i do.

“My friends and I don’t belong to each other by blood, by marriage, by law, by ceremony.
We owe each other nothing. Yet we DO take care of each other in sickness and in health.
Till death do we part, apparently. Because we just love each other. We just DO.”
-Elizabeth Gilbert

These words, from Elizabeth Gilbert, have been sitting with me for a full week. They’ve been rattling around in my bones, showing up behind my eyelids as I drift off to sleep. She posted an update on her Facebook page, which I didn’t even know I followed until it popped up on a recent scroll, though I’m guessing I liked it during the “Eat Pray Love” times, or when my own interpretations of that novel led me to make some major life changes (well, as many “major” life changes as a 21-year-old college student at a liberal arts college in Minnesota can make). She had surgery recently and posted an ode to her friends as they helped her come back to health. It is an ode to the voluntary love they share, the unspoken vows they have with another, to care for and be present with and to love, always. If you want to read the full passage, it’s here.

I’ve got a pretty weird and random faith in the divine; I don’t believe that God makes things happen or not happen for us, and don’t you dare console me about a breakup or a diagnosis or any shitty thing (or any good thing, for that matter) with the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.” And yet! I still believe that words -- books or poems or posts by Elizabeth Gilbert, for example -- come to us when we most need to hear them. That words show up in the display section of the library, or as a gift in the mail, or on our Facebook scrolls for a divine reason. This post and these words struck a particular chord with me (see: bone-rattling and eyelid-movie-screening mentioned above). I needed these words this week, and there they were.

If you’ve been around my Instagram this past year, you may have seen that in the course of a few months in 2019, I became an ordained minister and officiated not one but two! weddings of some of my dearest friends. It was the greatest honor of my life to stand with them, to speak to them, as they made hopeful, deliberate promises to one another and the life they share together. I rehearsed the ceremony in front of my mom for each wedding, getting all of my ugly tears and snot out in her living room instead of in front of Owen and Marilee and Ben and Natalie and their closest friends and family. I believe in their love -- and their love has given me further belief in marriage, partnership, and love in general.

And, if you’ve been around my Instagram this past year, you may have also noticed that there are lots of pictures of me. Just me! I am single, without a partner, though I’ve gone on dates (one day I’ll write a post about the hilarious blind date I went on where a man tried to convince me that the Earth is, in fact, a snowglobe) and actually dated (like boyfriend-girlfriend-level dated) someone this year. But, I’m not near the kind of romantic love that leads to a decision to enter into a lifelong partnership involving the government and a marriage license, or a party involving dancing and free wine. 2019 has been a year full of marriage for me -- writing sermons about love, choosing poems to read that represent that love, crafting vows to carry that love beyond a ceremony and into life -- but it hasn’t led me closer to my own kind of partnership. My family has not-so-jokingly mentioned that they’re going to create a Bachelor audition video for me titled “Always The Officiant, Never the Bride.” (At this point, who knows! Hey, Chris Harrison...?!)

I write about that -- the gentle irony of a human who’s been single for most of her 20s ushering people into marriage -- not to gain sympathy or to have you set me up with your boyfriend’s cousin’s older brother (though online dating is a bit of a drag so maybe I will take that blind date), or even for the unsolicited “You Do You, Girl!” encouragement so often bestowed upon 28-year-old single gals. I write about that because one does not need to be married, or even close to it, to understand the concept and philosophy of marriage, of love, to have the capacity to hold two souls in your heart as they make promises to each other and to those in their circle, to wholeheartedly rejoice with them as they say, “I do.” And I write about this because this year has caused me, like Elizabeth Gilbert’s surgery caused her, to think about all of the other marriage-like relationships I have in my life, particularly those with dear friends.

