! It can’t be.”

And they lie down again

I hear my heart ripple out her whisper to the rest of me,

“‘Tis true. She’s gone.”

My brain nods its assent, but the body doesn’t accept

The fight inside, this volleying of desires, weighs down my eyelids

The rain falls and splashes

The thunder grumbles

My body at once buzzes and yet desires slumber

I look back at grief as she holds her gaze on me

There is no around

Only through

I hold my seat and hold my heart

I can’t bear to take grief’s hand

Not yet

But I know her to be a patient companion

And a determined one

“Not yet,” I whisper

“Let me pretend one more hour that this isn’t real.”

“Take your time,” she tells me

With an understanding eye

Her hand slips under mine

Her fingers interlacing with my slack ones

Too numb to fight, I allow the inevitable as grief grows closer

Taking her place as my near companion

At least for this season

Together, we look out at the rain and hear its singing

Soon enough, the drops will fall from my eyes

To meet the ones that slide down the metal roof

And drip to the ground below

But not yet

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This morning, in an act of willpower and determination, we pushed ourselves to ignore the list of to-do’s in favor of our stack of to-reads, taking time for quiet indulgence among the infinite pages of books we have bought with the best intentions. One I come back to for a quick read I know will bear positive fruit is Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights, a recommendation from a dear friend and avid reader. He writes in one of his springtime reflections of the twin planting of the redbud and dogwood trees despite the redbud blooming before the dogwood. 

He explains that the redbud is known as the “Judas tree” and the dogwood the “Jesus tree.” Apparently, the redbud that announces the start of spring, following the lead of the daffodil, shares an ancestral lineage with that one on which legend holds that Judas hanged himself. He then moves on to the white of the dogwood and how Christians cling to the purity it represents, but he prefers the pink variety that shows off alongside its white cousins. As I sit and type this, I see one of each out my window, and I agree with Gay - the pink one offers a more suitable celebration of the season.

Truthfully, I prefer the redbud, how it bursts with color in the thick woods, under the canopy of the much larger trees, which seem just to be waking up and considering a first copy of coffee while the redbud has been up for hours, cleaned the kitchen, cooked breakfast, and now happily sings a celebration song as its forest neighbors look on. I see redbuds the same as daffodils, through my eyes, weary from the winter darkness and on the verge of closing again in surrender to the exhaustion of all things cold and dreary. On a walk, I spot the yellow daffodil, bugling the promise of brighter, warmer days. Then, on a drive, I look through the window at the sleepy woods and spy the redbud, slight and normally unassuming, exploding into color, its purple flowers fireworks against the drear backdrop of its neighbors’ thick trunks and naked branches.

When I read Gay’s description of my preferred redbud as the “Judas tree,” my heart darkened a bit, like a shadow crossing over an old quilt laid out for a picnic and warmed by the sun, a wave of unwelcome cool running down me. 

Sunday, we step into the drama of the Passion Narrative from Palm Sunday through Holy Saturday. Twice in the week, we hear the reading of Luke’s and then John’s rendering of the last days of Christ’s life. Palm Sunday we shout “Hosana” with the excited crowd, then turn with them in their damnation, raising our “Crucify him!” along with their voices. Though we publicly claim our complicity in Jesus’s death, in our hearts, we harbor delusions that we would not have been among those who turned on him, and we judge both Peter and Judas for their denial and betrayal.

To associate my lovely redbud with the villain in my messiah’s story angered me. I don’t want goodness tainted by malice, even in a tangential, mythological sense. Judas should keep his evil, dark, grimy, and hated self away from the beauty of the humble redbud.

And yet…

The redbud stands alone in the forest in her beauty and beckons me for a closer look.

We push Peter aside for his denial of Jesus, begrudgingly indulge the preacher who insists we accept our place alongside him in the denial of God in our own lives. Peter we humor with relatability because he comes through in the end, finding his demise in a Godly manner, crucified upside down because of his determined faithfulness.

But when do we ever hear a sermon on the humanity of Judas? I confess I never once considered the subject matter in my preaching. Judas plays the sacrificial goat on which we lay our human proclivities that we consider too evil to discuss. Judas carries every unspoken and unknown horrific act and thought with him to his redbud so that we never need to see it brought into the light. Let Judas be alone in his interior hell; let him suffer in the anguished consequences of his decisions. We prefer to distance ourselves from him because his existence makes us uncomfortable; the mere mention of him brought clouds to my redbud picnic.

