(Ir)Reverend Ramblings

The United Church of Canada has two sacraments – Baptism and Communion. By contrast the Roman Catholic Church has seven sacraments. As a Protestant denomination we hold more emphasis on the preached word and less emphasis on ritual and liturgy. We recognize Sacraments as the the two actions where another element is present – water in Baptism, bread and juice in Communion. We describe a Sacrament as “a visible sign of God’s invisible grace”. In some ways I appreciate that, but in other ways I regret that we do not recognize some of the holy moments of people’s lives by naming those also with ritual with sacramental significance.

I have been thinking a lot about this lately, in part because recently I have officiated at two funerals that felt very much like holy moments and sacramental. Funerals are such emotional and tender experiences. We gather together, family and community, there are tears, there is laughter, and with any luck egg salad sandwiches and butter tart squares or nanimo bars. Hymns are sung, scripture is read, tributes are given and the Spirit of the Holy infuses every aspect of the time together.

Funerals vary in their atmosphere depending on the age of the deceased, the circumstance of their death, the closeness of the mourners to one another, and even the personality of the one we honour. My most recent funeral was for a woman of great faith who wanted her Memorial time to be more of a hymn sing than a mournful service. The church was packed and the music was outstanding as people honoured her request with full voice and spirited singing. Sure, there were still lots of tears especially y during the more poignant of her hymns choices but there was also laughter and most importantly gratitude for who she was and how she lived her life. It was truly a celebration of her life and it felt sacramental in our remembering.

I think that funerals are the most touching of services that I get to officiate. People are generally at their most vulnerable when facing the reality of death and are, therefore, fully open to the power of the Spirit to bring comfort and strength. Sure there are feelings of anger and sorrow and regret and disappointment and hurt and confusion and grief but there is also a sense of comfort in the review of a person’s life and in the sharing of stories of that person’s impact on others. Even the hospitality time after, as the cookies get devoured, and the tea gets poured, and the hugs are shared with tears and smiles, there is a sense of healing relief. From beginning to end a funeral is filled with holy moments.

Many people assume that the highlight of my work would be weddings. I, and many of my colleagues, would say, actually conducting a funeral is a richer time. Planning a funeral is a highlight because it is such a sacred time to be with a family at that milestone time when the Spirit surrounds us with openness and comfort. It is one of the most significant of times for me as a minister and it feels sacramental.

I looked up the definition of pack rat. It is someone who loves to collect things and hates to get rid of them. There is also an actual rodent called a pack rat (also known as a wood rat). They live mainly in the Western USA and parts of Mexico. They collect for the important purpose of building nests for themselves. Along with sticks and twigs, pack rats also love to gather shiny objects.

I am a pack rat. In preparing for my move I had to go through boxes, chests and cupboards that have held treasures for 16 years. But some of those boxes, chests and cupboards held those same treasures when I moved into the house in 2008 and, yes, I confess, some of those treasures had come with me for several moves before that. I found my report cards from grade 1 through 4. I found scrap books holding newspaper clippings of my years in 4-H, as a Dairy Princess (yes, I was a Dairy Princess – don’t mock me!!) and high school plays. I found notes and cards that came to me at significant moments. Treasures. Keepsakes. So go ahead, call me a pack rat. I wear the name proudly!

I have been thinking about what it means to hang on to the past, or at least objects from the past. When I hold a potholder that my mother made from bits and pieces of scrap fabric it takes me back to the farm kitchen, I can see her at the sewing desk, I can smell the wood smoke from the wood stove, I can hear the tea kettle whistling. Each of those a gift to me as they traipse through my memory.

There is also something about holding an item from the past that gives a link, a connection to the past. A simple thing like a postcard holds the memories of trips taken, people visited and places discovered. I know that I have no one in the next generation that will want any of my “stuff” but for now I will keep it for the gift it gives to me. Perhaps one day I will gain the courage to dispose of things. More likely my nieces will face the daunting task of disposing of my “stuff”. I am sorry, not sorry, to leave this task to them.

My name is Nancy and I am a pack rat.

