Going Home... Coming Home

He Lifted Her Up

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 15:07:00 +0000

Mark 1:29-39 (NRSV)
As soon as they left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon’s mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.
That evening, at sundown, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed with demons. And the whole city was gathered around the door. And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons; and he would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him.
In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. And Simon and his companions hunted for him. When they found him, they said to him, “Everyone is searching for you.” He answered, “Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.” And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.

Her daughter was married to a man who would abandon his fishing nets – the only means of feeding the family – and follow this stranger to God-knows-where. Andrew and Simon had just undergone a major life change. They used to spend their days in solitude fishing for their livelihood and their family’s. They seemed so responsible. These days, though they still fed their family, they were gone a lot. These days you would find them in the middle of a crowd.

This man they joined up with almost immediately begins to make a stir. Everywhere they go people crowd around him. He’s pretty cool, that’s for sure, and he can heal people and exorcise demons with the best of them – but yet, somehow, he’s different from all the rest. He doesn’t use all the known cures, but does his own work. He walks into a room and people turn and stare. Hard to tell if it’s the way he carries himself – it sure isn’t how he dresses – he could use some help in that department. His kindness and gentleness of spirit belie an unbending strength. There’s a quiet certainty about him – assurance – as if this man really knows himself, knows his source. This one is different. The fact that her son-in-law is hooked up with such a crowd gatherer would have been enough to give anyone a fever. And there she lay.

She was in bed, they told him. Laid aside with a fever. He found her there. We don’t know anything more about what ailed her. We don’t need to. He went to her, took her hands, and lifted her up. The Greek verb Mark uses for lifted up is the same as the word the Gospel of John uses to describe what Jesus did when raising Lazarus who had been dead for three days and already buried. Jesus took her hands and lifted her up. She got up and began to serve them. Mark says the first thing she did upon her resurrection was minister to them.

We skip right over ideas of resurrection these days. Some of us who are scholars avoid the embarrassment of mystery by arguing over the differences between resurrection and resuscitation in the case of Lazarus. Jesus’ resurrection is the only one we’re comfortable talking about – if we’re going to be Christian it’s hard to avoid that one. We side-step the embarrassment of mystery in Jesus’ resurrection by arguing over whether it was a bodily resurrection or a spiritual one. And then we hope that no one will push us to talk about whether we will be resurrected one day, and hope to avoid the embarrassment of the mystery of whether it will be bodily or spiritual.

People living in the first century after the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus weren’t so uncomfortable with the idea. Dead was dead, and alive again was alive again. And they saw it happen – these witnesses like Simon and Andrew, James and John. They looked into the eyes of Simon’s mother-in-law as she passed around the plate of cookies at the coffee fellowship at her house after synagogue. She got close enough for them to feel the warmth of her breath, an alive again body ministering to them. Yep, it was her. There was recognition.

This church is going through some change. This change is about as radical as dropping our nets to follow Jesus could possibly be. Travel back with me in time to think about some of our history. We spent a year or more catching God’s dream for us, and busied ourselves with the mission and ministry Christ wanted to continue through us. Our identity was clearly linked to outreach ministries. For a very long time we only had a central place to meet on Sunday mornings, and for a while we would come back to the school on Sunday evenings. For all those years, when we met to discuss the business of the church, or if we added Lenten studies, we met in our homes. Then in time, we prepared to build a structure to house our stuff and our ministries, a place of our own where we could worship. Then after two years of intense effort and much celebration, we moved into our new digs and began to settle in. We were tired – in bed with a fever. The cause of the fever: Fatigue, disappointment, excitement, fatigue, a need to rest after such intense effort, fatigue, waiting for an idea of what’s next. It was as if we experienced a year of post-partum depression following the delivery of our new address. A sabbatical summer of rest from all the pushing was good for us. And when we tried to get up out of our bed in the fall of 2008, our legs were pretty wobbly. We couldn’t get our bearings, and had to go back to bed, with a fever.

There’s a good chance when Jesus hears about it, he’ll come to us immediately. Reach out his hand to this church, too, and lift her up.

That night, after synagogue, after coffee fellowship, when the word had spread through Capernaum about this unusual rabbi, all the people crowded in the doorway to get to Jesus. Mark says the whole city came and huddled around the door like a bunch of crazed Cardinals fans looking for a ticket to scalp. It wasn’t the last time the crowds would find their way to him, longing for wholeness, looking for a cure. Did you ever put out finch seed, with not a finch in sight, and then watch them gather? How do they know? How do they tell one another? How does the word spread? Hungry souls seem to have a kind of telepathy, don’t they? I imagine a crowd – the whole city of Gilbert, Chandler, Mesa, Queen Creek, Apache Junction. I imagine those doors right there, open wide enough for people to get a glimpse of Jesus. Hungry souls finding their way to bread.

I don’t know what that image does to you, but it makes me want to drop to my knees in humility. It makes me want to pray hard enough to break a sweat that when people walk through those doors it is the Great Physician they will see.

