From the Northwest Corner of

                                                                                     517  9th Avenue West

                                                                                                     May 2024

 There was a sailor aboard an aircraft carrier, his rating, job classification, was PR3, Parachute Rigger 3rd class. Today they are called Aircrew Survival Equipmentman – rolls right off the tongue. His problem was narcolepsy, a neurological disorder brought on by many causes, among them stress.  The poor guy was falling asleep during the day, during his watches, while he was maintaining and rigging parachutes, while he was eating; he was transferred off his carrier and ended up on our psychiatry ward at the Philadelphia Naval Hospital; after some treatment and medication, he was medically discharged. The Navy pilots didn’t want a sleepy chute rigger.

On the Interweb, parachutes can be bought for as little as $300 and easily run up to $1,500 and more.  There were some that were being sold as used. Not sure I’d want to make that purchase. I looked to see how many owners and why was it for sale – no luck.

There are parachute jokes:   For sale: parachute. Opens on impact. Huh?      The other one is: if at first you don’t succeed – skydiving is not for you.  There is the cliché, parachutes are like minds – they work best when open.

     Sometimes we come at prayer as if it is a parachute. Whatever delusion, plan, occupation, relationship, sketchy undertaking, downright stupid idea we were flying in is losing altitude. And on fire. And pointed straight down. So we pray. A lot and fervently and rapidly and angrily and tearfully.

Psalm 54: Save me, O God, by your name, and vindicate me by your might.

Psalm 109: Help me, O Lord my God! Save me according to your steadfast love!

Psalm 7: O Lord my God, in you I take refuge; . . . deliver me,

Psalm 145 The Lord upholds all who are falling . . .

Psalm 71.2: In your righteousness deliver me and rescue me; incline your ear to me and   save me.

     At this point, prayer is not that different from the parachute that opens on impact. God is not a cosmic rabbit’s foot. Not that often, anyway. We should have been praying earlier. We should have been praying much earlier.

    We should be thinking of prayer not as a parachute or brakes but as a steering wheel.  Or.

    Think of prayer as GPS – God’s Positioning System. It is always on, it is on our dashboard, it is in plain sight and we keep an eye on it. We listen to the voice that comes with it. And do what it says: “turn left, go right, STOP, back up, start over, exit the vehicle and go home. Without GPS we get lost.

   The GPS may also say, You’re doing fine. Keep going. Have faith. Yes, it’s uphill, be strong.

    Psalm 119: My word is a lamp to your feet and a light to your path. 

       Psalm 27: I AM your light and my salvation; whom shall you fear?  I AM  your stronghold of your life;  of whom shall you be   afraid?

  Pray for everything. Pray about everything. There is nothing too trivial. Prayer doesn’t have to be eloquent – God is not an English major.  God is busy, yes, but God is also infinite. God loves to hear from you. God also loves it when you listen too. Prayers of thanksgiving are also always welcome - it keeps the whining down. God does not get tired of you. At all. Ever. 

  From I Thessalonians 5:  16Rejoice always, 17pray without ceasing, 18give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. 19Do not quench the Spirit. 20Do not despise the words of prophets,* 21but test everything; hold fast to what is good; 22abstain from every form of evil. 23 May the God of peace himself sanctify you entirely; and may your spirit and soul and body be kept sound* and blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. 24The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do this. 25 Beloved, pray for us. . . .  For everyone and everything everywhere every time.

Think of praying as breathing in the name of God.  Or floating in the name of God. 

               Floating.

                                  Like 

                                                                in a 

                                                                                                           parachute.

From the Northwest Corner 

of   517  9th Avenue West

   October 2023

 Bridge builders build their bridges to stay in one place, especially the pier anchorages at either end, the Golden Gate Bridge used more than a million tons of cement in its pier anchorages.  Piers are the structures that carry the weight of the bridge. They can’t be moving.  Roads aren’t supposed to move, buildings are supposed to stay in one place. It’s just a good thing, a fact of life we count on: immovable objects.

What about a church building?  Obviously, it has to be immovable. What about the congregation? Does it move? if so, where? Does it grow? Does it change over time? Sure, it does.  Or it perishes.

A congregation is people – people of faith. People of faith change. We oxidize, get old, move, fail at some enterprises, succeed at others. We change jobs, calcify, have epiphanies, we get cranky, we get peaceful, wander off or wander in; we experience great crippling grief and also great shouting joy. By definition, congregations are dynamic, constantly changing, constantly active. The change and activity may be subtle or obvious or anything in between.

A congregation cannot spiritually stay in one place. It has to be flexible, it has to be movable. At high tide the Golden Gate Bridge withstands a flow of 2.3 billion ft.3 of water per second (Is Google fun or what?! How did pastors write before the internet? Thanks, Al Gore!) it cannot be movable. A congregation, on the other hand, does have to change with the ebb and flow of cultural tides.

But we also remember, in the midst of our human and cultural dynamism, that we belong to the divine God. We gather in the immovable building to worship a living God, offer our sacrifices, offer our praises, hear our call in God’s word and be reminded, in Holy Communion, that we are forgiven.

Psalm 77

I cry aloud to God, aloud to God, that he may hear me.  In the day of my trouble I seek the Lord;  in the night

my hand is stretched out without wearying;

my soul refuses to be comforted.
I think of God, and I moan;

I meditate, and my spirit faints.   

You keep my eyelids from closing;
I am so troubled that I cannot speak.
I consider the days of old,
and remember the years of long ago.

I commune with my heart in the night; I meditate and search my spirit: ‘Will the Lord spurn forever, and never again be favorable?
Has his steadfast love ceased for ever? Are his promises at an end for all time?
Has God forgotten to be gracious?
Has he in anger shut up his compassion?’
  And I say, ‘It is my grief that the right hand of the Most High has changed.’

I will call to mind the deeds of the Lord;
I will remember your wonders of old.
I will meditate on all your work, and muse on your mighty deeds.
Your way, O God, is holy.
What god is so great as our God?
You are the God who works wonders; 

I will remember who built this church. I will remember the people who first gathered in faith to find space and money and contractors and more faith and more money to build Saron. I will meditate on what they thought and prayed around someone’s kitchen table. Did they really have in mind that the Saron congregation would become a fixed quantity?

We don’t know. The rhetorical question above is manipulative; I want to inspire guilt.  OK, kidding.

On the other hand, what did the Holy Spirit have in mind when it both prompted and answered those Saron-start-up kitchen table prayers all those years ago?  A solid building? Sure. And a movable congregation?  Yeah, probably.  Probably.

Certainly our eyelids have been kept from closing by all the conflict these days. We cry aloud to God, we stretch out our hands, our souls could use some comfort, our spirits faint.

Remember who built this building, remember who started this congregation. We are part of their history, they are part of ours. Together we are all part of God’s history; we are all part of God’s present. We are all part of God’s future.

We belong to a God who works wonders.

Gonna Lay Down My Sword and Shield

Dear Saron Sisters and Brothers in Christ:  June 16th of 2024 will be my last Sunday serving as your pastor. I will be retiring from active ELCA Ministry of Word and Sacrament. 