How many times have you started something that feels NEW (!) only to realize that this is more a restart, a fresh start, a redo and not all that new? I am in the midst of moving – which I have been doing for about two years now! Having left Bracebridge, sort of, in January of 2022 it has been a long time coming to this point of beginning again. January 2022 was when I left Bracebridge United Church, by March I was ministering with a congregation in Bowmanville as they lived their last few months as a community of faith and then disbanded. That autumn I did a stint at Faith United in Courtice while their minister was on sabbatical. In January of 2023 I started working with Ebenezer United in Courtice for what was to be a short term appointment but I liked them and so far they like me so here I remain for the time being. Along side all this professional juggling I have been taking advantage of my brother’s gracious hospitality as I stayed at his house when I wasn’t in Bracebridge which over the time meant more hours at his place than at my own.

As time passed I made the tough decision to sell a house I loved in a place I loved and to relocate to Bowmanville. This means I am nearer my family and my current congregation. In fact it is a ten minute drive from my home to the church and a ten minute drive to the family farm. The house I have been fortunate enough to acquire is perfect for my needs and will be a comfortable home for the years ahead. It’s all good but it is starting again. You know – find a new doctor, find a new dentist, a new mechanic, a new hair dresser and on and on it goes. These are such small problems in the face of the world unrest and upset but on a day to day it can be taxing to be always having to figure things out (which mailbox is mine? when does the garbage get collected? have I changed my address with everyone?) Just knowing automatically how and when and where is such a privilege. And then there is the packing and moving. Someone asked this morning, “Have you purged your stuff?” Nope. I just find it so hard to part with things and when I do determine that something is unnecessary and I toss it, it seems that the very next week I wish I still had it!

Often through all of this process I have thought, or said out loud, “These are such first world problems.” As I pack up boxes of books, cases of china and crystal, oodles of blankets and sheets and towels, I keep thinking of the people of Palestine, Ukraine, Syria and every other country in the world where victims of war or refugees are fleeing their homes with what they can carry. I live such a life of privilege.

Beginning again, alongside the frustration and angst, is a wonderful time to realize the gifts that flood my life… friends that help me pack, move, make repairs in my new home … people that welcome me into this new location… financial resources that allow me to purchase what I need in a new home… continued work that keeps me energized and on my toes… family that surround me with advice and ready assistance… and so much more.

Beginning again is a time for gratitude.

Today marks the day that the world closed up, shut down, went home, closed the door, sheltered in place. Yes, it was on this date in 2020 that the WHO gave the directive that we were all to stay home for our own safety. We were told that by staying apart, the virus might be squelched, stopped, or at least diminished. Four years. In s0me ways it feels like it was yesterday. It other ways it feels like it was an eternity ago. Not sure how you might remember it but in my memory at least a couple of them feel like lost years.

This afternoon, on CBC radio’s Cross Country Check Up, the question asked was, “What do you remember about the first week of the pandemic?” That sent me down memory lane. The first thing that came to mind was the phone call I had to make. The Church Council held a hastily called meeting after church. The conversation was reluctant and disbelieving as we made the tough decision to close the church for, we thought, a couple of weeks until the threat was over. As a result of that decision I had to phone a member whose husband had just died. He had been a member of the church for his 90+ years. He had sung in the choir for 75 years. He was an active community member and a life-long resident. It was fully expected the church would be full at the time of his funeral service. I had to phone his widow and say we could not have his service. One of the hardest calls I have ever had to make.

That call was really just the tip of the iceberg when it came to changes and alterations that we all had to make for months and months. We became fanatical about cleanliness. We washed our hands, we washed our clothes. We washed our groceries. The one time I did have Covid someone came to the door to drop something off. I answered and said, “I have covid.” She literally jumped off the front step and stood out in the lawn, so afraid of the contagion. We could not go to movies or concerts or plays. Children couldn’t play with other children. We couldn’t visit the elderly in homes. People in hospital died alone. It was a terrible time.