No wonder he had to slip out in the early morning while it was still dark, for some healing time... some prayer. We like to think in Myers-Briggs terms about how we get renewed. Some of us recharge our batteries in a crowd, or at least in the company of friends, and others of us need alone time – absolutely must get away from people in order to think straight and renew our energies. All of us need alone time. Let me say that again. All of us can be distracted by sights and sounds around us, and in order to reconnect with our center (which is like a temple where God dwells), we have to be alone and undistracted. We need to pray.

The spiritual discipline of prayer was one Jesus practiced often. Mark shows us the result. The result of prayer for Jesus was clarity about his calling. Think of how distracted he could have become by all the need in Capernaum. Clearly he could have hung out a shingle and made a good living there caring for all the people who would come to him. He could have stayed close to home. But that was not his calling – and he knew that after spending some time in prayer. His calling was to preach the good news of God’s saving presence now here, among them, and to preach it in many places. This was what he came to do.

If we carry this allegory further and let it enlighten our listening for God’s call, what might we hear? It feels really good to be doing the things we are already doing as a church. We like our little community of faith. Liking the way we do faith development, we could expand on it, and add some new youth activities (like we are doing today with the announcement of our first movie night). If our ministries are good, we could simply do more of the same and we can assume it would all be good. But what if God is calling us to more, to something outside the box we have built?

As a congregation we may be in bed with a fever from all the recent changes, shifting from our beginning way of being -- but I feel a resurrection coming on. Post-resurrection, with new life, like Simon’s mother-in-law, the first thing we will think to do is minister again. Imagine the crowds at the door who really are waiting for someone to come along whose healing is different, who can command the demons of our time, hungry for the kind of bread Jesus is. To do this work, we need rest and renewal as much as Jesus did. Already he had done so much good, and surely there was more he could do. But his calling was wider than that – deeper, farther flung. He didn’t slip into doing less. He slipped into doing more. His calling was to move on to the neighboring towns, and there he did exactly what he had begun in Capernaum. He proclaimed the good news to another people. Article VI of Chalice’s Constitution says this: “As a Church formed from the mission-mindedness of Community Christian Church of Tempe, as soon and as frequently as practical, Chalice Christian Church shall give birth to missionaries to expand the Good News of Jesus Christ to people of another location where another Christian Church will be formed.”

There are three segments to this story from the first chapter of Mark: healing of Simon’s mother-in-law; people brought all the sick & possessed to him for healing; he got away for renewal, which readied him for work in the next town.

Come away with me for Lent. Let’s slip away in the quiet of the still-dark morning, and pray, there to be reminded of the work we came to do.

Amen.
Sermon at Chalice CC (DOC), February 8, 2009

Snark

noreply@blogger.com (Linda) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 17:54:00 +0000

I just heard a lively discussion on the Diane Rehm show on NPR. David Denby has published a book titled, "Snark: It's Mean, It's Personal, and It's Ruining our Conversation." While recognizing the virtues of satire and irony, among other forms of speech used as humor, he defines snarking (currently very popular) as insider language poking fun at "the other" that has particular meaning to the insiders, for the purpose of putting down. He gives value or credibility to some instances of snarking, if they represent specific positions.

I think he walks on thin ice, since the line between OK and Not-OK snarking is so thin. But his observation is very useful, and calls me to think honestly about how much my opinions on public issues, the news, politics are formed by this rather passive-aggressive, clever, entertaining style of not-saying.

What do you think? Is snark ruining our conversation? Are we losing our ability to use language effectively to say precisely what we mean?

Awkward Reminder

noreply@blogger.com (Linda) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 17:38:00 +0000

I just watched the National Prayer Breakfast at the National Cathedral in Washington. I was excited to hear what Sharon Watkins, the Disciples' General Minister and President would preach to the new administration. Sharon is a good preacher, and it is a point of great pride for some of us that Obama chose her to preach because he once witnessed her authentic conciliatory nature. I thought she would have something good to say about unity, coming together despite our differences.

I tuned in to MSNBC, where I usually get my news, to watch the broadcast. To my dismay Chris Matthews talked over the broadcast, talking about the impossibility of religious people practicing inclusiveness because all religions declare that they have the only way, and then launching into a discussion of the Senate hearing on the Secretary of Treasury, while the ticker-tape messages at the bottom of the screen screamed our financial woes. Then to top it all off, MSNBC panned away from the service BEFORE the sermon, forcing me to look elsewhere for a live telecast.

I found it on FOX news. I never get my news from FOX -- I prefer a different spin than I get there. But you see, FOX panders to the audience they expect, their loyal audience, a more conservative audience. Unfortunately the popular belief is that all people of Christian faith fall into that audience. That is not true. Nor is it true that there are no Christians who practice inclusivity.

MSNBC, you missed an important opportunity today.