I will be 71 years old.  Although I still feel young at heart, I am relatively certain my Spring Chicken days are over; I haven’t been bullet proof for quite some time now.  Unlike some members of Congress, I realize it is time to step down.  It is time for The New, time for the Young.  I started here New Years Day of 2009: 14 years in one call is plenty, retiring or not.  Martin Luther’s First Law of Ecclesiology states:  Pastors come and go; congregations remain.  His Second Law of Ecclesiology states: Rotate your pastors before they and their congregations become too comfortable with each other.  The Third Law states: Fire up the coffee pot.  These are Ecclesial – churchly – laws.

However, it cannot go unspoken or unwritten that, Luther’s main Law of Faith was the Gospel Paradox: God loves you – regardless.  This is delineated in John 3: 16, 17 and Romans 5: 8-10 and again in Ephesians 2: 8-10; and many, many other Biblical locations.

I have not kept this retirement a secret, but neither I have a made a formal declaration until now.   Sunday, August 27th, at the beginning of worship, I announced before the congregation that I would be retiring June 16, 2024.  I now do the same here in the Saron Newsletter for all to see everywhere.

I make this announcement this far in advance in hopes and prayer that there will be sufficient time for the Holy Spirit to work in meetings and conversations and negotiations, formal and otherwise, so that Saron and Good Shepherd can work their way into sharing a pastor.  This is not a done deal but ground work is being laid.  Pastor Sieja and I have been talking to each other; council presidents Cheryl Klobucher and Nancy Brede have also been talking. Over the coming months, the executive councils and councils of the whole, of both congregations, will be meeting in attempt to hammer out finance and logistics.  I hasten to add this is not in any way a merger.  Good Shepherd and Saron will remain separate entities but share a pastor.

Congregations sharing pastors is now far more common and no longer the exception; and not just in the ELCA.  It makes little sense that small congregations try to manage the salary burden of a full-time pastor.  Good Shepherd and Saron are small congregations.

By ourselves, our witness is fragmented.  The two congregations partnered (yoked is another term) together can develop a stronger, more energetic, more vital witness and ministry for our children and for our communities. 

Survival on our own is not necessarily an achievement. 

Flourishing together is.

In Christ,

Pastor Paul Simmons

It's only been a year since last entry!  So sorry.  

No good reason.

 From the Northwest Corner of 517  9th Avenue West

“… chart and compass come from thee …”

 The lights and sirens on an ambulance are to warn and theoretically clear the road ahead for a safe and efficient trip to the emergency and then to the hospital.

     But I believe they have an other purpose.  They tell the people at the emergency that help is on the way.  As someone waits for an ambulance - or fire truck or police car - the minutes until arrival of emergency personnel seem like hours.  Fear and desperation lay thick at the site. I am reminded of the lyrics in Gordon Lightfoot's "Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald", "...does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours? …"  

     If those awaiting rescue and relief can hear the siren they know, they hear, that help is on the way.  "Help is on the way" is in itself a life-saving phrase.  It offers hope.  It offers hope to those in pain, fearing for their lives; they cling to it desperately - as if their very lives depend on it.  Because they do.

     People without hope wear out, quit, give up, can't stay up; death becomes inevitable.  They say, "OK."   On the other hand, people  with hope can last a long time.  People with hope can go a long way.  People with hope cling to life when there is no earthly reason to do so.  People with hope say to themselves and anyone who will listen, maybe they even speak to death, and say, "Not yet.  Not now.  Not today.  I am going to live.  I hear the siren.  It's getting closer."

     Advent is God's siren to us.  John the Baptist is that wailing, whooping, undulating, locust-eating, wild honey-eating, River-baptizing, honking, beeping sound in both his wilderness then and our wilderness now that tells us God is near, God is on the way.  We hear it.  We have hope.  Creation has hope.  We can go on.  And instead of giving in to fatalism, cynicism and despair, we can relax, loosen our jaws, breathe, look up.

    Instead of looking for the flashing read and blue lights.  Light an Advent Candle.  Read those first chapters of Matthew and Luke.  They were written to be read this day in this time in this pandemicized, divided country and world.  Those words are your siren.  Salvation is on the way.  Salvation has been here.  Salvation is here now.  

     You don't have to type Amen.  You don't have to be brave enough to repost.  You don't have to re-Tweet.

      Believe.  Listen.  Watch.  Wait.  Breathe.  It is Advent.  It's always Advent.  It has never not been Advent.

      God's Peace be upon you.

            From the Northwest Corner of 517  9th Avenue West

“… chart and compass come from thee …”

September 2021

  In her later years my mother broke her hip.  She deeply resented this event not because of the pain or hospitalization, but because it was a threat to her mobility.  She refused to be bound by a walker or cane; and do not even try to take her car keys.  With a little bit of pride – and relief – she related how her orthopedist told her he’d found purchase in her femur for the screw he inserted to hold the two broken segments together.  Purchase.  The threads of the screw bit and held – found purchase – in her femur.  Mom healed up rapidly and was quite mobile up until the last few months of her life.  She was indeed blessed with determination and healing.  And a solid femur.  So the screw could find purchase.  If screws, nails even, don’t find purchase hips - and everything else in the world - fall apart. 

   When the screw finds purchase it holds solid and secure.  No doubt, many a DIYer has had to work with screws and holes and trying to fasten something to something else and not being able to gain purchase. 

  But in terms of people, in terms of relationships, how many people have found purchase in you?  How solid are you?  And with how many people have you found purchase?  Are they solid enough for you?  Sure – spouses, children; parents, grandparents, close friends.

     Has God found purchase in you?  Has the Holy Spirit screwed itself into you fastening you to God, tying you into God’s will?  Have you found purchase in God?  In your relationship with God, in your Christian fellowship, your conversations of faith, have you found purchase for your soul?  Are there people and ideas, church groups, let alone a congregation, where you can get yourself screwed in?  Are there places where you feel solid and secure – and safe – in widening and deepening your faith?  Have you and your pastor found purchase with each other? Have you tried drilling a pilot hole or two?  A pilot hole (this sentence is not a rhetorical question – what a relief!) is a hole smaller than the screw into which the screw is then driven to avoid splintering the wood.  Avoiding getting the screw forever stuck, spraining your wrist and melting your drill.

   More rhetorical questions designed NOT TO INSTILL GUILT but examination of the situation.  Within the church are there people who don’t find purchase because they don’t fit the usual male female model?  Are there people who don’t find purchase because they are indeed people of color?  Are there people who bounce off instead of being welcomed – not finding purchase, not getting screwed in – because they just don’t look like us northern European types?  Yeah; maybe; sure; I s’pose; probably; I dunno; what was the question?

  Same questions again, in case you actually bought the not instilling guilt caps:  are there people who just don’t find purchase in our country?  Because they refuse to let us fit them into categories and stereotypes that keep us comfortable?

  Is there a place?  A calling?  A holy duty for the church – for Christians – to be drilling pilot holes all over, anywhere and at random?  From Deuteronomy 10:

17For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, … 18who executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and who loves the strangers, providing them with food and clothing. 19You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. 

 It’s time for us to go get some drills and look for purchase.  Or just be: a pilot hole.  

    After all, we were purchased when the nails found purchase.  

     The stone over the tomb, however, did not.  Find purchase.

