I had dinner with a friend last week who brought up the myth of arrival. She said that, even in seasons when things seem to fall into place (a promotion at work, a new relationship, a good diagnosis, even the bite of a perfect summer peach), that we can still feel loneliness, sadness, confusion or grief. Two things can be true at once. Perhaps we never quite arrive, even when we’ve prayed or hoped for a happy ending or an “easy chapter” of life.
Luckily, we worship a God who holds both with us, carrying us through the moments of crucifixion and resurrection—sometimes all in a day, a week, or a year.
May you feel the freedom to let go of the pressure to arrive and instead lean into the wild journey of life, trusting a God that walks with us through it all.
Annual Reflection – A Church on the Move
Church,
What a year. In just the past 12 months, you called a new Senior Minister and Associate Minister, became an Open and Affirming Congregation, celebrated two baptisms, welcomed 22 new members, and raised $64,000 more than last year's stewardship campaign.
We have a record number of Vine Streeters marching in the Pride Parade this Saturday. We were featured on the front page of The Tennessean for our rich history and vision for the future. We hosted countless musical events in our space, and awarded more than $30,000 in community ministry grants to 18 nonprofit organizations.
These moments are no small thing – they tell a story of a church “on the move,” a church that sets the table wide and keeps pulling up more chairs.
While I celebrate the big moments, I also know that “mustard seed” moments, those small, seemingly insignificant snapshots of our community, reveal who Vine Street truly is. Remember the ice storm? Our church opened its doors that week for Room in the Inn when few churches could. Or how about the myriad cakes you all baked for our youth fundraiser, showing us how much you care about our young people? I have never seen a cake shaped like a book!
I reflect on the countless members who scrub pots and pans after large events, doing the quiet work of service without any recognition. I give thanks for the Sunday school teachers who, week after week, offer donuts and gospel to this community of seekers, both young and old. I think about your foreheads marked with ash and your feet washed on Maundy Thursday – how they bear witness to lives that have known both grace and struggle, reminding me that every one of us has a story to tell.
All to say, our accomplishments are worth celebrating. But these small moments tell me even more about who we are. As I preached on Sunday, we are a "broken, blended family" – and I would add one more word: blessed. By God's grace, we continue to become the church we are called to be, finding God at work both in the milestones and in the mustard seeds. As we look toward this next year, I can't wait to see what God has in store for us – and what God has in store for the world through us.
- Margie
21st-century Nashville, Tennessee, tired-lady-sitting-down Beatitudes
Blessed are the poor in spirit, who woke up to snow this morning and just sighed, who don’t find the snow that romantic anymore.
Blessed are those who groaned with aches and pains, with tweaks and strains this morning. Blessed are you if you would rather be asleep.
Blessed are you who are irritable and tired and overwhelmed and scared from these storms and these sirens and from the state of the world.
Blessed are the ones who have fought too many times this week with their spouses, children, friends, and even their pets, or their reflection in the mirror.
Blessed are the grumpy.
Yours is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you who mourn: who had birthdays this week, who got married yesterday, who gave birth this week, whose celebrations are more complicated, whose expectations had to shift with everything going on.
Blessed are the lonely and the sick and the ones who are recovering in hospitals right now.
The ones entering hospice care at home this week.
The mothers of the miscarried.
The ones burying loved ones in the bone-chilling cold.
You will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, or at least those we think are meek, who we don’t give enough attention to.
Blessed are the linemen. And the hospital cafeteria workers and the internet fixers and the mail deliverers. The ones who will never receive a thank you for what they do this week.
The ones who throw down salt, or the children shoveling snow in their neighbors’ driveways, or the parents hacking branches with some kind of garden tool I’ve never seen before as I drive by.
And blessed are the control freaks—or what we call control freaks—the Type A-ers who are really struggling in all of this chaos. Blessed are the ones who can’t fall apart because they have to keep it together for everyone else.
Bless this world.
Bless these trees that are broken and down, that once shaded and sheltered more moments and stories than you and I will ever know.
Those trees that were havens for creatures. that had spent a lot of time rooting down and growing up.
They are of the earth, and they will inherit it, in spite of us.
Blessed are the hungry who are shuffling through empty grocery stores, sitting in long lines at drive-throughs, who are worrying, who stay worrying.
And yeah, blessed are the ones who took a little more than they needed at the grocery stores out of fear, out of scarcity.
Blessed are the ones who thought there wouldn’t be enough.
Blessed are the ones for whom there is still not enough.
You will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful: the ones who drive really slow and safe.
The ones who let us put the last puzzle piece in our tenth jigsaw puzzle this week.
Who dropped off soup on our doorstep even when we didn’t ask for it.
Who tell us we look beautiful even though they know and we know that that’s probably not true.
The ones who tipped 30% this week. They’re out there, surely.
You will receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart.
The ones who took so many of us in.
The generators of love and warmth.
The teachers who gave extensions on papers and the bosses who gave us a lot of grace this week.
The housemates who offered us patience upon patience, especially patience we couldn’t offer ourselves.
You will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: the Buddhist monks making their way across our nation.
They’re on day 98 of simply walking—walking for something greater than themselves.
Or the kids making yard signs with big Sharpies and bigger hearts that say “Love your neighbor” or “Thank you, NES” or “We love snow.”
You will be called children of God.
Blessed are you who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness: the displaced and deported, the detained and dehumanized, the five-year-olds taken from their families, their fathers far away from them, the forgotten and the misunderstood and the imprisoned and the impoverished.
Yours is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when people hate you.
The ones who scream at you from behind a keyboard this week.
The maliced ones who cut you off in traffic this week of all weeks. Come on. Even the ones you’re related to.
So rejoice and be glad—even for the smallest little thing, like the warmth in this sanctuary, like that tree and that one still standing somehow, or like the cold Hawaiian bread and the sweet grape juice, this small meal we’re about to have with this small family that’s ours for an hour.
Be blessed, friends.
Receive these blessings.
Amen.