While it seems dramatic to say that staying at home for months was difficult, it was. Forced confinement especially when it happens abruptly can be very challenging. Oh sure, it varied depending on people’s lifestyle; some loved it, some hated it, some endured it, some learned to bake bread!

The impact of the virus has had long term effects which are both positive and negative. Many of us learned new ways of connecting through technology. Church services, which at one time required in person attendance, can now be enjoyed by zoom or online and most congregations offer it as a matter of course now. Wearing a mask when you have a bit of a cold or are protecting your own health is not looked upon with surprise (or scorn!) Hand washing has become de rigueur. I seldom hold a hand rail with my bare hand – who knows who else has touched it! Hugging and shaking hands is done with caution. Many find the option of working from home more productive and often more suiting to lifestyle choices. Of course the lingering impact of those years of social disruption also carry some scars. Businesses failed. Weddings and funerals were cancelled and those high moments of life cannot be recreated. Churches have had to close as people just didn’t come back. People lost some social skills. There is an edge to some social interactions now that seem out of proportion. And of course that threat of illness looms large for many of us. A simple cold leaves us immediately asking, “Oh no, do I have covid?”.

Four years can seem like an eternity or it can pass in an instant. For me a couple of those years feel like lost years, time evaporated. They carry neither happy memories or sad memories. They are just time gone with little to show for it. I am not sure how to offer theological reflection around those years. In scripture they might be described as wilderness years. Wandering time. Reflection time. Perhaps in the long view they will feel like that. For now it remains a time to reflect upon. How about you? What do you remember about that time four years ago? Does it remain for you a positive or negative or somewhere-in-between time?

It’s a Leap Year! Today is an extra day and one that we get only once every four years. As I listened to CBC radio this morning there was an article explaining that some salaried workers felt it unfair that they do not get paid extra for working today. An extra day of work should mean an extra day of pay. A contrary opinion was that it is really only a quarter of a day when spread over the four years between leap years so it is no big deal. While I guess I could muster up some sympathy for people who feel they are unjustly treated for working today, it would take an effort that I am not prepared to muster on this extra day I am being given in this month in this year.

I have a cousin born on this day 68 years ago. He is celebrating his 17th birthday – haha – that is the fun of leap year. It also holds the tradition of ‘Sadie Hawkins’ when the women can chase the men for a change – that is an outdated thought now isn’t it?!? One article I read explained that it is “a correction to the Julian calendar which miscalculated how long a year lasts. It got it wrong by 11 minutes and 14 seconds.” While 11 minutes and 14 seconds doesn’t seem like much we all know how mistakes like that accumulate. Eventually there had to be a correction. It was in 1582 when Pope Gregory, concerned about the drift of days, addressed the question by asking astronomers to come up with a better, more accurate calendar system. Hence, the calendar we use now, with a leap year every four years, is, as you know, dear reader, called the ‘Gregorian Calendar’. That first year, 1582, the month of October lost ten days in order to correct for the tracking of days and then ever after there was the system of a leap day every four years to keep us on track.

Despite the history, the rationale and the fun traditions about the day the real question to consider this morning is what am I going to do with this one extra day that I am given? How shall I spend the time that this year affords that next year and the next and the next will not? As I sit here and write to you the sun is shinning brilliantly into my office windows. I can hear the February wind blowing outside and I have before me a day of possibilities. It’s a gift. Let’s make it a great day.

We are in the first week of the season of Lent. As you know it begins with Ash Wednesday. There were 20 of us gathered in the sanctuary for the service last Wednesday. The late winter afternoon was warmed by the brilliant setting sun that shone in the west window of the sanctuary. Ash Wednesday is one of my favourite services. There is something so precious about being reminded how beloved we are in the heart of our creator and that for 40 days we can deepen and rest in that love. I was especially grateful on that Wednesday afternoon. Just days before I had received word that my house had sold -the offer firmed up, and then within a couple of days I had put in an offer on a house and so from my limbo state of a few weeks ago (a state that felt to go on for ever) I was now feeling an increasing state of relief. I have so much to be thankful for. I am keenly anticipating my relocation this summer.