My friends and I haven’t stood up in front of our loved ones and make vows to one another, though a strong argument could be made that vows are embedded throughout our friendship -- in every action we do, in every word we say to one another. They’re in the Instagram posts I write, the karaoke duets I sing, the weekly phone calls, the cards sent just because, the Venmos sent for coffee on Friday mornings, the gifts outside of birthdays. They’re in the promise to show up when shit gets hard and messy and sometimes a little weird, and the follow-through of that promise.

The vows are in the listening to understand even when the idea or thought being shared is a little bonkers, in the holding space for one another as we get to that realization on our own, in the calling each other out on our unhealthy enneagram-type bullshit when necessary. They’re in sharing a bed when we stay at each other’s homes, even though there’s a guest room or a couch and we are in our late 20s, so we can fall asleep debriefing the night’s wild adventures or giggling over the song we sang in our 8th-grade choir. The promises are in the crying and laughing and praying and dancing and hugging, in the FaceTimes and cross-country flights and the postal service’s delivery of word after word of gratitude, strength, inside jokes, love. 

The vows are this Elizabeth Gilbert post, sent and shared with a little heart emoji. The vows are lived, every day. And these friendship vows are just as valid as romantic love vows, even without rings or a priest or a DJ to mark them.  

At both weddings I officiated, I tried to say something like this. How these couples were gathered on one particular day to make these vows, but that this ceremony -- these words they were about to speak -- were just the start of this love-filled life together, of promises to show up and love and be there for each other, through the best and worst of it. That the not-so-glamorous, everyday living that came after this Big Exciting Day, was what mattered. “I do” is a verb. 

And that’s true for any kind of relationship. Vows be damned, words written in cards or typed out on Instagram or spoken over coffee or wine be damned, too, if they’re not put into action. Words matter, but what matters more is how we make those words come alive, take on meaning with our partners and friends and chosen loves of all sorts. 

Just like I believe something divine planted these words in front of me, I also believe in some kind of magical divine that has connected me to my dearest loves. I hope that, one day, I’ll have a ceremony with a partner where I can write my own vows and ugly cry in front of a bunch of people and dance my ass off and -- above all else -- promise to love and try, and to keep trying even when those vows are broken and get a little beat up over the years.

And though I probably won’t throw a ceremony for me and each of my friends to celebrate our chosen unions (though that sounds like an amazing use of my time and expendable income), let this little blog post be a reminder to all of us -- single, married, coupled, humans in love and searching for love, humans who have given up on love -- that other kinds of love abound, if we choose to see it. That our lives and every relationship we have can be our own ceremonies, our own vows. 

That each day can be a reminder to everyone in our circles: “I do.”

lenten prayers.

Let us offer our prayers to God, the source of life, bringing us closer to the dawn and hope of new life:

Lead us,
Listen to our hearts,
Walk beside our hungry souls
As we carry our darkness to the dawn.

Holy One,
You find us in our moments of weakness or anger or ‘not enough-ness,’
You search for the world’s pain and suffering and injustice,
And you meet us there.
You hold the throbbing of this sacred Earth’s heartbreak,
You hold our blessed world’s struggles,
You hold our own physical, emotional, and spiritual aches and pains.
Fill our bellies and souls,
Our hands and our hearts,
With hope and light and wholeness.
Be with us as we wait. Lead us to Your light.

Lead us,
Listen to our hearts,
Walk beside our hungry souls
As we carry our darkness to the dawn.

God of Comfort,
Though the journey is long, and the road is dusty, and our feet are tired, we do not walk alone.
We bear the weights of unaffordable housing, and food insecurity, and unlivable wages,
But we do so in the arms of our neighbors, our community, and You.
We bear the hard work of building a society, planet, and world in Your name,
But we do so with our neighbors, our community, and You.
Lead us through the dust,
Carry us through the night,
And stay with us as we walk this journey toward love.
Be with us as we wait. Lead us to Your light.

Lead us,
Listen to our hearts,
Walk beside our hungry souls
As we carry our darkness to the dawn.