 But Judas died abandoned and alone, too, executed by his own hands. 

Judas had lived with Jesus and the others, had been their friend and companion. That fact compounds the depth of his betrayal and does not change. The redbud invites me to consider Judas’s humanity, and I do not like it.

What of the friend who makes a horrible mistake, who willfully betrays those he loves for personal gain? What of the friend who then sits tortured alone in her room, longing to turn back time to redeem herself, to untie the death knots she made in haste to end a friendship? What of the person whose actions we justifiably judge as evil but whose heart now weeps with overflowing regret?

And what of us? Are we any better than Peter when we abandon such a person? 

My self-protection part highlights, underscores, and fully capitalizes “BOUNDARIES” in my mind, and she is right: we do need to set boundaries with people who hurt us and others. But do we too often abandon them in that reasoning? Is there a way to set a boundary and also not leave someone amid their self-created personal hell?

Can we sit with Judas, or is that asking too much?

Too often, I have heard the refrain, “Love the sinner, hate the sin,” with little to no genuine follow-through. Would those who passionately proclaim this mantra have sat with Judas in his hour of pain and torture?

I have no answer for this Passion Week challenge; I only share with you the same invitation presented to me to consider it, even as it makes me deeply uncomfortable. 

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Self-righteously, we hold vigil with Jesus the night before he walks to his execution. What would it mean to hold vigil with Judas, instead? Perhaps that might present us with a more significant faith challenge. 

When we sit with Christ on Maundy Thursday, we answer his question, “Could you not stay awake with me for one hour?” Should we choose to sit with Judas, we would answer his call to love one another as he loved us so profoundly that we learn to hold boundaries while also holding space, to love in the midst of evil, and not abandon Judas to his darkest, most horrific self.

Again, I proffer no answer; I give you no solution. Instead, I share with you the burden of considering Judas in the depths of his grief and guilt, his shame, and his regret and our willingness to sit with him. 

A little more than three weeks ago, we opened a specialty market in my great-great-great-grandfather's home. We used old family furniture and fixtures to outfit the store, pulling pieces out of storage on the farm that had sat relatively forgotten for a few years to several decades. Some pieces resurrected stories as they left the dank tomb of buried furniture,, and some appeared out of the dusty, web-covered darkness with nary a recollection from whence it came. That old wooden ladder? No idea how it came to live among the breakfront from 1968, the glass-topped table from the 1980s, or the wardrobe from the 1910s. 

Other pieces reemerge as relics from family mythology, steeped in decades of stories passed from generation to generation. As we set up the granite counter on its deep-stained curved wood base, I remember Charlie Strong and his grocery store housed in my grandfather's building. We would stop by to visit Granddaddy, but it was Charlie's hugs I looked forward to - that and maybe a free Budwine from the cooler. The dark red of the drink announced the intense cherry flavor that burst to life as soon as it hit my tongue. I tried to find it for our new store, but the company went out of business years ago, and we had to settle for Cheerwine instead. It does the job but pales in comparison to the nectar I remember from the hot summer days of my childhood.

The butcher block required a team of men to assist its emergence from storage and back into the light of day. We made it through the front barn doors but had to employ a jack to hoist it over the baseboards detailing the doors and walls of the store, rendering the space ever-so-slightly too small for the behemoth hunk of wood to pass through. Like the counter, the block came before the chicken or the egg of my story, or even that of my mother. Her father acquired the pieces from his mentor in the butcher business in the 1920s. 

We whispered prayers of thanks when we passed the block as it sat in my parents' kitchen in the 1980s, and do so again now as it adorns the second room of the store. None of us would be here if it weren't for its substantial size. Though the massive hunk of wood on four equally hearty legs existed to cut up hunks of meat, it doubled as a lifesaver during a storm that destroyed much of our city in 1936. Twin tornados hit downtown Gainesville, the site of many businesses, including my grandfather's butcher shop. He happened to be in his store when the funnel clouds swept through the streets, and he climbed under his butcher block to ride them out. The block protected him from the destruction and flying debris. Had he not sought cover and had the block not held, I could not write this for you today. We named the store for him Garland "Butch" Reynolds and have filled some upper shelves with more of his artifacts. I knew these stories and more as we pulled out the furniture and fixtures, cleaned them up, and helped them find their rightful places in our new space. 

