(Ir)Reverend Ramblings

Yesterday was Easter Day. After the lengthy season of Lent, the weekend held the tension and polarity of so much emotion. It is no wonder we call the week between Palm Sunday and Easter Holy Week. The days of that week move us through the story of the Passion of Christ. We walk with him into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday and then join him in Bethany at the home of Lazarus, Martha and Mary. We see the jostling for attention by the disciples, the questing for power and control by those who were closest to Jesus. And, as the story is told, throughout it all Jesus moves through the days calmly and with a patient demeanor in every encounter. The death, remembered on Good Friday is harrowing. It is gruesome in its detail. And then the long wait of Holy Saturday. It is the day we sit in grief. The day we face the darkness of loss and sorrow.

We live on this side of Easter so we know how the grim story takes a dramatic turn. We know that come Sunday we will celebrate and rejoice and gorge ourselves on sweets and dress our homes with flowers and dress ourselves in the bright colours of spring. Most of us like Easter Sunday more than Good Friday. Most of us want to move to the happy ending. And why not? Easter is the day that bouys us up. It is the story that makes the Christian message one of hope and promise, one of assurance and confidence.

This year, more than others, I have thought about Holy Saturday. That day in between. Holy Saturday seems to me such an important day that we often overlook. This year, more than ever, it feels like we are constantly living Holy Saturday. The continuing impact of covid, the violent war in Ukraine, which overshadows but does not delete the political unrest and oppression in many other countries, and the grinding reality of climate change makes it feel, some days, like we are locked into sorrow and grief. Stuck on Saturday. Messy, ugly Saturday.

I have been pondering, ever since Saturday, how to live as an Easter person, how to deeply live the resurrection, in a world where the pull of Saturday is so strong. Facile answers focusing on butterflies and empty egg shells don’t quite do it for me this year. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not depressed and I am not having a crisis of faith. I just think there is a deep truth to the resurrection, to the story of renewed life, that gets glossed over and ignored in the rush to get to Sunday.

I don’t have the answer. I am using this space to sort out the muddle of thought and feeling that I am exploring today on this Easter Monday. If you have some thoughts on how to grasp the resurrection truth in a Holy Saturday world I would love to hear from you.

Last Sunday I led worship for the first time with a congregation who have decided to disband in June of this year. Due to a number of circumstances they needed a minister to fill in from mid-March to mid-June. I was available and as I have some history with the town it seemed, to all of us, to be a good fit. So together we begin the ending.

The church is in Bowmanville. This was ‘our town’ when I grew up on the farm (I was born in Bowmanville hospital). I served the ‘other’ United church congregation in Bowmanville for nine years from 1993 to 2002. This means I have both ancient and more recent history with this town. The town has grown and changed a bit since I last worked here. Being located in the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) there has been lots of development. New subdivisions have sprung up like mushrooms on a rotting tree stump. Nonetheless, I saw familiar faces in the congregation last Sunday and I feel a sense of connection to this place given our shared history.

As is the case in many small towns in Canada, the two United Churches in this town are located very close together. Very close – they are two blocks apart. This church, Trinity United, began as a Methodist congregation and the other, St. Paul’s United Church began as a Presbyterian congregation. At the time of union, in 1925, both became United Churches. Like all congregations they each have their own personality and flavour, their own specialties and gifts.

This congregation, Trinity United Church, can trace its roots back to 1835 when it was founded and was part of the early Methodist movement in this part of the province. The first Methodist building was built in Bowmanville in 1839. The present building was built in 1890 with the opening service on December 6th, 1890. I have been able to discover all this, and much more, from two books written about the congregation. There is richness to the history here, as there is in many congregations. The music program has always been exceptional. Dozens upon dozens of weddings have taken place here. Innumerable children and adults have been baptized and confirmed here. So many funerals have been held here.

There is great poignancy in all the meetings and conversations that have brought the congregation to this point of seeing that they can no longer maintain this building and support the programs that make for a thriving church. Covid has not been kind to a community of faith that gained great financial resources from building rentals and catering. This added to dwindling numbers and flagging energy, this congregation like many churches across North America is facing the grim reality of extinction.

Many ministers have come and gone over the years. I am feeling it a grace-filled blessing that I am with this congregation for their last few months. They have planned special services. They are sorting and organizing all the chattels. They are carefully distributing memorial Hymn Books and Bibles. What has struck me in my first week here is the sense of care and the overwhelming gratitude that people feel as they begin the process to close up this place that has felt like home to so many for decades.