Divine Light,
Though there may be darkness,
Remind us that we are not alone.
We are never alone in the darkness of the world, our cities, or our lives.
Stay with us as we experience isolation, loneliness, and hunger.
Stay with us as we hunger for warmth, connection, and community.
Stay with us as we hunger for justice, peace, and your Kingdom,
Here and now, in our midst.
Be with us as we wait. Lead us to Your light.

Lead us,
Listen to our hearts,
Walk beside our hungry souls
As we carry our darkness to the dawn.

Amen.

*These prayers were written for Salt & Light Lutheran Church's Lenten liturgy this year.

our father & our earth.

Genesis 2: 4-7

“In the day that the Lord God made the earth and the heavens,
when no plant of the field was yet in the earth
and no herb of the field had yet sprung up—
for the Lord God had not caused it to rain upon the earth,
and there was no one to till the ground;
but a stream would rise from the earth,
and water the whole face of the ground—
then the Lord God formed man from the dust of the ground,
and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life;
and the man became a living being.”

Matthew 6: 9-13
“Pray then in this way:
Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name.
Your kingdom come.
Your will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts,
as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And do not bring us to the time of trial,
but rescue us from the evil one.”

In case you’ve been hiding under a rock (or from any form of news, social media, or conversation with other folks) this week: the Pope is in town.

Or, rather, Pope Francis has spent the past week visiting the United States. His visit has been widely publicized and talked about. People are stirring and moving, have been stirred and moved, and will continue to stir and to be moved over Pope Francis’ words and calls to action for us. About economics and politics and war and — especially and — the environment. About these things and more, that affect — so deeply — our communities, our homes, and our land. These things that affect our earth and our relationship to it.

In his address to Congress, Pope Francis said:

“We need a conversation which includes everyone, since the environmental challenge we are undergoing, and its human roots, concern and affect us all.”

And I couldn’t help but think of the Pope’s words — many more than just these — that are connected to what’s been stirring in our own community. We are now in the midst of our Green Season: sharing our housing and land stories, reading the Pope’s encyclical on care for our common home before worship, immersing ourselves in this new liturgical season. We are diving into conversation about things that affect — so deeply — our communities, our homes, our land. Our earth. And our relationship to our earth.

And we all have one. A relationship to our earth. Pastor Melissa has been saying every Sunday — “If you live in Portland, you have a housing story.” And, in some ways, we can expand that statement to fully capture Pope Francis’ message about the environment: 

“If you live here — on this land, on this earth, on this planet — you have a land story. And a land story is an earth story. And an earth story is, at its core, an environment story. And that affects us all.”

So what are these stories? When I first read Pope Francis’ words, I thought of my own land story, which is, by default, my family’s land story. And with that land story is a caretaking story.

My grandparents have lived on the same land since my mother was a small child, settling next to my great-grandparents’ home, the same place where my grandmother grew up. Each side of their home is surrounded by fields for miles: fields of corn, wheat, and soybeans. My great-grandparents farmed that land, and my mom would spend her summers throughout high school on the tractor, prepping the dirt and the earth for new life, or next to my grandfather on the combine, reaping and threshing and winnowing the crops. 

I have memories of playing in grain bins, riding in my grandfather’s pick-up truck to visit the fields, waving at the neighbors — other farmers — as they kicked up gravel on their drives to the fields. While my grandparents don’t farm anymore, they are still deeply connected to their land. To the West of their house, my grandmother has the biggest and most bountiful flower garden you have ever seen. To the East, my grandfather spends hours each summer in the vegetable garden. He grows and cares — so carefully cares — for corn and squash and potatoes and a whole lot more.

My family has roots in this land — messy, muddy, dirt-under-the-fingernails, hundred-plus-year-old roots. They care for this land like they have cared for me, for each other, for all of our loved ones: with tenderness, persistence, and patience. 

And this care for the land — this tenderness, persistence, and patience — is what God calls us into. God accompanies us in our care for our earth. In our care for our land, our homes, and our communities.