More lore has arrived with relatives and neighbors stopping by to see what we've been up to. My mom's first cousin walked in the doors and began telling how her parents had moved into the house soon after their marriage. They lived a while there before moving up the hill into the home my family now uses, one built by my great-grandfather. The happy couple then built a house of their own across the street, one in which they raised their family and in which my cousin still resides. Old wooden houses like these did not include insulation, and my cousin recalled, "Mama talked about how the first year they were married, she wallpapered this house with newspapers to try to keep out the draft."

The son of a beloved and long-since-departed neighbor came by last week, and we sat for half an hour or more talking about his mother, her love of antiques, and our community's love for her. I attended my one and only Pentecostal “camp meeting” with her as a little girl and I’ll never forget it. She loved us as though we were her own grandchildren and let us climb through her old mill, now Healen-Head Mill, to investigate her extensive collection of old furniture. Before he left, her son asked if we wanted a few of her pieces to be included in the store for display. We parted with a promise to get together one Monday night to go through his own storage room to see what might work. 

A local author came by to drop off some of her books to sell, and her husband walked in with childlike wonder. He has restored old homes his whole career and marveled at our 1850s specimen. He spun stories of his years of work as he pointed to the walls and ceiling. "See? How none of those boards are standard? You got a four-inch one there and a ten-inch one right above it. That shows you how they milled whatever logs they had around and added them as they came out." 

He strolled around and then, hand to forehead, exclaimed, "Whoa! Those are 9x9 windows! Whoever bought those had to have some money. They were specially ordered! And see those bubbles in the glass? That's because those panes are hand-blown. That's how you know this house dates back to at least 1850." I didn't know the part about the window panes or the dating of the glass. The stories from a man I had just met settled new pieces into my own family puzzle.

Customers come through, and many slow down after they enter, starting to hear the story of our shop and then begin to tell us about themselves. We learn of people newly moved to our area from Chicago or Pittsburgh, happy to have fled the cold but sad to have lost ready access to good cured meats. Or they tell us how they moved twenty-five years ago for work but know many around here still consider them "newcomers." 

A favorite from last week was a woman who explained they had relocated about a decade ago for her husband's work, and she had recently begun researching the history of our part of the county. "There was a family around here - Reynolds was their name - and I learned how they owned a lot of this land. There's even an old Reynolds cemetery somewhere around here that you get to from the road just up the highway." 

"That's our cemetery," I say, with a smile on my face. Too caught up in her own world of research, she pushes on with her reporting, "There's even a Reynolds buried there, I think." As she spoke on, I didn't have the heart to break her excitement by telling her my middle name is Reynolds. Instead, I listened and watched her animatedly share the fruits of her latest obsession. In our neurodivergent household, we know this behavior as "info-dumping," and I know better than to interrupt someone when they've hit their stride. Besides, I love to hear people share their lives, in whatever form because I find people fascinating, but also because I lament the loss of stories when no one listens or when the teller dies.

I know my effort to listen amounts to little more than scooping sand on the beach with a sieve. I feel the stories run through my fingers, only to return back to the rushing river of narrative constantly around us - millions of stories flowing past us, swirling around the trunks of our legs, eddying between our feet. Wherever we stand, we do so on the stories of everyone who passed that way before.

When I'm not tending the store, taking care of my family, or writing, I work part-time as a hospice chaplain and sit with individuals and their family members as they prepare to transition out of this life and body. I marvel at my teammates who carry the heavy load of caring for the physical needs of our patients - the nurses and CMAs who tend to and bathe bodies as they pass away. They bear the burden of telling family members and loved ones what to expect as patients enter their final stages of life and help them understand and accept what is to come. 

I have the privilege of sitting and listening as patients and family tell stories, recollecting people and times that long since have passed, and closing their eyes for short and long naps because dying is exhausting. As they sleep, I look around their rooms at the family pictures and personal effects, either they or their loved ones chose to accompany them in this transition. Each could tell not one but countless unknown stories. How did they feel on the day a photographer snapped a black-and-white picture of them cutting a wedding cake? Did they meet right after the image of the teenage boy sitting on a school piano surrounded by his football teammates? Or maybe it was a second marriage, and she keeps the photo by her bedside to continue to wonder what it would have been like to have known him "back then."