Endings are hard.

I read a poem today. Life is a Struggle by Louis Nelson and it begins: “Life is a struggle in the jungle, if you don’t believe me, ask your Uncle.” And it hit me. I don’t have any uncles anymore. At one time I had 10 uncles. Some funny, some serious, some affectionate, some stern but they were always there lined up against the wall or gathered under the tree at family suppers or picnics. 10 uncles who would call out to me and my cousins to, “Behave.” or “Get down.” or “Hurry up.” or some other terse uncle kind of command. They are all dead now.

There is something very sobering about realizing that I am now the older generation. Yes, I have three aunts still living, but two are in their mid-90s and one is 101. Even I accept they will not live forever. I shouldn’t be surprised to know I am an elder. When I announced I was leaving my job everyone assumed I must be retiring. After all, why would some one as old as me want to keep working? Yesterday, I went to see an allergist. I started having allergies, well I thought they were allergies, a few years ago. I would glibly say I was allergic to being in my 60’s. Turns out I was right. The allergist found that I was allergic to nothing. Then he gently told me it is common for people in their elder years to develop a runny nose. He gave it a fancy name and prescribed a nasal spray but the bottom line is – I am allergic to being old.

Like many others, the inactivity that came about with the pandemic resulted in a weight gain. I have been trying to shed those extra pounds. What do I read? It is harder to lose weight when you are older. As you age, your metabolism slows down, your body softens, your weight settles in different places. ARGHHH – yes, I can see that every time I stand in front of the mirror and my jowls quiver and my breasts sag and my belly pooches out. Let’s not even talk about the hairs that sprout on my chin.

I miss my uncles. And my aunts. And my parents and grandparents. I wonder if they were as startled about being older, and having the family responsibilities that they had, as I am? I wonder if they stood in front of the mirror astonished that they bore the signs of long life? Of course, better to bear those signs of age than the alternative. We always say that. I am not bemoaning that I am older. I am just surprised it has come so quickly.

Like many of you I have been riveted by the news of the unprovoked attack and devastation of Ukraine. The irrational lust for power by a despot sitting in his guarded and protected ostentatious place of power while civilians and military face death is mind-boggling. Each news report brings stories that are heart wrenching. Thankfully there are also stories that are heart warming. The stories of the bombing and violence are devastating. But the stories that have emerged of kindness and human compassion give hope even in the face of such atrocities.

As many of you know, I have remained very much in the lives of the Syrian family Bracebridge United Church sponsored. They arrived in Canada in March of 2017. Five years ago. These last few days have stirred up memories for them of the war in Syria. The war that they left behind. The war that still flares and devastates their homeland.

I remember in the early days, taking Hassan shopping one day. Berivan was home with one-year-old Pella. He wanted to buy laundry detergent and fabric softener. We went up and down the aisle as he looked for a label, a brand name that was familiar. Seeing none he started opening the different brands and smelling each one. He said he wanted to find one that smelled like what they were used to. It made me cry a little. To think that they had to leave everything, even the familiar scent of clean clothes behind and start out anew with everyday a challenge, every day struggling to adapt, everyday a new encounter.

I remembered their longing for familiar when I listened to the news this morning and heard interviews of the people of Ukraine now landed in neighbouring countries, wondering if their home still stands, wondering if their loved ones are still alive, wondering if they will have a roof over their head and food in their bellies tonight, and above the wondering longing for something that feels and looks and smells familiar. Smells like home. Such a simple but profound longing.

I did laundry today. Tonight, after a hot bath, I will climb into a bed with clean sheets. I will set the alarm and know that there will be a morning and my house will be standing and I will be able to do all the things on my “To Do’ list if I feel like it. Any chaos in my day will be manageable.

The poet, the late Ann Weems wrote, “I no longer pray for peace. On the edge of war, one foot already in, I no longer pray for peace: I pray for miracles.” May we do likewise.

Thursday was my birthday. As many like to phrase it, I marked “taking another year around the sun”. I love celebrating my birthday. Yep. I count my cards, I eat treats all day long, I relish the emails and phone calls that come my way, and I always hope there will be balloons and flowers. And this year, as in other years, there were all those things. I was spoiled from morning till night. And I loved it!

A couple of months ago I was shopping in a second-hand store. I found many great bargains. As I was checking out, so delighted with my purchases, my joy was magnified when the clerk asked, “Are you 55 or better?” Did you catch that? Not, “How old are you?” Not, “Are you a senior?” But, “Are you 55 or BETTER?” I immediately said, “I am BETTER.” And I have been using that turn of phrase ever since. Sure, I move slow when I get out of bed in the morning, Sure, my knees hurt when I try to cross them. Sure, sitting on the floor is more of a challenge then it used to be. But I maintain I am better – not older!