Thank you, FOX, for televising the entire service without interruption or commentary. Where can I find someone in the news media who understands that there really are people of faith who are progressive in their theology and social views and still care deeply about the integrity of worship and aren't embarrassed at encountering sacred mystery? Why does the media still try to force us into one of two camps: the religious right or the secular? Why is the media so far behind? FOX, you need to work at catching up as well. Look to the left a little and see what you might discover.

Better yet, what if we lost the spin altogether? What if the media tried straight reporting -- factual, unbiased? Is that possible?

Summer's End

noreply@blogger.com (Linda) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 14:29:00 +0000

End of summer came and I returned from sabbatical. For a long time I haven't been able to bring myself to write here.

On August 25 my father died. He was ready. He lived well and fully and long - to 96. Our time together in the summer was rich, and such a gift. The sorrow of missing him is astonishing. Deep.

On some level I think we all knew it was coming, though he had rallied so many times, it was hard to know. In retrospect it seems that he was staying around to help all of us get ready, to finish things. And so we travelled the end of his life together.

I actually made four trips home to Missouri in the summer of 2008. Three of them were planned. I was home with my parents and my children - the extended family - for a month from mid-May to mid-June. Daddy was still showing energy and humor. He was walking without assistance to the mailbox every day. We had some great conversations, and recorded many of them.

When I returned in July he had declined considerably. He was using a walker on the rare occasions when he had the will to walk. His resilient spirit had lost its cheer. Watching and listening to my parents, I noted that the aggravation they each sometimes expressed was so integrated into their days that if either of them were gone, the other - the one left - would miss the nuisance terribly. I went to my room and wrote in my summer journal:

... leaves will fall at
summer's end
and sadness settle itself around you.
Days, growing shorter, will
seem longer.
Expected interruptions will not...
and life will take new shape
around the absence.

Thinking of you....

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 01:30:00 +0000

Welcome Home Linda
~ Amy and Trish

Going Home, Coming Home – Finding a Home

noreply@blogger.com (Bob Howard) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 00:58:00 +0000

The theme for this summer’s sabbatical is “Going Home, Coming Home.” A lovely sentiment. But what if you are still trying to find your home in the first place? What if you are not able to “go” home? What if a location is perhaps still too new to be “home”?

An insight presented itself to me the other day. Just stood right up, waved its arms, and demanded my attention. We live in an age of rootless transience. Folks constantly “relocating.” Just when you are getting to know someone – whshht, they are whisked away. The current “housing crisis” in our land is a powerful symbol of a deeper disruption, a homelessness of the spirit, that has gripped society lately. How do you help folks create a home in an unfamiliar territory?

Those who live under the Arizona sun are familiar with our heritage, of people of European heritage who made their way into this desert of hostile beauty (displacing the Native American residents, we might add). Judaism, Christianity, and Islam all honor as founder another transient, yanked out of his homeland and shoved down the road to a strange new land: Abraham. Immigrants must carve a home out of a wilderness filled with unfamiliar landmarks – even if they are urban. Marilyn, RJ, and I know how that feels, even as recently as this week, as we’ve been casting about for new quarters. The owner of the house we rent gave us notice that we must be gone by the end of July. So we've been scrambling to find a new domicile. Call it the housing crisis up close and personal for us. So now we know with some immediacy: displaced persons always experience stress – even if the transition is for the best of reasons.

What makes a “home” out of a “place”? Some brief images come to mind: a place where we belong, where we’ve found our “place” in the group. A place where we can take root and figure out our present identity as belonging here. A place where we are connected to other people and the territory that surrounds us. A place where we feel welcomed, cherished, that is hospitable to us, body, soul, and spirit, welcoming our quests and our questions. A place where we share a heritage and a vision. A place where we can find a job that is uniquely our own, a vocation, whether it be teaching, making coffee, plucking weeds, or praying. A place where we can relax and know that we are known, loved, cherished. A place filled with keepsakes, with objects, but not just any old thing. A place filled with things that are tied to memories, to hopes, things full of meaning. Dad’s chair. Our pew at church. The youth room. A place echoing with conversations, be they pure silliness or freighted with things that matter. A place ringing with laughter, hushed with tears. A place swathed in forgiveness, as we decide to bury past offenses and build a future together, as we offer each other Christ’s peace every Sunday as a kind of “earnest money” deposit toward that future. A place in which we find ourselves banding with others – once strangers, now friends – marching together toward something important. A place fragrant with the scent of food, glorious food, in which we crowd around tables together, or a Table spread by a host named Jesus Christ. What makes a “home” out of a “place”? All of these things and more.

Let me suggest that anyone who is coming from another place, another web of relationships, is not truly “home” until they have found a future. “Home” gives us a place to stand and look toward a shared tomorrow. Which is what I’ve discovered right here at Chalice Christian Church. I’ve found a bunch for whom “home” is in the questions that in turn reveal a quest for God. Together.