People tell me they think this work must be "so difficult" or "too heavy." I know they mean the vocation of witnessing death in action, stepping into people's lives as they helplessly hold vigil at their loved one's deathbed. I do not find heaviness in the deaths themselves nor in the natural grieving process left for those who remain. I feel honored they granted me access to these vulnerable months or days, and I pray my presence eases their load in the slightest of ways. I feel helpless in feeling the stories of the dying's life slip through our collective fingers to join the roiling narrative waters at our feet. I grieve the stories lost to us with every death. How are we to remember not only the people but the lessons learned, some well and some hard, in their living?

Walking around our store, I wonder about the man who built it. How had he courted his wife? Did he enjoy being a father, or did he push his kids into the fields and off of his lap too soon? Did he plant the daffodils around the side of the house for his daughters to help them usher in the first days of spring? Maybe the windows were a wedding gift from his father or maybe her mother.

I close my eyes and try to feel the yarns and tales, the family lore pooling beneath me, containing all that I may never know, only feel. I do not have the tools of memory nor the benefit of living grandparents to recall the family mythology passed to them by their grandparents. 

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Instead, I will continue to keep my ears open for tales not yet fallen and try to content myself with the simple act of steeping myself in a place's storied waters, knowing the untold moments of lives lived lie just beyond my grasp to be respected and cherished, even if unheard.

Thanks for stopping by the kitchen to read! It’s a good week for culinary inspiration amongst the lectionary texts - water into wine and all that. This post is about twelve hours later than my mental deadline, which is newly resolved for this new year. Alas, I fell behind on my intentions between a delay to the school day yesterday and a busted pipe, thanks to freezing temps and a 150-year-old house. As an apologetic bonus, scroll to the end for some quick alternative thoughts on the text this week. These are nothing more than quick sentences on other ideas I had to explore with this week’s readings. If you haven’t yet, take a moment to check out my books page to learn about my latest book Buttermilk and Dragonflies. We’re living in “ordinary time” according to the church calendar, and the new book contains reflections for just such a between-the-seasons time.

Mary's Books

First Sunday after the Epiphany, Year C
http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearC_RCL/Epiphany/CEpi2_RCL.html

I Don’t Wanna

"Epiphany" comes from the Greek root meaning "reveal; come into view; appearing; manifest." We step out of Christmas into Epiphany when we hear the story of the Wise Men and their epiphany: Jesus of Nazareth revealed as the king whose birth they had wandered across countries to celebrate. Then, on the First Sunday after Epiphany, we hear the story of the baptism of Jesus by John in the Jordan River. Depending on the version, God reveals Jesus's identity as God's son (in whom God is well pleased) either to Jesus alone or to Jesus and the gathered crowd. The subtle differences between the baptism accounts in the synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) are worthy of attention, should you feel so inclined for some independent Bible study this week.

Beginning with the Second Sunday after the Epiphany, we hear stories of Jesus's manifestation of his identity as the Messiah so that people around him, including his initial group of disciples, could recognize and be inspired by him. The RCL (Revised Common Lectionary) provides a pivotal story in the development of Christ's ministry: the miracle at the wedding in Cana also referred to as Christ's "first miracle."

 John's gospel begins at the beginning of all creation, then skips over a few millennia to deposit the Word from the prologue in the human form of Jesus. He then trots along to John the Baptist, a quick reference to Jesus's baptism, and Jesus calling his first disciples. John can't be bothered with such minutiae as babies, shepherds, and wise men. John also forgoes including any telling of Jesus's experience of being tempted in the desert. Jesus, for John, appears fully cooked, in human form, ready to hit the ground running…almost. 

Given that John doesn't include a detailed account of Jesus's baptism or any account of his testing in the wilderness, perhaps this miracle story at a wedding in Cana serves as Jesus's launching pad. Jesus has some friends following him now as disciples, but he hasn't performed any sign or miracle of note. So far, he's a charismatic young man with a way with words.

We meet Mary for the first time in John's gospel at this account in Cana and encounter a mother used to the rebellious tendencies of sons in their teens and twenties. Mary calls Jesus's attention to the lack of wine, knowing he can do something about it, and Jesus brushes her off rudely: "Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come."