All this might seem trite given all that is going on in the world. I have the nightly news on as I type this post. The talk was first all about the police removal of the protestors in Ottawa. Now the reporter just said, “Europe is bracing for war”, as Russia continues its threatening behaviour at the Ukraine border. And in the afterglow of the Olympics, there continues to be discussion about the human rights abuses in China. How can I have the nerve to talk about celebrating a birthday? Well, yes, it might seem superficial but I, in my ‘better’ way of seeing the world, know that nothing I do will impact the Russians or the Chinese but connecting with friends and family will keep me focused on the simple pleasures of life. I can influence the world with bits of kindness in my small corner of the world. I can lighten the stress and the heaviness of the daily news by valuing the the gift of friendship and the treat of simple celebration. That’s what getting “better” means for me. It is defeating the overwhelming distress of world news by balancing it with gratitude for the grace and gift of each day.

I know that many of you read this blog and never comment. That is fine. But as I have adjusted to no longer working at the church I have had to change my contact info. If you would be so kind as to make a comment – even just a ‘Hi” will do – I can verify that all my contact info has shifted to my new email address. Thanks!

In my last post I wrote about normal. A wise and faithful reader added to my comments by sharing that ‘normal’ comes from the word ‘norms’ which is “an exploration of the behaviours, social values, and ideologies which are always evolving”. So, our “normal” should too. And she noted that in the past in Canada, but still existing in some countries, a teacher training school is called ‘Normal School’ because teachers are trained to teach children the “norms of the day”. My mom went to ‘Normal School’ and I never understood why it was called that so I was grateful for this tidbit of information. As the saying goes … “It’s a poor day if you don’t learn something.”!!

Of late, I have been trying to find a normal rhythm to my new life. As you know I left my position at the church. That meant all those books and files and knick-knacks and very important bits and bobs and pieces of paper I have amassed over the past decades had to be packed up and moved home. My basement has been chaos, as I wade through boxes and try and sort and stow everything in its new locale. I have tripped over stacks of books for the past couple of weeks as I tried to organize my office space to accommodate all this additional STUFF. I know, I know, some of it should be tossed but I also know that whatever I toss is the very thing I will be looking for in the near future. That is just the way of it.

All this has left me thinking about order out of chaos. Creation out of chaos. Spoiler alert … strong Biblical images ahead!! The story of faith, recorded in Genesis, (with parallels found in other religions and creation stories) begins in chaos with God brooding over the waters. What a delicious word – brooding. And out of that chaos and brooding came the creation of day and night, earth and sky and sea, animal and bird. Now, I am not deluded enough to think that I can sit brooding in my office and somehow these boxes will turn into some creation beyond imagining but I have found myself reflecting on what is important, what is valued, what is dispensable and, indeed, when chaos brings about creation.

In my own life experience times of chaos have often wrought something I would never have imagined. It is in the chaos of grief or illness or worry or transition, that strength, insight, self-awareness and sometimes even new life can often surprise us. Brooding, in and of itself, if we stay stuck in the brooding, does not bring about something new, but brooding to a new beginning can be most powerful.

If there is one word that I have heard over the past two years, almost as frequently as Covid, virus, vaccine, it has been the word normal. Normal. But now, after all this time, what does normal look like?

Normal was gathering in groups with abandon. Normal was blowing out the candles on a birthday cake and then passing pieces around. Normal was hugging and kissing when greeting family and friends. Normal was singing in choirs, eating in restaurants, going to movies and sitting in crowded theatres. Now normal feels like caution, distance, all tinged with a slight degree of fear.

Will normal ever be what we once knew? I doubt it, because even normal is always changing. Like the seasons of the year, it often happens so gradually that it is only when we look up and sniff the air we know that change is upon us. Fall has come. Spring is near. The musty, damp earth sends the signals and there is change.

Normal changes at every transition in life. I am adjusting to a new normal. Having moved from the employ in ministry at BUC I am now shifting my normal to late nights, lazy mornings and thinking of the new responsibilities that will be mine shortly. There are touchstones of normal to the day. I begin with a large cup of black coffee and test my acumen at Wordle. But that normal only began a month or so ago when I discovered the game. I answer a morning trivia question – sent to me by my niece. This new normal began with Covid when she started this, now normal tradition, of sending me a trivia question every day.