When Jesus begins speaking in today’s Gospel — our Father in heaven — the use of the word “Father” isn’t necessarily intended to be exclusive language, only geared toward the “traditional father figure” of the house, leaving out anyone who wasn’t male. Although, trust me, when I saw today’s Gospel text, I have to admit, I got a little internally feisty. I — raised by a single mother — was supposed to focus exclusively on this phrase that seemed so rooted in historical patriarchy?

“Our Father in heaven.” 
“Our Father, who art in heaven.” 
“Abba God in heaven.”

But, after spending some time with other biblical scholars, particularly John Dominic Crossen and his book The Greatest Prayer, I put some of that feistiness aside and learned more about how “Father” is actually a way to talk about God as a caretaker. According to Crossen, “Father” often referred not only to “Father and Mother,” but can be read as even more inclusive: the “householder,” or the one who cares for an entire home and entire family. So, maybe it's like my grandfather, who has been a caretaker for his land and his extended family. Or maybe it’s like my mother, who has been the head of my house, playing both Father and Mother. “Our Father” becomes the one who cares for and loves a home and its people: with tenderness, persistence, and patience.

That made my feminist-self feel a little bit better. Because praying “Our Father in heaven,” then, can be seen as a way to pray to God who is our caretaker; to pray to God who is the “head of house” for our entire world. Who cares for it, and for us, and our land: with tenderness, persistence, and patience.

And who calls us to do the same.

We are invited to be caretakers — for our own, immediate households, yes: for those who share our beds and dinner tables and four-walled structures. But we are also invited into an expansive definition of who is in our care, who is our neighbor, who is our family, who — and what — God calls us to care for. This care includes our surroundings: the plant and animal and insect life that breathes all around us, the food that nourishes us, and the land and Earth that provides for all of that.

God invites us to care for who and what God has created and birthed from this universe: our earth, our land, our people. God formed us, shaped us, breathed life into us for this purpose. We read in Genesis:

“Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.”

The same reading makes note that there was no one to till the ground before this. God breathed life into that living being — and continues to breathe life into us — to be the caretakers and householders. To love and care for this land as God does. 

But we cannot care for our earth in isolation. Jesus does not invite us to pray The Lord’s Prayer each day:

“My Father in heaven.” 
“My Father, who art in heaven.” 
“My Abba God in heaven.”

Even when we pray this prayer in solitude, standing in our darkened kitchens or lying in our warm beds or walking on the earth outside — when we pray for climate justice and housing justice and distributive justice for all on this earth — we are reminded that we are not called to act in solitude. Jesus calls us into our: 

“Our Father in heaven.” 
“Our Father, who art in heaven.” 
“Abba God in heaven.”

Jesus calls us out of isolation and into community, called to come together to care for our earth: its shrubs and plants, ground and dust, all of its living beings. Each other.

Pope Francis said:

“We need a conversation which includes everyone, since the environmental challenge we are undergoing, and its human roots, concern and affect us all.”

We know this, though. We have known this. Our Leaven Community is rooted in this: opening up conversations and coming together to care for each other and our shared land. God empowers us to be caretakers and householders — filled with tenderness, persistence, and patience — together.

And so, together, we pray and continue these land conversations this season — which includes everyone, since everyone has a land, an earth, and an environment story. We pray, continue the conversation, and act — for justice for all and for our earth.

there will be a light.

1 In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, 2 the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. 3 Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. 4 And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. 5 God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.
Genesis 1: 1-5

4 John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. 5 And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. 6 Now John was clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. 7 He proclaimed, “The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. 8 I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”

9 In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. 10 And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. 11 And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
Mark 1: 4-11

I’ve never spent much time in darkness.

Growing up, a night light constantly burned in the corner of my room. It was hidden between a dresser and an end table, the smallest sliver of space that let out the same-sized sliver of light. It wasn’t bright enough for me to read in bed, but it was enough to assure me that there weren’t monsters or ghosts or bad guys in my room with me. That light, even the smallest sliver of it, brought comfort and security.