June 2021

      Once upon a time there was a man who came to the country to farm.  He loved dirt and he loved green.  He loved the wide open spaces.  He loved the notion of farming; of something growing.  He had seen pictures of tired, dirty farmers backlit by the setting sun at the end of the day.  This is what he wanted for himself, this is what he wanted to be.  He had seen pictures of bins and trucks full of golden yellow corn and golden brown wheat.  He got himself a pickup, a cap and was taking “Taciturn for Beginners” by correspondence.  This was for him. 

  In the morning, when the light was rich, he would drive around and look at his fields full of …. weeds.  He was transfixed by the sea of yellow that was mustard blossoms.  He was enchanted by islands of white lamb’s quarters waving in the breeze; acres of foxtails reminded him of the ocean.

    One day another farmer came by and offered him money to rent or buy the land with which he was so infatuated.  The one who came to the country to farm was hurt by the offer – what was he doing already if not farming?  The farmer making the offer said, “You’re not farming, you’re wasting the land.  There is no market for mustard, foxtails or lamb’s quarters.  And certainly not for kosia.”  

  The one who came out to farm, whose name was Earl, said, “But I love the land, I want it to grow as it sees fit, it should be free to determine for itself what it wants to be.  I don’t want to limit it to monocultures” 

  The other farmer, whose name was Loren, snorted an apt and descriptive though unacceptable word and said, “It wants to be weeds, Earl” he said.

  “Right.  Prairie,” said Earl. 

  “Prairie?”  Loren shook his head almost imperceptibly and looked down, “This land deserves—needs—to be farmed”, he said.  “People, the world, needs to eat, you need to make your payments, you need to feed your family, you need to be growing things.  You’ve come out to the country, you’ve got land, a pickup and a cap and  you’re calling yourself a farmer.  You need to be growing things.  You can’t be infatuated with the dirt and the plants and the wonder of it all—or it will all go to hell on roller skates.  You have to tell it what to do.  You have to cultivate it.  You have to plant it.  And then cultivate some more and then harvest it.”  Loren paused to fill and fire up his pipe. 

  It was dawning on Earl, that he was in the early traumatic stages of Agonizing Re-appraisal.  It further dawned on him that like Audrey Hepburn in “Daddy Longlegs,” he was in love with love.  To have a real and true farm and a real and true relationship with that farm he would have to do more than simply be in love with loving it.  Loren had filled the still air with pipe smoke and his word came out of the smoke into Earl’s thought “…can’t just take it off the shelf and play with it in the store, have to take it to the counter. pay for it and take it home—make it part of your life …people these days … during the depression we knew the value … electricity … never the same .. she left me …”

  Earl agreed with Loren but told him no sale and went off to hitch up a plow.  Later that week he hitched up the mower and the disc and he bought a spraying rig at an auction.

  Permission can become indulgence which then is taken as license.  And a farm or a life or a business or marriage or the life of a child, let alone our relationship with God and all his blessings is put in serious jeopardy of being wasted.

  The phrase “tough love” was once in style or vogue, maybe now it is coming back with Dr. Phil on TV—the brevity and convenience of 43 minutes of commercial television programming aside. 

  Tough love: is there some other kind?  Tender love, certainly; tough and tender love are by no means mutually exclusive.  God loves us and God always answers prayer, but sometimes the answer is No.  Martin Luther says we cling to that No.

  Think also of redemptive love, love that redeems, love that brings back, love that prevents.  How many times have you been brought back from the brink of   insert your scariest memory here ?  How many times have you brought someone back from insert the near or actual disaster   ?  Heavens, that can’t be easy – it must be … tough.  Tough – just like a nail through a hand or a foot.  Tough like listening to a child scream or cry in rage because of the word, “No.”  Tough like weeping.

Proverbs 5:22 The iniquities of the wicked ensnare them, and they are caught in the toils of their sin.

 23 They die for lack of discipline, and because of their great folly they are lost.

Proverbs 10:18 Discipline your children while there is hope; do not set your heart on their destruction.

 Hebrews 12:5 And you have forgotten the exhortation that addresses you as children--"My child, do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord, or lose heart when you are punished by him;

 6 for the Lord disciplines those whom he loves, and chastises every child whom he accepts."

John 15:2  Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit.

6 Hence I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands;

 7 for God did not give us a spirit of timidity but a spirit of power and love and self-control.

From the Northwest Corner of 517  9th Avenue West

“… chart and compass come from thee …”

May 2021

As of this writing, the National Football League will be holding their annual Draft Day tomorrow, the 29th of April.  To say the speculation as to who will choose whom is psychotic, feverish and ludicrous is understatement; second guessing, third guessing and fourth guessing abound.  And that is just on a daily basis.  Since Christmas. 

  These folks doing the speculating are fans and coaches and scouts and “experts” who devote their lives (not exaggerating!) to evaluating and identifying these saviors and getting them drafted into the franchise.  The intensity is radioactive.  It is a matter of life or death, but not really; but yes, it is.  Abject despair looms but a heartbeat away.

  For those of you who have not given your lives over to sports in general and football specifically and the Packers explicitly; this is the day when the professional football franchises choose from among 259 extremely gifted and competitive college athletes Thursday and Friday ending Saturday May 1st.  Whom they choose are players to play on their team – and save them.  Sometimes it is a specific player, a receiver or running back, but usually a quarterback.  This player will be their savior.       

  In college these star athletes are treated as demi-gods.  When they get to their pro team (assuming they sign a contract worth millions of dollars – not exaggerating) they go from demi-god to actual football god to be worshipped by coach and fan alike. 

  As long as they produce.  Yards per throw, yards per carry, yards per catch, touchdowns per game and Super Bowls per season.  There is tremendous talent (probably, maybe), tremendous money and tremendous pressure involved.  This is where many players learn NFL stand for Not For Long.

  The first picks, this year probably 4 or 5 quarterbacks, will be chosen to resurrect a floundering franchise.  Resurrect is exactly the word.  These players, quarterbacks, will win games in the last three seconds, will dominate as their team wins 35 to -3, will charm and lead all the other players on their team to a Super Bowl victory and the beginnings of an era (named after the drafted savior QB) of win after win after win at the Super Bowl.  Everyone is looking for a dynasty; a kingdom – of god, the football type.  It is a matter of salvation and glory.  It is salvation for the franchise and glory for the city and the head coach. 

  If all goes according to plan.  And blind luck.  They save everyone.  Joy and Shalom abound.

  Why do people get so crazy about this?  It happens on a lesser scale in other sports, and it gets a little or a lot nuts.  The counter argument “but it’s only a game” holds no weight whatsoever; it is scornfully laughed off.  Adult beverage container thrown at it.

  We want saviors.  Deep down in our core – home of core values – we want someone or something that will tell us everything is going to be OK.  We want someone who can offer us peace and righteousness.  We want the exhausted peace of Triumph.  We want to go to heaven.  But we don’t want to die.  We want a savior our own choosing.

  St. Augustine said, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”  There is a part of us that wants Jesus, wants a Savior, longs for peace, bleats and baaahs for a shepherd to make us lie down in green pastures, lead us beside still waters and restore our soul.  But we rarely know it is Jesus.  We want to go to heaven.  But we don’t want to die.  There is part of us that says, “I should be over there, in that green pasture where it is righteous and fulfilling and good and true.”  But there is another part of us that says, “But I like it here; in the wilderness, in the choking heat” without having a glimmer of a notion why.

