I had a friend call me about a break-up this week. He was devastated, naturally, and asked how he should move forward with all of his sadness and grief. "Just keep doing the next right thing," I told him--words that were shared with me during a hard season. Or as C.S. Lewis puts it, "What saves man is to take one step, then another."
There seems to be a resounding need for smaller steps, not bigger ones, as we take on the enormity of our (and the world's) pain. It's a theme echoed by many wise voices. Anne Lamott writes "We are going to save the world by repeatedly busting the dread that looms over us like a blimp, by pushing back our sleeves and distracting it with the next right thing and good works."
So, what might the next right thing look like for you today? What good works are yours to offer?
What kind of year?
This past week I’ve been thinking a lot about a Zora Neale Hurston quote from her book “Their Eyes Were Watching God.” In it, she writes,
There are years that ask questions and years that answer.
I’ve had a lot of the “question” years: Where will I live next? When will I meet someone? What will I do next? Who is my community?
But, this year for me is an “answer” year. God is handing me a set of firm Yes’s and No’s on a platter. I don’t always like the answers, but I feel the steadfast assurance of the One who walks with me. I’ve started asking friends which year they’re having, and it has resulted in some special conversations.
What kind of year is it for you?
How We Rest
This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about rest and how Jesus invites us to come to him when we feel heavy-laden; he provides us with that holy rest that only he can.
For some of us, rest is a long nap, a bubble bath, cooking a meal with music playing or sitting on the beach. As a highly energetic person, I have never identified with some of these more traditional forms of rest. When I try them, I don’t feel rejuvenated afterward, I feel more restless.
For me, rest is shoving my feet into a pair of cleats, slathering on sunscreen that I will soon sweat off, and running around with my ultimate frisbee team, Nashville ‘Shine.
Many of you know that when I’m not at church, I fill my time coaching and playing competitive ultimate frisbee. I fell in love with the sport during my freshman year in high school. I was running track and field at the time, and a very cool Senior girl convinced me to attend a frisbee practice. I quit track soon after and have never looked back.
I have traveled to California and Colorado, Hawaii and even Colombia to play ultimate. I have coached at the elementary school level and competed at the semi-professional level. I have suffered concussions, ankle sprains, fractured thumbs and even bitten through my tongue (that one hurt), all for the love of this sport.
I have been lucky enough to play on teams in Georgia, Washington state and North Carolina, but my favorite team is my current one, Nashville ‘Shine. You have probably seen some of my teammates in the pews every now and then. Although many of them don’t identify as religious or attend a church regularly, they come to worship to hear a message of hope, feel our warm welcome, and take part in a gathering filled with music, prayer and the breaking of bread.
It has been hard to explain my vocation to other players and teammates. You don’t find many pastors in the ultimate community. But over the last few years, my teammates have surprised me by embracing my call to ministry. I’ll never forget how they squeezed into a pew at my ordination. But their support goes beyond attending a service or two.
They have helped me cook for and host our homeless neighbors at Room in the Inn. They have baked cakes for our youth fundraiser, painted banners for our Advent worship services, connected me with speakers for our affordable housing panel, baked communion bread for our Pride Ecumenical service, and helped me hide Easter eggs for the kids to find. They understand what it means to be on a team, even a team that we don’t get to pick, like church. I am constantly humbled by their willingness to serve here, even if none of them “go here.”
Juggling frisbee and ministry has been a tricky balance since I began working in churches. I have driven back from tournaments late on Saturday nights and taken 6am flights on Sunday mornings, all to make it to church that day. My love for Jesus and for this sport makes life a bit more logistically complicated–but far more spiritually enriching.
I am grateful for a church that honors the way that I rest, and allows others to find their own form of rest, too. It means a lot to me that our community values the many ways we glorify God and find deep rest in the One who always provides for us when we are heavy-laden.
This weekend, I’m heading to Indianapolis for a tournament called “Elite Select Challenge” with my team. We will play teams from San Francisco, Philadelphia and Salt Lake City. Cheer us on as we try to bring home the gold!
In Peace and Gratitude,.
Legos in Church
One of my best friends visited our church last week. Despite the fact that she is a woman in her 30s, she grabbed a children’s bulletin from the basket and a pew pouch full of markers and pencils from our kid’s cart. She sat during the entirety of our service, drawing pictures while listening to the music and taking in the liturgy of worship. We went out to lunch after the service, and she noted how grateful she was that we offer opportunities for people to draw, color and create while worshipping with us. It reminded me of an experience I had at my last church during worship. On that particular morning, I grabbed a pen from my purse and scribbled this musing on the back of a bulletin…
It is 9:20am and I am sitting in church watching a little boy in the pew in front of me play with Legos. We are nearing the end of the worship service, singing the final hymn, and this boy is standing, his body turned toward the pew, working out a configuration with the fifty or so Lego pieces he has scattered across the pew. He is focused. He has made a Lego lab and his attention is rapt on how to finalize this structure before the closing hymn finishes. All around him, people timidly flirt with the higher notes of an ancient song. All around him, people stand looking up, while he crouches, looking down, lost in his own world.
On this particular Sunday, I get very little out of the service. This is a common lament of pastors who serve churches—we are in work mode when we step into the building and rarely get our spiritual buckets filled.
I am jealous of this boy. As someone with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, I envy the freedom he inhibits, playing with his toys throughout the liturgy of the morning. I want those Legos when I start fidgeting from sitting for too long. I want them so I can listen to the sermon better, having something in my hands to work with instead of attempting to focus for as long as I can. I want those Legos because I want to be a kid again with the permission to play, get lost, wonder, and fidget.
I want those Legos because I want to get lost in a world outside of the ingrained practice of sitting down and standing up. I’m sick of church liturgy. I don’t understand the appeal of being inside of a building on a Sunday morning when God is so clearly outside, showing off to the world with Her colorful sunrises, bright red tulips, graceful herons.
Maybe I’m burnt out. Maybe I’m in the wrong profession. Or maybe I have a vision of church as a place where Legos sit in Ziplock baggies at the end of each pew, inviting us to imagine the world we want to inhabit through a handful of colorful blocks. Is the kingdom of God a dragon today or a submarine? Is it spread wide or built tall? Does it accommodate those who fidget, those who daydream, those who wonder what is beyond the walls?
I love how 10-year-old Ellen McLaughlin often comes up to me after the service and shows me what she drew that hour. This past week, it was a panda. I am so glad that she feels the freedom and comfort to illustrate what her mind sees while being surrounded by a church family that welcomes her style of worship.
I believe that God is in the hymns we sing, the eye contact we share on Sunday mornings and the sacred act of taking communion together. I also believe that God is creative, playful and free. My God has legos in one hand, and communion bread in the other, inviting me to stretch my understanding of what is holy and celebrate the prayers and pandas all the same.