Even for most of my adult life, I’ve been pretty good at avoiding the dark. The world we live in makes it easy to do so. I rarely rise out of bed in the mornings when the quiet darkness still hovers over the streets and buildings and all of life. I am frequently out in this city at night, doing errands or meeting friends, but the headlights and streetlights and porch lights take away encounters with real darkness. And, while I don’t have a night light in my room anymore, my phone screen or its flashlight feature or my headlamp stay awake with me until I close my eyes. Those lights, even the smallest slivers of them, are deeply entwined in my routine, bringing comfort and security.

But there is another darkness—a deeper, harsher, grief-laden darkness—that’s more than what happens when you flip off a light switch or walk outside in the middle of nowhere, away from person-made light. This darkness is harder to avoid. It is darkness that exists in broad daylight. Darkness that sneaks up on us, or, rather, slowly grows, right in front of us, right in the light, right when we believe that darkness can’t or won’t catch up with us. Darkness that pierces us.

Not even a week into this new year—a time that signals renewal and newness and light for so many people—and darkness continued to pierce me, to pierce us, in our chests and our hearts.

On January 7th, a bomb was detonated outside of an NAACP office in Colorado.
On January 7th, guns went off inside the offices of an alternative newspaper in Paris.
On January 7th, a beloved member of this community, Anthony Gilmore, left our presence.

One day. One 24-hour cycle. Day and Night. A day that doesn’t even account for the darkness that occurred on January 6th or January 8th, or the darkness that occurred before I started writing or that’s occurring while I’m writing or what will occur when I stop writing.

This darkness fills God’s world, God’s community, God’s heart. 
This darkness fills our world, our community, our hearts.
We ask, “Where is God in this? Where are the promises of Jesus? Where is our light?”

“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind of God swept over the face of the waters.”

This darkness, this Deep and Dark with capital D’s, was all that there was. This is where our story begins. In a formless void. In the deep, dark waters of the earth—that were perhaps desolate, perhaps chaotic, perhaps wild. And so that was where God was—in those places. 

From the beginning, God has held the darkness. 
God still meets us in our darkness.

And then, in today’s Gospel, we meet Jesus. 

“In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.” 

But before Jesus could come up out of the water, before he heard a voice from heaven, before the Spirit descended, he had to go down. I envision Jesus going deep into the Jordan—the “close-your-eyes, take-a-deep-breath-and-plug-your-nose-before-you-go-down” deep. Jesus was submerged in the waters—waters that were deep and dark—before he came back up and saw the light, heard the voice, felt the spirit. 

God met Jesus in that darkness.
God still meets us in our darkness.

Just as God held the earth in its darkness, just as John the Baptist held Jesus in the waters, God holds us in love. God holds us—holds on tight—during the darkest nights. And darkest days. And darkest moments. God sits with us, breathes with us—breathes into us and, sometimes, if we need it, for us—and stays with us through the darkness. God is with us in evening, and in morning. God is with us in mourning. God was with us on January 7th, and the 6th and the 8th, and right now.

God stays with us, but that does not mean we stay in darkness forever. Because of God’s presence, we can go somewhere new. “Somewhere new” might not always be out of the darkness, maybe not right away. But to a new place where we can begin to glimpse the light. Where we can see that tiny sliver of a night light, piercing through to remind us that there will be a light.

God said, “Let there be light!” not, “Let there only be light!”—the darkness stayed. The darkness had, and still has, a place in our lives. It has a place in our days, as we go through each cycle of sunrise and sunset, although now we spend less time in darkness as our days get longer. It still has a place in our hearts, as we grieve the death of Anthony Gilmore, although we take comfort in knowing he is Home.