  So we die with our false, fallible saviors, with our draft choices that just didn’t work out.  We languish in despair for a fallen idol who does not know our name and never felt the need to.  It may even be a president.  It may even be a political party.  It could be anything or anyone who tells you what you want to hear; who caters to your fears.  This person or institution can be from any party, anywhere on the political cultural social spectrum (and probably not the middle).

From Matthew 11:  Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. 29Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 30For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’

From Psalm 23:  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me.  You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord    my whole life long.*

  Forget your draft choices and saviors and demi-gods and athletic idols and glittering franchises.  Forget your lust for victory to feed your self-esteem.  Forget bragging rights and batting people around with a triumph you only watched.

  Rest.  Meet a gentle savior – who does indeed know your name and loves you and died for you.  Stop beating your head against the wall.  Stop worshipping also-rans.  Take up an easy yoke and a light burden.

  Walk in the dark places of the heart and soul and be unafraid.  Sit down to a table prepared for you in the midst of terror and unrest, pandemics and extremists, the fascist right and the psychotic left, racial injustice, and carnivorous, unforgiving capitalism.

  Dwell – not hide – dwell in the house of the Lord your whole life long.

  You didn’t draft him.  He drafted you.

From the Northwest Corner of 517  9th Avenue West

“… chart and compass come from thee …”

April 2021

  In the musical West Side Story, Tony (Richard Beymer), realizes he is head over heels stupid in love with Maria (Natalie Wood).  He is so in love even her name sends him into paroxysms of singing.  “The most beautiful word I’ll ever hear . . . Maria, Maria etc. etc.,” he sings his solo.  Richard’s career didn’t quite take off; Natalie’s did.  Irrelevant.

   What are the most beautiful words in the Bible?  In the Old Testament?  New Testament?  Certainly there is John 3: 16, 17 or Ephesians 2: 8 - 10.  Maybe the beginning of Luke’s nativity story, ”In those days a decree went out . . .”

  But when life starts coming at you fast and thick, whether it be personal or family tragedies or watching rioting on the news, what verses offer you strength and promise?  On what passage can you hook your little finger and hang on?

   How about the most beautiful words we’ll ever hear in Luke 24:5?  “They were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said, ‘Why do you look for the living among the dead?  He is not here, he is risen.’” 

  Why do you look for the living among the dead?  Do we take it for granted that our savior rose from the dead?  Do we just assume that it’s the usual Happy Ending, the dénouement, that comes after scary and fatal Rising Action on the Cross? 

  Back up a little, do we take for granted the love of God?  God reveals himself to us and we say, “Well, sure!  That’s Christmas!  The reason for the season.  D’you like eggnog?”  We forget that Jesus was born to die on the Cross.  It was God coming into our midst in human form. To be sacrificed for our sin.  To reconcile the cosmic conflict between Creator and Created; between human and Divine; between pure and impure.

  We take too lightly that Jesus was stone cold dead when Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus took him off the cross, then hauled him to the tomb.  Think, for a moment, on getting a dead person down from a cross to which they have been nailed.  Feet first; or arms first, then flop forward, still hanging by the feet?  How difficult was it to get the nails – spikes probably – out?  Using what tool?  Maybe they took the cross down first; big, bulky and heavy.  Entirely droppable.  Maybe the guards helped – yeah, right.  We read the words too easily.  We consider the finality too lightly.

The man, Jesus, God incarnate, present at Creation, had no heartbeat, no brain activity, no warmth when he was laid to rest with seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes.  Rigor mortis probably hadn’t set in yet.

  For Joseph and Nicodemus it must have been utter and complete heartbreak and despair.  For Mary Magdalene and Mary mother of Joses, the weeping was uncontrollable; no doubt, Joseph and Nicodemus wept also.  Jesus was silent and still and cold.  Hope was absent.  Their world had come to an end.  Dreaming a happy ending would be foolishness; an insult. 

  However.  The story takes a 90ᵒ turn. 

  In Mark’s gospel, Mary Magdalene, Mary Mother of Joses, and Salome go to the tomb to anoint Jesus.  They know he’s dead.  They know they won’t be able to roll the stone away.  But they can’t not go.  Jesus was dead, they loved him, they can’t just sit.  It’s been three days.

  They arrive.  In Mark, there’s an angel sitting there telling them Jesus is raised and gone.

   In Luke, are the most beautiful words, the question, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

  Again, the words are too simple.  Jesus has been raised. He’s not here.  You are looking in the wrong place.

  His heart started pumping again.  Blood began carrying oxygen to his brain, muscles and organs. Jesus had been in hell, with the dead.  The sights, sounds and smells: unimaginable.  This visualization or imagining doesn’t even begin to do justice, to accurately portray what actually happened.

  However.

  God is what happened.  Power over death, biochemical or otherwise.  Probably the otherwise, probably the same breath of God that brought Adam and Eve to life brought Jesus back to life; called him back from death.

  It wasn’t resuscitation.  It was resurrection.  Death rendered powerless – real but powerless.

  This whole story in Mark or Luke or Matthew or John is about two things: Jesus dying – our forgiveness.  And Jesus rising again – our promise of eternal life with our Creator who does indeed have power over death.       

  And by the grace of God who is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, pause for emphasis, it is our story too. 

  Yours.  Mine.  The World’s.  It is our Story to live out; it is our Story to tell again and again.

  It is Easter.  We are Easter people.  Resurrection people.  Die and rise again people.  Feast and dance people.    

  We do not have to look for the living among the dead.  

  We listen for the rhythm of Joy, the rhythm of God, and we dance.

  And There were no Easter Bunnies present.  They are unclean. 

           Deuteronomy 14.7:

Yet of those that chew the cud or have the hoof cloven you shall not eat these: the camel, the hare, and the rock-badger, because they chew the cud but do not divide the hoof; they are unclean for you.

  And they don’t lay eggs; they’re mammals.

  Stop chasing bunnies.  Come to the Feast.

From the Northwest Corner of 517  9th Avenue West

“… chart and compass come from thee …”

    Some people love to sing.  Some actually can sing.  Even people who think they can’t sing or don’t like to sing, sooner or later, in an event of great joy or great sorrow, make some kind of sustained utterance that sounds like singing.  Singing is natural.  We hear the birds and at least try to whistle along, attempting to mimic their melody of merriment or mischief. 

  My Grandmother Dagny Simmons hummed while she peeled potatoes; my Grandfather Elvin Olson hummed while he milked cows.  How many millions of us sing along to the radio in the car?  It is natural to want to make music somehow; even if we can’t sing we at least beat a rhythm, tap a toe, nod our head.  Using a Bible app(lication) got 141 hits on the word song.  “Sing to the Lord” is found all over the place.  “All over the place” is a copyrighted designator phrase for Bible scholars.

  Here’s the problem:  the Pandemic.  We have to wear masks and we cannot sing in church.  And rightly so, we spew virus-laden aerosol … um … all over the place©.  It is maddening.  What good is a hymn if we can’t sing along?  What’s the point of worship if we can’t sing our praises?