At home here or there...

noreply@blogger.com (Robert and Clara) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 02:13:00 +0000

When I think about "home" there are many different aspects that come to mind for me. Right now, I have the privilege to be visiting my hometown of Indianapolis. In one way, this is "home" for me, but everytime I visit, I realize how much has changed, especially when I see kids I used to work with in my home church youth group. Of course, some of them are not kids anymore and I almost don't recognize them! I can't help but admit that it makes me feel old (btw, I just turned 35!). I know that by most people's standards, I am not old at all, but for me, my age is in relation to where I am in life right now. I just got married and don't have any children yet. I always thought I'd be a mom before now. Some of the kids I worked with in my church youth group are already parents! I guess that makes me feel a little behind. Hopefully, Robert and I will get there soon. :)

Despite the fact that I am visiting my hometown right now, what really comes to mind in terms of "home" is figuring out where Robert and I are going to live. We currently live in my condo, but he also owns a condo that we are trying to sell and since the housing market is in such a slump, we aren't sure where we'll end up. We might have to rent one of them out. So, we kind of feel displaced right now simply because we aren't sure where we can settle down.

Another aspect of "home" for me right now is my family's search for a vacation home. In a couple of weeks, my father, siblings, and I are traveling down to the Smoky Mountain area in Tennessee and North Carolina to look for a vacation property. Growing up, my family usually visited that area at least once a year, so it sort of became a "second home" for us. So, in a sense, I'll be going "home" again in a couple of weeks.

I guess I have some more reflecting to do when it comes to what "home" really means to me.

P.S. If anyone is interested, you can visit our wedding blog at http://robertandclara.blogspot.com.

Finding Home

noreply@blogger.com (Pat Barton) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 04:33:00 +0000

I written a post in my mind several times for this blog. First, I was thinking about home-as where my spiritual routes were. As a child I went to St. John Vianney in Colonia, NJ. It was a big parish. I remember the family friends that attended. Once in a while we all drove to Consellata-a small church in the country that was a Italian missionary church. My dad and Siobhan's (my best friend) mom would sing along with a guitar. We went to the folk Mass on Sundays. We had Mass in my home for holidays or special occasions, when my uncle Pete (a Paulist priest) was in town.

I was not going to make it back east this summer. Even if I did, I don't know who I would visit.
I searched for Consellatta and St. Johns on the internet. I found them, but they were not home. I also realize they were not "home." I thought about going to Mass (just wasn't home) or reading Hans Kung (books that were a part of my home library- if you think Crossan is dense:).

Then Jim's parents moved here. Suddenly ten days later Jim's dad died. I found myself sitting in Chalice, listening to my dad and Jim in the service.
When I arrived, several church members were already there. My mom came along with a friend of our family. Slowly more church friends arrived. Then, friends from Jim's work and school slipped in. Cards and flowers arrived.
What a powerful moment for me. This is home-I am have been on the road - searching for home. Here I am.

Road Trip

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 21:00:00 +0000

Applebutter, Buffalo, Carrot, Dolphin, Everybody, Flamingo, Giraffe, Horoscope, Igloo, Jackalope, Kangaroo, Lithosphere, Minnie Mouse, Nitroglycerin, Octopus, Polytheism, Quinine, Robust, Snake, Titicaca, Uvula, Vaccination, Wave Frequency, Xylem, Yangtze River, Zanzibar. There are myriad ways to pass the time while driving cross-country, and they are way more fun when shared with young people. Maggie suggested we do the alphabet game, each of us in turn thinking of a word that starts with the next letter of the alphabet after repeating all of the previous words. I would like to be able to say that the most impressive words in our list (above) were mine, but I'm held to our familial requirement of honesty. I learned a lot about social studies and science curriculum on this road trip, and was pretty impressed. By the way, "polytheism" came from Maggie, and August commented that "monotheism is what we believe." They learned about religion in social studies.

I had forgotten how much I enjoy driving.

After brief stops to see my daughters I spent two weeks with my parents. What a gift it was not to be in a hurry. (I refuse to be anxious about schedule until August 16.) Daddy and I spent some quality time with the digital recorder, getting family history and story logged. I'll have more reflections on this segment of the trip later.

This road trip took me to each of my daughters' homes where I enjoyed unhurried time with their families. Stacey had a project in mind for us (removing holly bushes & replacing them with flower beds), but the torrential rains in Tulsa precluded outdoor work, and we did absolutely nothing quantifiable while I was there. It was delightful. Five-month-old Aiden is adorable, and playtime was a treasure.

At Heather's home we had an equally liesurely plan, but in a burst of energy pulled up carpet in Maggie's room, exposing a hardwood floor, and removed the paneling from her plastered walls. What a sense of accomplishment!!! And Maggie was so excited she couldn't contain herself. The painting will come later, but in the meantime, she organized her room, enjoyed making her bed, and cleaned out her closet.

While in Missouri I connected with old friends Joyce, Kay, Ramie (and Amy, Eric, Braden & Cole Shumaker) and worshipped at Blue Valley CC in Overland Park where I got to hear my former pastor, Rick Butler, preach. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

When it was time to load up the car and return to AZ, I threw my three older grandchildren in the car just for fun. We are filling our days with short trips and training for a hike in the Grand Canyon. But the greatest thrill in all of this for me is having the kids here for a sleepover -- for a week! I'm a happy "gram."