On Ash Wednesday, resting in that feeling of gratitude, I entered into the traditional discipline of Lent. This means marking the days by making a commitment to “give something up” or “take something up”, for forty days. Forty days can seem like a long time or it can feel like it goes by in a flash depending on your perspective and what it is you are doing. Giving up chocolate, wine, a favourite video game – ouch – forty days can feel like forever. I have tried it all – giving up watching television to taking up daily letter writing – every year is different. Some years I am successful and some years I am not. Some years the weeks fly by. Some years it is a grind.

This year I have decided to give up grumbling. That’s right – you read it! Many of you dear readers know that I am a grumbler. And even though I know it is not a good habit, I do it anyway. I grumble about the weather – really what is the point of that? I grumble about other drivers on my way to and from the church – does that help? I grumble about technology – even though I use it constantly. I grumble about prices, politicians, preachers, and pastimes. But not today. I did not grumble. I wanted to, I started to, I took a breath and then said, “I can’t say anymore about that, I gave up grumbling for Lent.” I think this will be a good practice for me. Biting my tongue. Holding back. Thinking before I speak. Being positive or, at the very least, not being negative. Oh, it’s gonna be tough. I come from a long line of grumblers. But hey, it’s only for forty days. Easter will break through the dismal days of Lent and I will then be able to grumble all the way to the Easter buffet table and all the while I eat my Easter eggs. Or maybe God will work another Easter miracle and I will give up grumbling not just for Lent but with a new perspective in life. That waits to be seen but for now – you won’t hear a grumble out of me. No you won’t!

Limbo is defined as, “An uncertain period of awaiting a decision or resolution; an intermediate state or condition”. I feel like I have been living in limbo for a long time. It’s been almost two years since I began the divided life of staying primarily at my brothers in order to work at churches in the Bowmanville and Courtice area. For the first year I went home to Bracebridge quite regularly. Every week I would make the two hour drive up, stay for a few days then drive back down. That has gotten tedious. I love my house there but I realized in the fall that it was time to relocate and be closer to family. I put my house up for sale in October and it has yet to sell. The real estate market is as flat as a pancake and while I have had lots of lookers I have had no buyers. I have been looking a little bit but until I know I can make the leap I am being very tentative about setting my sights on a house that I might want to live in. So … I live in limbo. My brother is very gracious and puts up with me without complaint but I would like to feel settled.

Living like this means that other things drift into uncertainty. Like my blog for example. This week I received notice from two regular readers that something was amiss. Seems my credit card that was to automatically pay for the site was not up to date. That necessitated a lot of scrolling around and online chat to get that sorted out and as I write this I am still not certain I have solved the riddle of why it won’t work. If you are reading this … it means success is mine!

Yesterday I drove to Bracebridge and spent 24 hours there with one of those hours sitting in my car on the street while a real estate showing went on in my house. Between the driving back and forth and the sitting and waiting I had lots of time to think about limbo. I don’t know – how do you handle that in between time when you know a decision is coming but it is not made yet? When you know you are on the cusp on a life-changing event but it hasn’t quite happened? I realize my decision is minor compared to people facing surgery or treatment. My situation is laughable compared to what is going on in many places around the world where violence and warfare are causing people to flee and families to grieve monumental losses. Nothing in my life can compare to the rupture of society and culture that is happening in Ukraine and Palestine. And while I try to keep everything in perspective and acknowledge I am fretting about moving from one fortunate situation to another, I still feel at loose ends and in limbo.

When I am in situations that puzzle, perplex or paralyze mt thinking I try to relate it to someone in scripture, a biblical character I resonate with. Do you remember the story of Jesus being in a crowded house and people were clamoring for healing and four people carried their friend and when they could not get through the crowd they lowered him through the roof right down in front of Jesus. (Not to get sidetracked by the piece of the story that always makes me wonder who paid for the roof repairs?!?!) But what about that poor person laying in a hammock while they clambered up to the roof and then precariously lowered him down. Was it blind faith, gripping need or deep trust? What limbo was he in as they snaked through the crowd, pushing people aside, raised him up, lowered him down. Yikes. And yet the story stands that in the unnerving exercise healing happened. Resolution came. Faith was lived.