  I do not have a solution for this temporary ongoing disaster.  I am NOT advocating that we return to worship without masks and just let it rip; singing hymns full-throated, robustly and lustily.  But I know that when we open our churches up again, hymn singing among all congregations everywhere will be bigger and louder and more cherished than pre-pandemic times.  And tears will be shed - because it will feel so right and so good to praise God belting out a hymn we love.  On that day, which is closer to happening than it was a year ago, singing may be more important than preaching.

Augustine of Hippo said,

“Thou hast made us for thyself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it finds its rest in thee.”

   Hippo is actually Hippo Regius, present-day Annaba, Algeria; located in the northeast corner of Algeria on the Mediterranean coast not that far from Tunis.  Augustine knew that we’re born missing a piece; which makes for an anxious soul.  Our anxious soul can find peace only in God, only in the arms of Jesus.  Martin Luther was a big fan of Augustine.  Luther said our missing piece is God; our missing peace is in God.

  Augustine’s restless heart theology has a corollary.  If we are restless until we find ourselves in God, it follows that we are then restless, again or still, until we can also sing our praises to God.  We can’t be aware of Jesus and not feel anything.  We cannot be aware of Jesus and not be driven to shout or sing or at least wave our arms around.  Here insert cheap jab at Lutherans for smiling as loudly as possible.

  Robert Lowry, the Baptist minister who wrote “Shall We Gather at the River?” also wrote “My Life Flows on in Endless Song.”  It is # 783 in our ELW.

 What tho' my joys and comforts die?

   The Lord my Savior liveth;

  What tho' the darkness gather round?

   Songs in the night he giveth.

  No storm can shake my inmost calm

   While to that cross I’m clinging;

  Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth,

   How can I keep from singing?

   How can I keep from singing?  We can’t.  We’re not supposed to.  It’s Lowry’s refrain to this hymn.  It could just as well, should just as well, be the refrain to our lives.

  Even though we cannot currently sing in worship, let alone meet in worship, we have to sing.  Even though it is soon Lent we must sing before, during and after Lent.  I’d bet a carton of disposable communion cups that singing loudly, robustly and lustily would be a good way to lift depression.  As they say at the rodeo, “Open the chute and turn it loose.”  Sing in the car, sing in the shower, sing in the house and impress your family, sing at work, sing with your dog.  Sing praises to God anytime, anywhere. 

  Try to remember a hymn, one of your favorites; Beautiful Savior, This Is My Father’s World, How Great Thou Art, Silent Night, I Know That My Redeemer Lives, I Love to Tell; the list goes on.   Come in and borrow a hymnal.

   Sing and be free.  Sing and find some peace.  Sing because God hears and God loves you.  Sing!  Sing all over the place©!!!  When you sing – the angels dance and God grins.

That’s right: God grins.  Sing out!  Let your soul rise in praise!  You can grin too.

From our Presiding Bishop, Elizabeth Eaton:

The room was spare and dimly lit. We sat on folding chairs in a circle—young Honduran women and some of us from the ELCA. We had come to Honduras to observe the work of AMMPARO (Accompanying Migrant Minors with Protection, Advocacy, Representation and

Opportunities). This is the ELCA’s strategy to help youth who have been forced to flee their home countries because of violence, abuse, extortion by gangs and extreme poverty.  Amparo is the Spanish word for shelter or refuge.

In this case, AMMPARO partnered with the Lutheran World Federation and the Mennonites to resettle returned migrants—

those who had tried to seek asylum in the United States but had failed or had been denied and deported back to Honduras.

One by one they told us their stories of fear and desperation. Not a one undertook the long and dangerous trek north on

a whim. They told us about the abuse they had suffered, about family members who had been killed by gangs, about the

inability to make a living because of the extortion by organized crime. They talked about the bitter sadness of leaving

home and family, and the uncertainty of the future.

I remember one young woman in particular. She was pregnant when she tried to migrate to the United States. She had the

baby somewhere along the way. She was far from home, mostly alone and desperately wanted her mother to be with her.

None of this is what she had hoped for when she was growing up. Circumstances beyond her control had forced her into

this new and strange existence. She and her baby were now back in Honduras—but not at home. Home was too dangerous.

Remember last Christmas? Remember all of the preparations, the travel to be with family? Remember the holy beauty of

the Christmas Eve liturgy and receiving Christ’s grace and forgiveness at his table? The shopping and Christmas caroling?

The in-person gatherings? All that has changed.

The pandemic hasn’t forced us from our homes but into our homes, sheltering in place, isolated. Not together, but

physically distanced. Not gathered with family and friends, but forced apart because of the threat of infection. Forced by

circumstances beyond our control into this strange existence. Oh, there will be Christmas carols piped into grocery stores

and other essential services, but they will be painful reminders of how life used to be.

We are reminded of the experience of the exiles in Babylon: “By the rivers of Babylon—there we sat down and there we

wept when we remembered Zion. On the willows there we hung up our harps. For there our captives asked us for songs,

and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How could we sing the Lord’s song in a

foreign land” (Psalm 137)?

I told the young Honduran woman about another young woman who was forced to leave home because of a government

decree. She, too, was pregnant and made a long and difficult journey. She, too, was far from home and without her mother

when the baby came. She had to find shelter wherever she could. This wasn’t what she had hoped for when she was

growing up. Circumstances beyond her control had forced her into this new existence.

That young woman was Mary and the child was Jesus. Precisely in our distress, in our dislocation, the Lord shows up.

Emmanuel—God with us—makes his home in the very places we find foreign or isolating. The young Honduran woman,

and all of us, can find hope because of the birth of Mary’s child. There is no God-forsaken place and we are never alone—

not in hospital rooms, or sheltering in place, or Zoom calls or on dangerous roads.

Many of us will not be physically home for Christmas, but we are truly home in Christ.

    We come into this world naked and that is pretty much  also how we leave.  In between is our life – all the people, all the places, all the possessions, the emotions, the dreams, promises kept or forgotten, wounds inflicted, wounds received, the list goes on indefinitely.

  In our Lutheran liturgical worship, we confess sins and hear our forgiveness.  We confess them generically from the order of worship in the hymnal after a few seconds of contemplating specifics.  We then hear our forgiveness proclaimed.  All good and wonderful – as it should be.

  But there isn’t really a place where we give thanks for all the blessings – people, things, events, successes – we receive over the course of a day, a week or a life.  Which is … unfortunate.  As we confess our sins, the temptation, borne of guilt, is to try remember Every. Little. (or BIG) Thing.  With varying degrees of success and truth.

  How often do we try to remember Every. Little. (or BIG) Thing for which we can give thanks?  Sharp intellect?  Straight teeth?  Good home?  Nice in-Laws?  Good job?  Wonderful spouse?  Good car in a nice garage?  Happy healthy children/grandchildren? Good health?  Nice retirement nest egg?  Full refrigerator?  Nice nostrils? 

Make a list.  Check it twice.  For the mental and spiritual exercise of it all make a list of every single solitary person, place or thing – past, present, future – that makes your life better, bearable or possible.  Can you think of at least …. fifty … one hundred?  200?  No blessing too small or insignificant.  Make a list.