Going Home

jamesbarton2@gmail.com (JimII) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 00:45:00 +0000

On Sunday, I realized next week is Father's Day. I started to put together what I have on my plate for this upcoming weekend, and Pat and I realized this was a going home with a capital H.

This Saturday I will go to Meadlawn Christian Church to have Dad's memorial service in Indianapolis. It is the place of my baptism. It is the church where my grandmother entered on her own, some time in the 1930's establishing a relationship with Meadlawn Christian and the Barton Family. It is the place where my father was baptized, married, ordained, and on this Saturday will be remembered.

It seems surreal. Too enormous; like a plot point from an overly sappy movie.

It completely dwarfs my "job" (catalogue voter fraud, object to destructive testing, and draft competitive bidding requirements). And that seems to be where my focus is going right now. Not so much responding to the grief and sorrow of Dad's absence, but focusing on my hero image of him and this larger than life event that is taking shape. Forgive me, while I tarry a little longer here. Maybe until Saturday evening.

Everyday stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 14:22:00 +0000

Home is where we do the everyday stuff that seems too ordinary to talk about. That's what has filled most of my days for the past two weeks. There were daily trips to the strawberry patch. The variety that my folks planted produces small berries, but when they're ripe, their color is such a dark red it is almost purple. The sweet-tart taste is unbelievable. And there's nothing better than berries capped as soon as they're picked, sugared and served over my mother's shortcake.

Friday I travelled from the farm in Carroll County, MO to my daughter Stacey's home in Tulsa for a major dose of lovin' on my grandson Aiden. More later.

Summers of the past

noreply@blogger.com (Linda) — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 16:52:00 +0000

This is my first official summer as a "stay at home mom" and I am having a really hard time with the stay at home part of that title. Just before school got out I began to panic....what in the world are the kids going to do this summer?....how can I keep them busy?....how many activities can I fit into each day? I have enrolled them in a morning summer school program so that I can attend to my position at the church, but after 12 o'clock noon I have nothing for them to do.

What a blessing!

I was sitting on the side of the pool watching them swim yesterday thinking, "isn't there something else I should be doing?". I realized that this is exactly what I should be doing, enjoying my kids being kids and having some time in the summer to just do nothing. My childhood summer days were filled with hours of swimming, dressing barbies and braiding their hair, building forts and endless bike rides. Why do we feel that we have to constantly stimulate our children with planned activities? They, and we, need time for imagination and boredome and relaxation.

This will be my summer of renewal!

stories

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Thu, 29 May 2008 19:57:00 +0000

That's mostly what I came to Missouri for -- my father's stories. He just turned 96. This man can remember an amazing amount of information about his life and the community he has lived in all this time. He talks non-stop in a rambling way, moving between generations and subjects.

Yesterday we spent about two hours together, digital recorder running so that I can capture his voice. My job was to ask prompting questions, and then listen. His was to talk. At about noon I suggested that we take a break until after dinner (lunch is dinner on the farm). He said, "Well... no, you want to talk some more?" which really meant, 'you want to listen some more?' With that he lay back down on his day bed and waited for me to ask the next question.

His stories come to life in the telling, and so does he. Another resurrection.

Homecoming

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Tue, 27 May 2008 00:15:00 +0000

There's a tradition in the little country church where I grew up. Every Memorial Day weekend former members and pastors are invited to bring their families back to McCroskie Creek Baptist Church for a reunion. The day includes the usual Sunday school and morning worship followed by a huge carry-in dinner and an afternoon service that begins with a memorial to the members of the church who are now deceased, with special recognition for those who have served in the United States military. This year Shirley (about 10 years my junior) led the memorial. She broadened the time of remembering to include living heroes in the church as well, naming their service in the church as having changed the lives of all of us who grew up in the congregation. She said this was a place full of people who always accepted us and welcomed us back no matter how badly we messed up.

Cora Lou said something similar before singing her solo during the worship service. She is more than a decade my senior. She said that this little church not only shaped and grounded her -- it is because of this church that her children, the next generation, who grew up far away, became the people they are. McCroskie Creek created a foundation for people generations removed.

Dixie said that the love and support that this congregation gives to her mother, Marg, who struggles with the effects of cancer and Alzheimers is what sustains her. Even on the days that Marg seems not to recognize her daughter as she thanks her for coming by, she remembers and talks about the church.

My great-neice Lily was baptized yesterday. Tommy (in his mid-70s) remembers when he baby-sat me! Susie tells me she is now retired, substitute teaching sometimes and tending her consignment booth at an antique store. Pat and Holly, whose band included guitar, mandolin, banjo, bass and great vocal harmony, were amazed to see my grown daughters and their children (they led music for church camp when my kids were young).

I spent the day in a dizzying time warp, a baby when I became part of that church, a grandmother when I returned. A welcoming community... that's what a church at its best can be... a spiritual home.

Day one of the journey...