I don’t like living in limbo. But I know that resolution is coming and through this process I am learning something. It is just not completely clear to me right now what the lesson is. But I do believe that hindsight will make it clear.

Today I wrote the date. January 10th but it isn’t. It is the 11th already. We are slipping into the middle of the month and I still don’t know what day it is. Twice already today I have had to stop and ask myself, “Is today Friday? No, only Thursday.” January does this to me every year. It is the hangover from Christmas and that week between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day when we, as someone cleverly described it, “constantly wear our pajamas, eat shortbread and wonder what day of the week it is.” This time of year, beginning with Christmas Eve is dizzying when everything takes on a air of celebration, or at the very least mystery, and nothing operates as ‘normal’.

I happen to like thresholds. I like new chapters, fresh calendars, blank books, turning the page. I relish a new start and fresh beginning and yes, I even like Resolutions. Oh, I seldom keep them but I like to think about them. But here it is on day 11 of a new year and I am still deciding what my resolution will be. I did pay for and download an app that would encourage me to do yoga daily. It has tried but I have failed at that (yep, already by Day 11). I did clean off my desk but I did that by putting most of the stuff from my desk onto my book shelves. Now I have to clean the stuff off my book shelves to where … my desk?!?!

One of the best spiritual gifts of this time of year is the celebration of Epiphany. It is the season of light, of stardust, of visions and insight. It is when we find something we have been looking for. I have been looking for … hmmm … I paused in my writing here. What have I been looking for? I have been looking for peace. Peace with who I am and peace with my future. I am looking for a shred of hope that there might be peace in the world, this troubled and violent world we live in. And in my post-Christmas haze of wondering what day it is, I have been longing for a sense of completeness. I don’t know how one makes a resolution to find that, to solve that, to meet that longing.

One of my favourite preachers is Nadia Bolz-Weber. I subscribe to her writing so every week or so a sermon or essay of hers drops into my Inbox. Her most recent was about the Baptism of Jesus. In it she talks about being loved by God. She quotes these words from the passage about Jesus’ baptism, “This is my son, the beloved, with who, I am well pleased.” And she imagines how it would be to own those words. Those words that God says to us, to you, to me, “You are my beloved. With you I am well please.” ‘You are my beloved.” God says that to you. To me.

The problem with most New Year’s Resolutions is that they cause us to begin the year focusing on what is wrong with us…. I want to lose weight. I want to read more books. I want to floss my teeth every day. I want to exercise more. What if our New Year’s Resolutions were more like, I want to feel God’s love; or, I want to sit and soak up God’s complete and overwhelming care and compassion for me? What if instead of aiming for self-improvement we aimed for openness to what and who we already are – beloved children of the Source of our Being, the very One who “knit us together in our mother’s womb”?

That longing for peace and completeness is there for me … if only I could stop worrying about what day it is and just greet the day and all it offers, suffused with God’s love.

Many of you know that during the month of December I spend every Saturday and Sunday afternoon as Mrs. Claus. I put on a gorgeous red velvet dress complete with white fuzzy trim and a white wig and I greet dozens of children assuring them that I am delighted to see them and repeatedly telling them I am so glad they came to Santa’s Cabin for a visit.

Santa and I sit in big comfy chairs and the children clamber onto our knee and tells us all kinds of secrets, hopes and wishes. They look at us with deep sincerity, a bit of awe and a dash of wonder. Well, except for the crying ones who will have nothing to do with us but cling to their parents while howling at the top of their lungs. Thankfully we have more of the first than we do of the second.

All of this takes place in a log cabin at the back of the pasture. They are brought close to the site on a wagon and they walk that last distance passing through a stand of spruce and pine trees. Santa waits for them on the verandah and invites them into the cabin where the elf offers them hot chocolate and a sugar cookie while they wait for their chat with Santa.