Make a list.  Don’t assume anything.  Don’t take anything for granted.  Make it a daylong event.  Save it.

Now, all of those things – where do they come from?  From whom do they come? It is a mistake, a trap, to think we have manufactured any of the blessings in our lives.  It is a mistake to think that we are self-sustaining.  A moralist, or a good Lutheran (take your pick), would say it is a sin to think thusly.  Everything comes from God.  It is in Luther’s Explanations. Think back . . . baaaack “. . . he has given me and still . . .”

The answer is God.  Directly or indirectly all we have and all we are is from God.  It is good to arrive at this recognition.  Daily.  This is where it comes to us that God loves us and wants to bless us.  Daily.  This exercise in thanksgiving – blessing recognition - is not to instill guilt.  It is so we can recognize how blessed we are, and in the process, find some joy, recognize some joy.  Daily.  Maybe even find cause for some celebration.  Hey!  WOW! JOY!  Daily.

A thankful person, a thankful life, a thankful heart lives a life of joy, a life in The Light.  A thankful person should have a feast.  In November.  A thankful person should thank God.  Should sing a hymn.

Now thank we all our God, with hearts and voices

Who wondrous things has done, in whom this world rejoices

Who, from our mothers’ arms has blest us on our way

With countless gifts of love, and still is ours today

Martin Rinkhart, 1586-1649, who was once a deacon in Eisleben, Germany, Luther’s home town, wrote this hymn, “Now Thank We All Our God.”  In these current times, it is worth noting that Rinkhart served during The Thirty Years War.  Close to 60% of the population of German died of starvation or disease during the Thirty Years War.  And then he survived a plague in 1637.  How did he manage to write this hymn?  Here’s verse two:

Oh, may this bounteous God through all our life be near us

With ever joyful hearts and blessed peace to cheer us,

and keep us all in grace and guide us when perplexed

and free us from all harm in this world and the next

Feast in thanksgiving.  Feast in faith.  Feast in joy. Feast in God.  Pass the potatoes.

God is good and knows all of our names.  Save room for pie.

From the Northwest Corner of 517  9th Avenue West

“… chart and compass come from thee …”

   Once upon a time there was a bunch of people who hauled around bags of dirt.  They used shoulder bags, dirt bags, public radio tote bags, back packs, front packs, side packs, knap sacks and re-enforced shopping bags; they also filled the pockets of all their garments.  They did this, made it their lives, because well, that’s just what they did.  They did it because someone told them it made them less guilty.  Guilty of what?  Not really sure.  They were, at the very least, guilty of being guilty; guilty of not carrying enough dirt.

  Under the constant and ever-increasing load in their sacks and bags the people walked bent over, bent double, even crawling.  As much as all that lugging made them strong, but more than anything, it also wore them down.

      Then one day, it was a Tuesday, many others remember it was a Saturday, a woman came into their midst and suggested that they empty all the dirt from all the bags and make gardens.  Your burdens only weigh you down, they don’t make you any less guilty, and it’s well, it’s just dumb.  They looked at her and blinked.  Soon enough an older woman emptied her sacks, she had a nice pile of dirt at her feet.  She stood up straight, gave shout of relief and began dancing.  Others did the same.  Then they all did it.  They cast off their burdens, emptied their sacks, began dancing and started gardening.

  They were transformed into well-nourished upright joyful dancing gardeners.  And everything, although not quite good, was definitely better.

     Once upon a time there was a bunch of people who hauled around bags of broken glass.  They used shoulder bags, bags, public radio tote bags, back packs, front packs, side packs, knap sacks and re-enforced shopping bags; they also filled the pockets of all their garments.  They did this, made it their lives, because well, that’s just what they did.  They did it because they were afraid not to.  They had to carry the burden of all the broken that jagged, screeching, cutting broken glass because if they didn’t, bad things would happen.  Situations or people they didn’t know or recognize would leave them alone. 

   One day their leader figured they could take all the glass and make barriers to keep people out.  Making the barriers was difficult, the shards of glass were hard to connect, they had sharp edges and there was even glass dust irritating the eyes.  But it was comforting, the builders knew they would be safe and comfortable.

  But one day, probably a Tuesday, a young man asked why don’t we take all this glass and make bottles.  Melt it all down, use it for windows and bottles.  The bottles could be used for … water!  And we wouldn’t be so unbelievably, constantly thirsty.  And they’re recyclable! Moreover, the bottles could be used to … um … bottle, well … beer.  Or wine.  There is a bunch of people over there with gardens.  And I saw a barley field, trellises full of hops.  And a vineyard.  I think they may also have kale. 

  If we get together, cast off our burdens or even transform our burdens, we could experience not so much brittle happiness and fragile, spikey comfort, but actual as opposed to literal joy and peace.  He paused to inhale.  And the people, the bunch, said sure.  The party began.

  And they all lived happily ever after, singing Kumbaya every morning.

  Guilt and fear, natural as they may be, serve no useful purpose in God’s Kingdom.  They plug up and corrode the workings of Life in Christ.  Healthy loving relationships do not flourish.  God is not glorified.

  The Kingdom of God runs on trust and forgiveness.  And justice.  And righteousness.  For all.

  What do you run on?  What does this nation run on? 

  Shouldn’t you, shouldn’t we, be at the Dance?  At the Feast?  God has one ready.  Always.

From the Northwest Corner of 517  9th Avenue West

  There are two types of cleaning.  There is General Maintenance cleaning, the everyday stuff – picking up, dishes, laundry, cleaning the scrap out of the car, sweeping and vacuuming; known in the military as “policing the area.”

  Then there is Big Time cleaning, the in-laws are coming cleaning.  Or Spring cleaning when everything is hauled out, bagged up, hosed down, scraped off and gone over; all kinds of banned but effective chemicals are used and someone fires up the power washer.

  But then there is a third kind of cleaning, Cataclysmic Cleaning.  It’s the cleaning event that comes up every five to ten years; the storage shed way out back at your deceased bachelor uncle’s or the cleaning after an acute natural disaster—a tornado or one of your toddlers having eaten 1/3 their weight in grapes.  It is the kind of cleaning requiring a triple axle vehicle and a Tyvek suit (white moon suit with hysterical news commentator in foreground).  It’s the kind of cleaning after which you want to shower about every two hours and still can’t get the smell out of your hair or nostrils.  It is the cleaning you finish at midnight, because you know you won’t have the stomach for it tomorrow.

  But in these Cataclysmic Cleanings righteousness is achieved.  Maybe even treasures found.  How many freezer defrosting’s have led to a really good steak-ham-turkey-cod-venison stew or fond reminiscing over a chunk of frozen 14 year old wedding cake? 

   In a previous job in a previous life we had a crew cleaning a huge duct fan for a major metropolitan facility.  The duct and fan housing were so encrusted with dust and grime it just couldn’t do it’s job.  Ultimately it was discovered that there was no fan there at all – it had never been installed.  How many times has something of value turned up—when you had pretty much given it up as absorbed by a parallel universe?

  It is no different with people.  We all have sheds way out back where we store all kinds of emotional stuff, both good and bad.  Our souls all have basements and rafters and attics and freezers where we store un-confessed sins.  The thing of it is (the realized dynamic manifested is that) beneath the un-confessed sins are the un-realized sins.