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Sun, 18 May 2008 22:59:00 +0000

My bags are packed, food and drinks prepared so I won't have to stop except when the car gets hungry. It's going to be fun logging the mpg this little hybrid gets on her way to and from Missouri. I'll get a few hours of sleep this evening, and then in the wee hours of the morning I'll be heading out across the country.

I hope to find some time for just-for-fun reading in the next few weeks. To that end, I'm taking along a couple of books by Diana Gabaldon, a Phoenix author -- great adventure, mythical, a little racey. I am NOT taking along any lectionary resources... just a Bible. I also tucked in a copy of Homer's "The Odyssey." Not exactly light reading, but I thought it might be an appropriate book for a trip such as this -- an exploration without a tight schedule, a meandering kind of journey.

A few years ago when Jim Sterling was serving on the committee that helped plan my ordination service, he gifted me with the following reflection called "The Journey." In Greek mythology, the island of Ithaca is a symbol of ultimate destination, toward which Odysseus makes his way through complicated and perilous adventure.

"When you set out for Ithaka
ask that your way be long,
full of adventure, full of instruction
.............
ports seen for the first time...
.............
to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.
Have Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But do not in the least hurry the journey.
Better that it should last for years,
so that when you reach the island you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.
Ithaka gave you the splendid journey.
Without her you would not have set out...

Be sure to write to us here at the blog when you set out for your Ithaca, and let us all know where the journey takes you.

See you in August.

Hiking Mt. Whitney

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Thu, 15 May 2008 15:07:00 +0000

As Linda mentioned..I will be backpacking to the top of Mt. Whitney, located in Lone Pine, CA on June 6-8, 2008; It is the highest peak in the lower 48 states...topping out at 14,497. I will be tackling this adventure with a friend of mine-Melissa. She and I will be going on a guided tour with Sierra Mountaineering International-I believe including the guides there will be 8 of us. I have day hiked around AZ and NM--but never anything quite like this...we'll be carrying 20-40lbs on our back, we will be using crampons and ice axe (for the snowy conditions)..we will be wearing harnesses, ropes, etc as we make our final ascent to the top via the Mountaineers Route. Their are many ways to get to the top--this just happens to be one of the more "difficult" routes...We've been training for the last couple of months now--and feel very much prepared for what lies ahead..Day one we hike to UpperBoy scout lake (11,000)-and put up camp...Day 2 we "chute" the summit and then back down to camp for the night...Day 3-we pack up camp and head back to Whitney portal (8,000) in time for a nice lunch or dinner I suspect...it will be amazing--and my prayer is a safe and exciting trip-to the top...and then of course safe travels back "home"...Your thoughts and prayers would be much appreciated!!!!

Wherever you go, there you are!

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Thu, 15 May 2008 14:40:00 +0000

God, you have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God. --Psalm 90:1-2

This is the day our sabbatical officially begins. I say "our" because we have all been commissioned to lay down some of our busy-ness this summer and learn to rest... be renewed.

For me, this first day is a transitional day -- still a few tasks to finish before I can leave. So it's a busy day; not yet a restful day. Someone asked me yesterday if I'm excited yet. I've been excited for a while. Right now I'm just a little anxious, and expect that will dissipate when I've tied up these loose ends, packed the car and headed out.

It's too full a day to think creatively. So for today I'll post an excerpt from one of my favorite worship resources, a three-volume series called Imaging the Word from United Church Press in Cleveland, OH. This is from Volume 3, p. 54. There is a quote from Douglas Meeks ("Love and the Hope for a Just Society," in Burnham, McCoy, and Meeks, Love: The Foundation in the Theology of Jurgen Moltmann and Elizabeth Moltmann-Wendel, San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988, 44, 45.)

"We have all had at least fleetingly, an experience of home. Home is where no one ever forgets your name. Home is where no matter what you have done, you will be confronted, forgiven,and accepted. Home is where there is always a place for you at the table.... The heart of justice is participation in God's economy or God's household."

Some of us have more of a longing for home than a memory of home. Some of us have heard of it, read what others had to say about it, but haven't yet found the place where there is such grace that regardless of what we've done, we will be "forgiven and accepted." Maybe the "confronted" part was all you ever got. So if you're still looking for home today, I'm thinking of you especially. I'm praying that you'll find a place that feels like home.

So glad you dropped in!

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Wed, 14 May 2008 11:45:00 +0000

Hi, Andi & Amy! What fun to read your posts! Keep it up. Can't wait to read about everyone's adventures this summer!

Andi, the Rocky Point sun shows on your face! What a great adventure on the beach. Congratulations!

Amy, the description you sent me of your upcoming backpacking trip is amazing. You really must post a report when you're back -- in fact, tell the story now! You must be very excited to have your sister moving here -- to be close to those babies! Love to you & Trish -- I miss you -- see you in the fall!

