To Breathe More Deeply

The yellow tulip in the room’s warmth opens.
Can I say it, and not seem to taunt / all who live in torment? Believe it, yet
remain aware of the world’s anguish? / But it’s so: a caravan arrives constantly
out of desert dust, laden / with gift beyond gift, beyond reason.
Item: a yellow tulip / opens; at its center
a star of greenish indigo, / a subtle wash of ink
at the base of each of / six large petals.
The black stamens / are dotted with white.
At the core, the ovary, / applegreen fullness
tapering to proffer—sheltered / in the wide cup of primary
yellow—its triune stigma, clove / of green and gold.
That’s one, at nightfall of a day which brought
a dozen treasures, exotic surprises, landscapes,
music, words, acts of friendship, all of them wrapped
in mysterious silk, each unique.
How is it possible?
The yellow tulip in the room’s warmth opens.
    — “A Yellow Tulip” by Denise Levertov  

Even surrounded by tragedy and grief, there are reasons and abundant opportunities for gratitude. There will always be injustices to fight, people to surround with love and support, and spiritual and social issues to raise to greater consciousness. All of this is the important, long-term work of the church. But for the short-term—over the next three months—I invite us all to rest, renew, rejuvenate, restore.  
    
During this sabbatical time, you can be assured that I am going to take the time to rest. To release. To breathe more deeply. To integrate my learnings over the past several years. To invite in more gratitude. More amazement. More play. More walking and wondering and dreaming.  The labyrinth in many places will be my companion and teacher on this journey. Have I told you: I am really looking forward to this time! And I am grateful to you for allowing me this time of renewal and grace.
    
And I hope that you, also, will take this time to rest. Of course—even as we rest—none of us stop being the church. That is an important part of who we are. But even as we acknowledge our role as the church, we recognize that rest is an essential part of the spiritual journey. Rest enables us to respond faithfully in difficult situations. Rest enables us to slow down and source our lives from the incredible wonders of creation. We’ve been through a lot over the past few years. Rest can enable us to recuperate.

While I am away, be assured, you are in great pastoral hands. Marty Williams, Renae Earl, and LauraJean Torgerson will be present with you on Sunday mornings and will be available for your pastoral care concerns. They will also share their wonderful gifts with you in various ways over the next three months. Be on the lookout for announcements about ways to engage with them. I trust they will uplift and inspire you, comfort and guide you. I am exceedingly grateful for their willingness to serve our community of faith. I think they know—as I do—just how special this community is.
    
I will return from sabbatical on September 6. At that time, we will reflect together, continue to rest together, and envision how we want to live into the next stage of our ministry together. It will be wonderful to see where this sabbatical journey takes us. In the meantime, I welcome your prayers. And you can be assured that you are in mine.

See you in church,
Christy
 

A Fresh And Unexpected Resurrection

 Long, long, long ago; / Way before this winter’s snow
First fell upon these weathered fields; / I used to sit and watch and feel
And dream of how the spring would be, / When through the winter’s stormy sea
She’d raise her green and growing head, / Her warmth would resurrect the dead.
Long before this winter’s snow / I dreamt of this day’s sunny glow
And thought somehow my pain would pass / With winter’s pain, and peace like grass
Would simply grow.  (But) The pain’s not gone. / It’s still as cold and hard and long
As lonely pain has ever been, / It cuts so deep and fear within.
Long before this winter’s snow / I ran from pain, looked high and low
For some fast way to get around / Its hurt and cold.  I’d have found,
If I had looked at what was there, / That things don’t follow fast or fair.
That life goes on, and times do change, / And grass does grow despite life’s pains.
Long before this winter’s snow / I thought that this day’s sunny glow,
The smiling children and growing things / And flowers bright were brought by spring.
Now, I know the sun does shine, / That children smile, and from the dark, cold, grime
A flower comes.  It groans, yet sings, / And through its pain, its peace begins.
    — “Resurrection” by Mary Ann Bernard 

 

What a blessing it was to celebrate Easter with all of you—some on zoom—and many in person! It was a delight to be in your company! And it made me realize—once again and for the first time—just how amazing all the changes we’ve experienced over the past two years have been. We have changed as individuals, as a church, as communities, as a creation, and as a world. Truly, our very world-views have been challenged, tested, tried, and forever altered. The ways we relate to one another have transformed. The ways we “do” church will never be the same. And certainly, much of this change has been painful and difficult to accept. But there have also been hallowed signs of grace during this time. We have discovered new solutions, new possibilities, new technologies. Perhaps, the pain has allowed this new growth.  Perhaps, the difficulty and messiness of the past two years have made possible this fresh and unexpected resurrection—this new life that points us in creative directions, toward a new normal we might never have imagined otherwise.  
    
I know that I am hopeful. For too long, I felt stuck in the grief and stress of making it through these days. I was simply slogging through—trying (unsuccessfully) to grieve an ongoing, and seemingly never-ending, trauma. But now—like the poet says—“from the dark, cold grime / a flower comes. It groans, yet sings, / And through its pain, its peace begins.”  I am starting to feel this peace of possibility. I am starting to increase my capacity for self-compassion. I am starting to believe that sometimes it is really okay not to be okay. And I invite you try to do the same. We are not alone, after all. We are connected to a beautiful community of faith and an abundantly loving God who offers us new life at every turn. God is all around us. Resurrected. And incarnate. And offering us the blessings of a new (resurrected and incarnate) normal . . . right now, in this moment.


See you in church,
Christy