  Unrealized sins come from the unexamined life.  May I recommend that the examining of the unexamined life be done in the form of confessing to God, the all-knowing and all-forgiving God.  The “unexamined life” concept belongs to Socrates, who could have been one of the earliest Lutherans – we don’t know for sure.  Socrates claims the unexamined is not worth living – Jesus would’ve agreed. 

  Without God, self-examination, soul examination, is nothing more than chest-deep self-absorption.  Examining the self without God, omitting confession to and with God and avoiding meditation with God, is like doing surgery by candle light – romantic but profoundly ineffective; and, yes, very likely harmful and certainly frowned upon by the AMA.

  Sins—known and unknown, done and left undone—accumulate.  They have bulk and weight.  They have to be cleared away or we can’t live well and free like the children of God we are.  There has to be a cleaning, whether it is daily in devotions or a General Cleaning at weekly worship or going-in-for-heart-surgery-better-call-the-pastor Big Time Cleaning or a Cataclysmic Cleaning of long silences, long nights, long walks, tears, cries, and whispers to God.  Or riots and demonstrations.

     Cleaning—confessing—requires time.  Sins don’t fall like overripe apples from trees as much as they are pried loose layer by layer in confession and picked up and hauled away in forgiveness.  The prying up is a tedious process—if you’re undisciplined and comfortable as almost all of us are.

But do it.  It is doable.  It is learnable.  Take the time.  Say, a season out of the church year – Lent, maybe.   Maybe we’ll all be back in church by then.  Pray for strength to do some heavy emotional and spiritual lifting.

  Examining, confessing is work – no question.  But experiencing forgiveness is freeing and renewing.  It is a creative process done in and on you by God – with your cooperation, your submission.        

  God’s creation is three things:  1. You 2. And everybody else  3. Ongoing. 

  Be ready—when you were confirmed you said you would be.

                                    From the Northwest Corner of 517  9th Avenue West

                                                                  August 2020

 It was a beautiful afternoon sliding into evening.  The washed-out brightness of the day was slowly being replaced by the richer pastels of approaching sunset.  Nearby was a stream flowing slow and clear.  Gathering breezes kept the mosquitoes at bay.

     These were all good things - because Buddy’s pickup was going nowhere.  He was at the side of the road watching cars, SUV’s, vans, minivans, motorcycles and cars and semi’s scream by; some within inches.  

     All he needed was a fan belt, specifically a V-17R202 FoMoCo.  The radiator had boiled over and he’d lost most of his water.  But with an empty five gallon Lasso jug, which refused to blow out of the back, he was able to dip from the stream and refill the radiator – after waiting for everything to cool down.  Circumstances and optimism led him to assume Lasso and propylene glycol would have many of the same properties.  And the cooling off period was a nice little nap.

     But now it was time to be moving on.  His tentative plan was to walk/hitch hike to the nearest town and find a         V-17R202  FoMoCo belt; he had tools to get it back on.  He’d no sooner squared his hat around to begin his journey, than another pickup pulled over.  It was an olive drab 1970 International with bungee straps holding the endgate in place.  Red plastic had been taped over the tail lights while duct tape was holding a rear side panel on.  And not at all to Buddy’s surprise, the tail pipe was suspended by wire.  He sensed no great change in his luck.

     The driver got out and strode up to Buddy in a cloud of beer breath and cigarette smoke.  “Need some hep?”

     “Well, yeah,” replied Buddy, “I need a fan belt and then I can be on my way.  I got water, hoses are OK and I don’t think I scorched anything.”

     “What is this?” he pointed his chin at Buddy’s pickup, “look lak ‘bout a ’90 Ford – a One-Fi’tty?  F-O-R-D: found on road dead.”  Buddy knew that was coming, although he preferred fix or repair daily.

     “Say k’now, I betcha, I just betcha I got one of them belts in the back behind the seat.  My Daddy used to drive one of these.  I helped him keep it running on account he had hisself stoke and couldn’t work on it hisself.”

     By reflex Buddy tried to connect with his would-be rescuer, “How’s your Dad now?”

     “Oh, he’s dead and buried.  I never got around to putting that belt in before they had the auction sale.”  He loped  back to his International with a glint of purpose in his eye.  Buddy thought to himself that whoever this man was, maybe he liked to make things work.  He was standing in the door wedged between the seat and the back of the cab.  Empty Schmidt cans rolled out, some rope dangled to the ground, “Need a beer?”  he shouted over his shoulder as he kept on digging.

     “Ah … no … nope, gonna pass on that.”  The man didn’t hear, he was on a mission.

     “Well, hey, looka that!”  he yelped, “Paint my toenails pink and call me Carmen!”  He held up a belt still in its cardboard holder, amalgamated with three bungee cords, a cheeseburger wrapper and a jumper cable.  It was indeed a V-17R FoMoCo.

     Buddy had the belt on in about 13 minutes.  The whole time his rescuer kept him company under the hood, slurping beer, smoking Chesterfields and freely shared his opinions on Fords, Internationals, Republicans, Democrats, the pretty evening, the effect of global warming on mosquitoes and the career of Johnny Cash.  At just the right time he held tension on the pump so the belt stayed tight while Buddy tightened.  His Craftsman 5/8 socket on the 3/8 drive ratchet handle had never looked more beautiful and the snug of a nut on a bolt had never felt more wonderful.  As Buddy tightened he wondered about offering to pay for the belt and how could he say thank you for such a desperately needed gift; especially one so joyfully given. 

     As he cleaned up and put things away, before Buddy could actually say anything, the man, suddenly serious and even a little teary said, “I want to thank ya for lettin’ me hep ya.  S’the first time inalongtime I fel’ useful.  A person needs a feel useful ever so often …”

     Buddy didn’t know what to say, and then blurted out an obligatory oh, no, thank you!  And the man in the International, Adam’s apple bobbing, said one more time – hoarsely, “Thank you for letting me help,” he covered alternate nostrils and cleared his nose into the ditch, “You beena life saver.  I gotta go.”

     Again Buddy didn’t know what to say, he hadn’t been in control of the conversations or situation for some time.  

     The sun was gone but the orange remained, to blend into the steel blue of twilight and be lost until dawn.  The first stars were coming out; Venus and Jupiter were visible over in the southwest, the passing vehicles all had their lights on.  Buddy looked up and around at the sky and horizon, “Nice night.”

     The man also looked up: “His wonders to behold.”   He smiled a smile of release and bent himself into his pickup, fired up the six-cylinder, draped an elbow out the window, crunked it into gear, perfunctorily looked back for oncoming traffic and departed in a spray of gravel.

    Buddy thought for a minute he heard him singing.  And then he was alone except for the screaming highway.   Buddy laughed and said, “Paint my toenails pink and call me Carmen.”

     There was a boy who had come to see the man they called Jesus, he was supposed to be the one who was sent from God, and the boy wanted to find out for himself.  Actually, it had been his mother who had sent him, because she had wanted to know.  And feeling a little guilty she sent a lunch along with him, five loaves and two fish.