L

New to this...

noreply@blogger.com (Amy) — Wed, 14 May 2008 00:17:00 +0000

I've just been invited to this blog--and have never been blogging before..so here goes. Andi-your trip to rocky point sounds wonderful--a girl after my own heart--the beach, a triathalon, and bonding with the girls--how awesome is that..! Being born and raised in KC myself, I can relate to alot of the stories of Linda...I think the dinner "table" is a very special place--it always was for our family as well..As far as "going home....coming home"...as you all know-Trish and I haven't been to church in well over a year now. We think of Chalice often...we drive by your home daily...we feel a connection to the congregation..we love you all...and I know that we consider Chalice our "home"..(that we don't visit very often...:) However, my sister and her family are moving here at the end of the month..I know that they will be looking for a church family...and I am certainly going to recommend Chalice...and of course--being the good aunt(s) we are, we too would join them...so--I guess in a sense, we'll be coming home as well....

I'm refreshed!

noreply@blogger.com (Linda) — Tue, 13 May 2008 18:07:00 +0000

So I didn't exactly go home, but I did get refreshed! Tara and I and 3 other girls (because of course we aren't old enough to be called women!) traveled to Rocky Point Mexico for a girls getaway. The getaway included a triathlon, a wonderful condo in front of the pool and lots of quality bonding time on the beach. We returned to our families with renewed energy and slightly sunburned cheeks. It was such a wonderful trip we are hoping to make it an annual event!

Andi

Going Home… to a Place of Hospitality

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Sat, 10 May 2008 18:23:00 +0000

Luke 10:38-42
Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, ‘Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.’ But the Lord answered her, ‘Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.’

There is a table with three leaves that sits in the kitchen at my parent’s home. Most of the time the three leaves live in the hall closet, but when company comes, we bring them out and the table expands to welcome relatives and friends. At Thanksgiving it was always hard to guess who would be sitting around that table. Everyone in the community who didn’t have somewhere else to be was invited. Former pastors still drop by unannounced and Mother just adds another plate to the table so they can share the meal. There is magic about this table. At this table four hot vegetables, a big bowl of potatoes, two plates of meat, four salads, a bowl of pickled beets, a cake and two pies can disappear in no time.

This is the same table where informal family meetings happen daily to discuss the farming that needs to be done, the cattle to be moved to another pasture, the cost of seed corn and fertilizer, and whether to contract this summer to sell the beans at a better price. This is the table where I answered to questions about my grade card and reported on whether my chores were done. It is the place where my father wrote in his journal, leaving an account of life on the farm.

At home I learned how important a table can be. The table in my parents’ kitchen where we are nourished is also the table that orders our life… reminds me of communion at church. It is a blessed place. This is a table that is always open. This is a table that says “welcome home.”

Going Home… Where Fireflies Light the Summer Nights

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Fri, 09 May 2008 13:32:00 +0000

Summer nights. All the farm machinery idle, tractors and trucks in the shed. Silence filtering in with nothing to anchor it but a soft breeze. Interrupted now and then by locusts… the sound of crickets. Now the neighbor’s dog barking, distant, probably at a raccoon stealing sweet corn.

The time before we had an indoor bathroom… a galvanized metal tub sitting in the yard. Laughter. My brother Norman’s laughter, when he scooped up a double handful of bathwater from the tub and aimed it at me… at me! fresh and clean and newly dried, in my underpants and shirt. Laughter, Norman’s laughter as he ran around the yard with all his strength to get away from me. Scrawny kid! I loved him with a love so big it made me run faster.

Cool evening air, brushing past my arms and face, making the tiny hairs on my skin stand up straight. Evening air sweet with the smell of growing things and rich black earth, velvety grass. Velvety grass between my toes. Night wrapping us in its soft black veil, interrupted only by stars and the fireflies. There’s nothing like an evening of chasing “lightning bugs.” Magical insects with their yellow-green lights flying away before we could catch them, flirting with us… and then we would catch them… and pinch off their backsides while the light still glowed, and the sticky stuff from inside them made the glowing part cling to my finger like a diamond ring.

I’m going home.

Going Home... to An Inhabited Town

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Thu, 08 May 2008 15:19:00 +0000

Psalm 107
O give thanks to God who is good, and whose steadfast love endures forever. Let those redeemed from trouble say so, whom God gathered in from the lands, from the east and from the west, from the north and from the south. Some wandered in desert wastes, finding no way to an inhabited town; hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted within them. Then they cried out in their trouble and God delivered them from their distress, leading them by a straight way, until they reached an inhabited town. Let them thank God for such steadfast love and wonderful works to humankind. For God satisfies the thirsty and fills the hungry with good things.

I grew up in a farming community in Missouri, about 70 miles east of Kansas City. Tucked away there between the green rolling hills is a little town called Norborne. In those days the population was 1000. There I finished elementary school, junior high and high school. That’s where I learned to play clarinet and held first chair, sang in the choir, played and sang in small ensembles and solos for contests, produced copy and layout for yearbooks, cheered at football games, debated both pro and con on national topics, learned to conjugate Latin (amare, amo, amas, amat – I love!), played bass drum in marching band (what was that about?) had the lead role in a couple of plays, and almost beat Ronnie Lyon in a race for student body president. He never let me forget it!