The seed catalogues have arrived in the mail and soon the normal of shoveling snow will be replaced with the normal of cutting grass and weeding the garden. Of course, these are small bits of normal. There are bigger shifts that we accept as normal but were one day surprising, maybe fearful – penicillin, air travel, indoor toilets!

I am left wondering why we long for “so called” normal? Why do people keep talking about “getting back to normal”? What is it that makes us think what will come back is what we had and that what we had is what we still want? The hymn, ‘O God Our Help in Ages Past’ , was written by Isaac Watts in 1719. It is based on Psalm 90. It was one of the hymns my mother chose to have sung at my father’s funeral. It holds the line, “A thousand ages in thy sight are like an evening gone; short as the watch that ends the night before the rising sun.”

Normal today is a fleeting opportunity that shifts and changes to normal tomorrow. Let’s pledge to take the ride together!

Here, in Ontario, this was to be the first day back to in-person school since Christmas break. How ironic that it is a “Snow Day” with the weather so threatening that not only were the buses cancelled but the schools were actually closed. It is snowy and cold out there – a good day to hunker down and do those things that we always put off until we have time. You know, things like sort your sock drawer, pitch out your old underwear, tidy the front hall closet, organize your book case, clean out the freezer, binge watch a series or write those letters and notes you never get to.

I have always thought snow days were a gift. All those scheduled things get put off and here is a day yawning before us to make home-made soup, have an afternoon nap or just look out the window and daydream about warmer climes!

So what are you going today with this gift of time? I saw a tv commercial, I don’t remember what they were advertising, but I do remember the tagline – “Make every second count.” Well that seems like a bit of pressure to me. Sometimes I want to make the time not count but to just let it be time that hangs in the air. Snow days are like that for me – time suspended. On snow days we can make the weather reason for doing or not doing something. Always accompanied with hot chocolate.

For me – it is ‘tidy the basement day’. I am going to put on a podcast and sort all those things that need to be sorted, toss all those things that need to be tossed, stack all those things that need to be stacked, and organize all those things that need to be organized. And at the end of the day if, it happens that instead I read a book and have a nap, well, I can do that. It’s a snow day!

“Fast away the old year passes – hail the new, you lads and lasses.”

Today is January 6th, Epiphany. My colleague Kevin used to say, “Have a spiffy Epiphany!” Well, Epiphany doesn’t feel all that spiffy this year but it’s spiritual significance is not lost on me. I have always loved Epiphany. We used to have Epiphany parties here at the church. They always included the sharing of a ‘bean cake’. I would bake a cake and I would hide three beans in it. Whoever found the bean in their piece of cake became the royalty for the rest of the evening. It was always loads of fun and after eating our fill from the pot luck buffet table we would sing carols and play games.

Epiphany is the twelfth day of Christmas. This is the day your true love would give you 12 drummers drumming. Epiphany marks the threshold from the season of Christmas into the fullness of the new year. It is also the day we remember the arrival of the magi, those strange star-gazers from the east who came with mysterious gifts of foreboding. In the Christmas story this is the day that the world was opened and all cultures came together. This is also, according to the biblical story the day that the magi and Joseph and Mary were warned in dreams to get our of town because the political power, Herod, was breathing death threats. It is a threshold day in many aspects.

On this Epiphany day I am facing a threshold as well. This new year, this month, brings a significant change in my life. I have started the onerous job of packing up my office and getting rid of all the superfluous material that has collected in my 14+ years here. This is the threshold to a new way of being for me. But it is okay because I like thresholds. I like crossing into the new, the different, and the what ifs and the maybes of new places.

2022 has not started off with much global joy or delight as the virus continues to stalk the whole world. But even omicron cannot deplete everything that fills our lives. So let us cross the threshold into this new year holding on to those things that do bring us joy – sunlight, messages from loved ones, fresh hot coffee, warm baths, crisp air, and something bigger than ourselves to believe in.

It is New Year’s Eve. The last day of 2021. Most of us will be glad to see it swept into history. It has been a tough year for many. What will 2022 bring? Who knows – I have lots of hope but it is a cautious hope given all the world is dealing with these days.

Every New Year’s my mom would quote the portion of the poem written by Minnie Louise Haskins and famously broadcast by King George VI in his Christmas message in 1939 – a year that also knew threat and difficulties. Let me offer it to you today, in fond memory of my mom and with the hope and optimism it inspires…

I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year ~ “Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown” And he replied, “Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way,”

Happy New Year, dear friends.