     The boy didn’t want to lug the bread and fish as he chased Jesus from one side of the lake to the other.  Nobody else was carrying anything; he truly hated schlepping things around.

     He was about to toss them over the side of a hill when one of the followers of Jesus, Andrew, came up to him.  “You wouldn’t happen to have food in your bag would you?”

     And then Jesus went to work.  And many were fed.

      We all have fish and loaves and fanbelts, but if we don’t take the time and risk to pull over, if we don’t rouse ourselves to show up, if we don’t dare to offer, if we’re too busy (or anxious) to see those off on the side of their road the kingdom of God doesn’t happen.  

     Notice the word “all” in the preceding sentence: (it’s a long sentence, sorry, second word in)  If you have been baptized, you are one of the “all.”  Period.

     Age, experience, education, skills, gender, physical abilities, financial setting, too much and not enough and anything else you can think of are not excuse.  We all have loaves, we all have fishes.  And even the occasional FoMoCo V-17R202.

     What do you have?  Bring it.  Let Jesus go to work.  

     Feed.  

     And be fed.

                           From the Northwest Corner of 517  9th Avenue West

                                                                 July 2020

We thought this would be over by now.  This being the distancing and masking and isolation – and frustration! all flowing out of the corona virus and COVID-19 pandemic.  And now the occurrences of positive corona virus tests and COVID-19 are increasing.  Some states are returning to their prior tighter restrictions

Then another This came along.  The murder of George Floyd and the rioting and violence in Minneapolis which spread like wild fire across the country and then to other nations.  There were fires and looting and destruction as protests almost instantly went out of control and descended to mindless, collective rage cut loose after years of tolerance and months of quarantine.  I use the adjective mindless because rioting is by definition mindless.  

Currently, the national, state and local situations have calmed down to relatively peaceful protests, rancorous city council meetings and contentious legislative sessions.  Some accomplishing what they want and some not.  Not much happiness, not much smiling.  Some are standing on the accelerator, some are standing on the brakes and all are fighting for the steering wheel.  Lots of smoke, lots of careening back and forth between fascism and anarchy, 1950 and 2020

But all is not lost.  Slowly but surely the destruction of the riots is being rebuilt.  Slowly but surely laboratories and as rapidly as possible pharmaceutical companies around the world are working on COVID-19 vaccines.  God is present, God takes notice, God grieves the injustices and the destruction.  God sees his creation in turmoil and chaos; God will neither be overpowered by the evil that took root long ago nor by the evil that rose up on May 25th.  God creating in the midst of chaos, bringing light into absolute darkness, bringing love to life in the face of hate is what God does.

It is what God calls us to do. 

Bring creation out of chaos, bring light into darkness and bring love into hatred.  God calls us to roll stones away from tombs.  This is the hard, frightening, frustrating, deeply personal, uncomfortable, emotionally and spiritually demanding work of being a child of God.  You may remember you signed on for this when you were confirmed.  It went like this:

“You have made public profession of your faith.  Do you intend to continue in the covenant God made with you in holy baptism: …. to serve all people, following the example of Jesus and to strive for justice and peace in all the earth?”  You responded with, “I do and I ask God to help and guide me.”

          The pandemic, the restrictions, the masks, the protests, the perturbation of Black Lives Matter vs. White Power vs. All Lives Matter vs. wallowing in guilt vs. stony denial vs. claiming Constitutional rights will not go away any time soon.  This is not an episode of some TV drama which will end neatly after sixty minutes.  Are we as a nation, are we as Christians strong enough, faithful enough to see that Justice – God’s Justice – wins the day?  

          Quick fun fact if you’re still reading:  God’s justice is “mishpat” – punishing wrongdoers and caring for victims of unjust treatment.  Justice that makes things right.  

          God’s justice is also “tzadeqah” -  a life of right relationships, all of which are conducted with fairness, equity and generosity.  Justice which keeps thing right. This is a bit counter cultural.  But then so was Jesus.

           So in the meantime?  

          Pray.  Act.  Do.  Believe.  Trust.  Pray again.  Take a step.  Go with God.  Embrace the fear.  Embrace the awkward.  

Roll someone's stone away.  Don’t rule out finding glimmers of Peace and Joy.

From the Northwest Corner of 517  9th Avenue West

May 2020

     Remember when you were much younger?  There was time and space to play; play anything anywhere, just be home for supper.  After supper the rule was home by sunset.  The world was allegedly simpler, sweeter and safer then. 

       One of the games was How Long Can You Hold Your Breath; Harland Severson was always the winner, too.  When playing, we all knew when we gave up, exhaling a huge lungful and regaining consciousness, that breathing would return to normal.   Return to normal, like after Lent and Holy Week, church life returns to normal.  After any pause, Things, should return to Normal.

     The game today, the 2020 Pandemic Play at Home Version, is How Long Can You Hold Your Distance.  Or your Job.  Or your business.  Or your house, your family.  It’s been tough.  It still is.  

     So we are tempted by that concept of returning to normal.  The same way we are tempted to think achieving Closure will free us of processing emotional trauma. Returning to normal is calling to us these days too.  After the pandemic sheltering and distancing ends we will just return to Normal, to Life As We Knew It.  Schools and jobs and businesses will just start right up again after a long week end.

    Not quite. Not really.  For some who were able to maintain their jobs, who were able to maintain their businesses it may be that simple – give or take.   Others will have to start all over again, starting from Square One; or Square Negative one; or Negative Two.   The Normal to which they or we want to return is long gone.           

     In the midst of ruin, the midst of unplanned course changes, in the midst of forced adaptations God sees, God hears, God feels, God knows, God acts.  

From Psalm 90:  10 The days of our life are seventy years, or perhaps eighty, if we are strong; even then their span* is only toil and trouble;  they are soon gone, and we fly away.  11 Who considers the power of your anger?  Your wrath is as great as the fear that is due to you. 12 So teach us to count our days  that we may gain a wise heart.

                     The RSV says in that last verse, “teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” which seems a bit more poetic.  Don’t waste your days hypnotized and anesthetized with NetFlix and HBO and TCM.  What can you do, what can you plan, what can you resolve to do or not do, what can you create, what can you wonder, what can you learn?  Make your minutes count.  If ever there was an excuse and enough time to memorize the Bible, this is it (a chance to seriously annoy any pastor your ever meet.  “Hey, Pastor.  What’s Joshua 3:17?  Huh?  Y’know that one?  Don’t know that one?  I know it.  Yeah.”).             

     But even more importantly, memory work aside, what will you do after restrictions are lifted, to number your days and gain a heart of wisdom?  How will you make your freedom count?  

      Our God, the one who has chosen to love us whether we like it or not, is the – THE – God of Resurrections.  There is no other.  Accept no substitutes.  Resurrection on the last day, certainly.  But Resurrections every morning.  Resurrections when they are least expected.  Do not look for the living among the dead.

     Undoubtedly there will be suffering and loss with the Pandemic, there already is.  In the midst of that, God calls forth life from death, God calls forth what shall be from that which is deemed nothing.  God calls forth hope from despair.  God calls forth streams in the desert, flowers from stones.  God does miracles

Psalm 18.2:

The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer,

   my God, my rock in whom I take refuge,

   my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

Revelation 21:5

Behold, I make all things new