They might seem awe-struck with us, in our red costumes and white wigs, but I am equally awed by the honesty that comes in the conversations. They might admit to troubles at school, to disappointments with their friends, their own shortcomings, and sometimes even how they really feel about their siblings. Most come with a list as to what they want for Christmas while a rare few just want to be surprised by Santa on Christmas Eve. Some children hem and hah as to what they might want and then Santa is quick to suggest that is because they are children who like to give presents instead of get them. With that they usually think of something!

One of the regular questions the children ask is what kind of cookies Santa likes. They want to leave his favourite out for him on Christmas Eve. In the past Santa had asked that instead of cookies they leave celery and carrots as he needs to watch his waistline. This year, however, Santa is saying he does not want any snacks or treats. He wants the boys and girls to instead pick out something at the grocery store that they can give to the food bank. He talks to them about how many people need help and that if they just gave a little something that would be so much better than cookies for him. The parents are usually first surprised and then touched and grateful. Through this very simple direction Santa is encouraging the kids to think of others, to consider sharing, to be mindful of need and to build compassion.

There is a lot wrong with the world. Global conflict and the plight of so many leaves us gasping and overwhelmed. We can’t do it all. Much of what is going on we can’t even comprehend. But just imagine what would happen if we did one good thing. And just imagine if every person in the world did one good thing. Billions and billions of good things would happen. And, in fact, Santa has taught me that in the face of so much that weighs us down, there is much that lifts us up. The delight in the eyes of a child, the joy of a parent, the beaming pride of a grandparent, are gentle reminders that there remains goodness and love in the world.

When things were out of control, when things were breaking down, when chaos reigned, my mother’s expression was always, “Everything is at sixes and sevens.” I am not sure where that saying came from but when it fits, it fits. Everything is at sixes and sevens for me these days but more significantly the world seems to be at sixes and sevens.

If you have ever had to sell your house and move to a new location you know how stressful that process can be. I am caught in the middle of it. Trying to keep the house in pristine condition and attractive for anyone with deep pockets who might walk through the door. At the same time trying hard to not live too far into the future and resisting any urge to fall in love with a place that might be purchased before I am ready to take the leap. Not to mention living between two places as I work in one community and try to maintain some semblance of life in another all the while living in the generous and gracious welcome of my brother as I continue to occupy his guest room and sneak moving boxes into every available corner of his house.

But the chaos of my life is so picayune compared to the tragedy that is befalling so many people around the world. The news feed dances from one tragedy to another, one war to another. Ukraine, that is still being ground down by the Russian invasion, barely hits the headlines any more as the Israel – Hamas war staggers us in its destruction. Do we even think anymore about the people of Syria living under oppression and violence? The civil war in Sudan hardly made impact even though thousands upon thousands of people are attempting to flee to neighbouring countries for safety. To say that the world is at sixes and sevens is almost a mockery given the humanitarian crises that unfold in so many places.

One of my favourite writers in Nadia Bolz-Weber. Recently she wrote an article explaining that we are, anthropologically thinking, not created to deal with the all crises of the whole world. Human development gives us the ability to cope with crises in our village, not in every village of the world. That gives me some comfort as I decide once again that I cannot cope with the global news at bedtime. The state of the world is beleaguering. But even with Nadia’s offering to opt out of all the problems of the whole wide world I feel guilty for being so caught up in the small problems I face given I have a roof over my head (well, thanks to my brother, two rooves over my head), food in my fridge, clothes in my closet, a car in my garage, a garage (!), and on and on. The trick to defeating the sixes and sevens, the feeling of being overwhelmed is to find that balance of what we can do and then offering the rest to God or the universe or whatever you want to call that greater power. It can feel like a cop out but I think, when we acknowledge we can’t do it all but also acknowledge we know it is out there to be tended to, we are giving strength to solution rather than ignoring the chaos.

The season of Advent is soon upon us. I always appreciate that Advent invites us into a time of reflection and meditation focusing on the plight of the poor, the unprepared, the refugee, the ones without a room, the shunned. The very heart of our gospel, in this Advent season, invites us to a place of living with those who are at sixes and sevens and to sit in that very chaos waiting for the inbreaking of God.