I adore Mary for her response. She merely ignores Jesus and instructs the servants to do as Jesus commands. She knows her son, has had enough of his bravado, assumes he's showing off in front of his friends, and leaves him to do as she asked anyway. He knows his mother and has learned it's one thing to say "no," and it's another thing to mean it. Mary instilled some important lessons in her son that show up in his teachings now and again. In Matthew's gospel, Jesus calls upon this lesson in his parable of the two sons. One says he'll do as his father bids but does not. The other says he will not, but then does as his father asks anyway.  It’s the latter son Jesus intends as our example.

Jesus asks for water and turns it into wine. Initially, everyone is amazed by the quality of the wine and not its source. Still, the miracle finally becomes the notable moment of the wedding, worthy of inclusion in John's gospel. 

But what do we make of Jesus's reticence? Why did he turn down his mother in the first place? She presents him with his first public opportunity to show the world a mere glimpse of his capabilities, and he balks at it like a petulant son rather than the Messiah.

Admittedly, the first time performing your "job" for all to see can be intimidating. I remember my hands noticeably shaking the Sunday after my ordination to the priesthood as I celebrated communion for the first time. Maiden voyages present challenges enough without a crew of spectators watching to see if we'll sink or swim.

But also, once it begins, there's no pulling back. Maybe Jesus wasn't quite ready to let go of his youth and freedom. Once he performed his first miracle, he no longer could hide in Joseph's carpentry shop or swim unnoticed with friends in the Jordan River. The moment he launched his public ministry, he lost all anonymity and much of his freedom. Expectations abounded and bound him into a short life designed to conform to, bend, break, and rebel against them in some form or another.

 It's not about readiness by way of ordination or ability but emotional and mental readiness. Sometimes, we need someone else to push us over that crest: a mentor, a parent, a teacher, an accountability partner, a community waiting and needing our vocation in action.

Fairly early in my career as a priest, a parish approached me about applying for their open rector position. Because of location and history, I hesitated to respond and consulted a bishop I trusted for guidance. I felt unsure about the fit and my readiness. He advised, "Always say 'yes' to the Spirit. You never know what you'll learn." The parish chose not to extend the call to me, which suited me as I would not have accepted. However, the opportunity gave me a better understanding of my ministry hopes and the sorts of parishes I felt I could and could not work with. 

It's one thing to study, another to graduate, another to gain friends and supporters, but something wholly different to take the first steps launching into whatever you prepared for. I imagine you have found yourself feeling ill-equipped, lacking confidence, mentally unready, or emotionally simply not wanting to take the next steps. First, honor that feeling and address it the best you can. Second, beware that the Spirit will put someone in your path to gently nudge (or forcibly push) you out of the next and into the world. And that's ok. It seems we aren't alone in this.

Time and again, I find myself taking a break from celebrating Christ’s powerful divinity to give thanks for his relatable humanity. 

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As promised, here are my other quick mental wonderings and wanderings for other worthy paths in this week’s readings:

1. The second reading provides one of Paul’s descriptions of the gifts of the spirit, including speaking in tongues and the interpretation of tongues. Holiness, pentecostal, and charismatic traditions get speaking in tongues from this passage. Those of us who do not follow those traditions tend to assume that the person simply begins speaking unintelligible nonsense, and the others automatically affirm it as an authentic response to the Holy Spirit. However, a Pentecostal friend explained to me that in their tradition, the ability to speak in tongues must be validated by another’s ability to understand and interpret what they are saying. In other words, the gift finds validation within the community by another who has a different yet complimentary gift of the spirit. I’m caught in the importance of community in identifying, affirming, and validating charisma. We need community in the discernment and discipleship process.

2. Don’t sleep on Psalm 36, assuming it’s a simple psalm of praise. Take out the Bible or BCP and find, read, and reflect on the entirety of the psalm. This lovely bit of praise sits squarely in the middle of a psalm of lament. Can we fully understand the depth of another’s praise if we do not first understand the challenging journey in which they find themselves? Sitting in uncomfortable spaces not only answers our call not to abandon one another in our hours of need but opens fuller understanding and partnership to worship together through lament and praise, sometimes concurrently.