The Psalmist talks about people wandering in wastelands, finding no way to an inhabited town. This summer, very soon, I’ll load up my little Prius and drive the long road home to an inhabited town. The town has changed. The drug store is closed where we used to walk after school for an order of fries and a drink from the soda fountain. Vanilla phosphate was my preference. Norborne may be smaller, and many of the people I knew are no longer there, but there are memories sleeping in the doorways and on the corner lot where the bandstand used to be, where we played on summer nights for the shoppers who had come to town. I plan to wake up some of those memories and shake the dust off them.

The Psalmist says, ‘hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted within them.’ Every year there was a fair in Norborne where the best produce from everyone’s garden was carted carefully to be put up beside the neighbor’s produce and judged. The best got blue ribbons. The best of the best got Best of Show. Hardly anyone in that little town went hungry. There was plenty to go around and hearts generous enough to share.

When I think of the tastes of home, I always think of peanut rolls. I’ve never eaten a peanut roll anywhere else that I’ve lived or traveled – as far as I know they are native to Norborne. My mother-in-law, Edith, made some of the best. Pep Club sold them at football games as a fundraiser. I’ll have to make you some sometime. Very soon I'm going back to a little hometown that's inhabited by good cooks and remarkable memories.

Going Home... to Where I Caught Faith

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Sun, 04 May 2008 20:57:00 +0000

2 Timothy 1:3-7
I am grateful to God – whom I worship with a clear conscience, as my ancestors did – when I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. Recalling your tears, I long to see you so that I may be filled with joy. I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you. For this reason I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands; for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.

Before coming to Arizona 12 years ago I was actively involved at North Oak Christian Church in Kansas City. It was a great congregation, about the size of Chalice, with a building a lot like this one. They just finished remodeling and I can’t wait to see it. North Oak will be one of the churches I visit on sabbatical. For the 14 years that my daughters and I were members there the pastor was Rick Butler, one of the best preachers I ever heard. As I was fretting one day about program planning for the church he shared one of his bits of wisdom: “Faith is better caught than taught.” That, by the way, is why your congregation needs you to be in church every Sunday & involved in small group ministries – because if you’re not around, how can our young people catch your faith? We first have to be exposed - sort of like the way you catch measles - you have to be exposed.

Were you exposed to faith as a child? I sure was. My parents were right in the middle of everything at our little country church, McCroskie Creek Baptist Church. Every Sunday morning we were there for Sunday school and worship, and on Sunday nights we went back for Training Union and evening worship. On Wednesday nights we were there for prayer meeting. Scattered through the weekdays were Deacons’ meetings for Daddy and Women’s Missionary Union meetings for Mother. When I was old enough there were Girl’s Auxiliary meetings for me. My brother and I were exposed to faith – sometimes we thought we were a little overexposed!

But it wasn’t just from our little church that we caught faith. Like Paul remembers in his greeting to Timothy above, I inherited the faith from my mother Rachel and my grandmother Lura and her mother Molly before her, and even the generations I never knew. (Not to omit my father, Stanley, who comes from another line of the faithful.) When I go home this summer it will be like crawling back into a cradle of faith where I was rocked as a child. I didn’t much care for the strictness of it, but to this day I cherish its constancy and its centrality to who we are as family.

"We just wanna go home."

noreply@blogger.com (Lin) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 21:50:00 +0000

The trip to New Orleans was great! It was exciting to help rebuild, and great to make new friends -- but the real treasure was getting to hear people's stories. One phrase could be heard in every one of them: "We just wanted to go home." June said that when the call came saying they'd better get out, she and her husband left for her sister's home in Texas. Her husband passed away while they were there. As soon as she could, she returned home. I asked her what it was like coming home. "Everything was grey!" she said. "The trees were grey, the grass was grey, the houses were grey -- everything was grey!"

Tony's house sits on Abundance Street. It had eight feet of water inside it at one time. As soon as the water resided, but before the barricades had been taken down, he came home to open up his windows so things could dry out. He has stripped the woodwork down to its natural cypress beauty and will put it back when the walls are repaired. He showed us photos of the neighborhood when it was under water. Many of the people in his neighborhood are elderly. Some of them didn't make it through the storm. Hearts that were weak grew weaker. Depression is commonplace.

One young woman talked to us from her front porch. She told us about her whole extended family leaving New Orleans together. They rented a block of hotel rooms for as long as they could afford it while they waited to be able to come home. Finally they brought her father back, and he was able to be home for a year before he died. "At least he died at home," she said.

I couldn't help thinking of Psalm 137: "By the rivers of Babylon (or Cincinnatti or Houston or Phoenix, or any of the other cities to which these Gulf Coast natives were exiled) -- there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion (New Orleans). On the willows there we hung up our harps. For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, 'Sing us one of the songs of Zion!' ('Play us some New Orleans jazz!') How could we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land?" We just want to go home.