Living in the darkness sometimes, learning to walk in it, might not get easier. I don’t know for sure; I’m just learning about what darkness looks and feels like myself. But I know that leaning into the truth that God meets us there, and stays with us, and holds us, allows me to look at dark nights a little differently. I still seek the night light, the comfort and security of God’s love, but I also feel like I can “close-my-eyes, take-a-deep-breath-and-plug-my-nose-before-I-go-down” into darkness, knowing God rests there too.

But Just as God called forth light — “Let there be light!” — from the darkness; just as God called forth love — “You are my Son, the Beloved!” — to Jesus; God calls us into light, love, and life each day. God promises to stay with us through all of it, so we may live.

God promises that there will be a light.
So, let there be light.

---

The title of this sermony thing was inspired by Ben Harper's song There Will Be a Light. Salt & Light Lutheran Church, which is part of the larger Leaven community, frequently sings its refrain during worship as we remember that God is light, and there will be light.

gratitude is hard.

"But grace can be the experience of a second wind; when even though what you want is clarity and resolution, what you get is stamina and poignancy and the strength to hang on."
-Anne Lamott, Help Thanks Wow

"I will extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up, and did not let my foes rejoice over me.
O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me.
Sing praises to the Lord, O you his faithful ones, and give thanks to his holy name.
Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.
You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, so that my soul may praise you and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever."
-Excerpts of Psalm 30, NRSV

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It started when I gave up chocolate for Lent.

It was my sophomore year of college, and 19-year-old me didn't think that Jesus cared too much about my abstention from Snickers or cupcakes. But I liked the idea of doing something that marked the season of lament and silence. Of looking through the world, and my life, through a different lens. I wanted to do something that showed God's love, especially to those about whom I cared so deeply - friends, family, mentors, past connections. So, after a purchase of some cute notecards on sale from Target, I decided to add something to my Lenten practice: letters.

Letters of thanks.

For 40 days, I removed myself from the typical millennial method of communicating and physically scripted letters of gratitude to the people and world around me. Sometimes I’d write as soon as I woke up in the morning, excited to remind my grandmother just how much her constant reminders of love lifted me up. Sometimes I’d write before I went to sleep, the last thoughts of my day a written prayer to my 10th grade English teacher, who inspired and mentored me to read books that challenged my perspectives.

The first year was easy. My expressions of gratitude were nice and neat. I wrote to friends who loved me, teachers who supported me, family who believed in me. The next few years were a bit harder. Have you ever written a thank you letter to the sun? How do you tell the the Earth beneath your feet, “Thank you for being there"? Can I ever fully express my love and appreciation and utter amazement for the woman who raised me on her own, my mother?

But then, this year. I felt the lament and pain in the world in a much deeper way than I had before. I wondered and often doubted how I would express gratitude every single day. There seemed to be more things that I grappled with and debated being thankful for than what I actually was grateful for. So, I called on that.

I wrote to my absent father. I wrote to the Church that caused (and sometimes still causes) me confusion. I wrote to myself. Not letters of anger or blame or revenge. Letters of gratitude.

Gratitude isn’t always easy. It isn't always nice and neat. Sometimes, the only way to encounter gratitude is to cry out, "Help!" and accept God’s healing—in whatever way that shows up—and to try to be thankful for what appears. 

Gratitude is hard. It is messy. But it is there.

These letters forced me to call upon grace. The last thing I wanted to do was write, “Thank you, Dad, for giving me life. Thank you, Church, for opening a space of questioning and discovery. Thank you, me, for being.” But those were the prayers of gratitude I needed to speak and share. They were my reality; they were my life. Like it or not, I was able to find something in the muck that caused me to say, "Thanks." It might have been buried deep down under great lament, and it might have required a little imagination, but it was there.

I had found my second wind. 

God doesn’t always answer our desires to express gratitude in the way we want. Sometimes God uses our cries for help as opportunities for unexpected gratitude. To channel the stamina and poignancy and the strength to hang on. The weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes in the morning. God turns our mourning into dancing. Maybe not in the way we expect, but in a way that only God can.

O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever.