Learning grace

**First published on the Ministry and Motherhood blog on 3/9/16**

As a preacher, I often write the sermons I most need to hear.  But as a mom, I rarely practice what I preach.  My toughest "congregants" are my children, who have the misfortune of having two ordained ministers for parents.  I can joke about the stereotypes of PKs (preachers' kids) and their misbehavior, but I worry that story of the cobbler's children having no shoes might one day apply to us.  

Is it possible that two parents who have devoted their hearts and lives to following Christ may raise children who don't value religion?

In the evangelical church of my childhood, we held tightly to the King James Version promise of Proverbs 22:6-- "Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it."  But we are living in a time where church commitment is shifting.  More and more of the college students I serve, even those who profess an active faith, see no need in belonging to a church community or don't make it a priority to find one.  Others have left the church with scars or have been excluded for their sexual identity or beliefs.  As former church employees, my husband and I bear our own bruises and we have left broken churches feeling more broken ourselves.

As we find healing in a different church and tradition, I watch my kids to see how faith is taking root in their lives, how they are growing through worship.  How much do they understand about why we go to church?  How much do they remember about why we left?  Are they even listening?

One of this past Sunday's lectionary passages was on the prodigal son, and it happened to be a week I was scheduled to teach my son's Sunday School class.  The third through fifth graders had a great time acting out the story, particularly relishing the killing of the fatted calf.  They empathized with the older son's anger at the “unfair” treatment his brother received in being rewarded for his foolish behavior, and shared plenty of personal anecdotes of their own. 

Then we shifted to talking about grace.  In this story, the father is gracious to his wasteful son, accepting and loving him, mistakes and all.  He warmly welcomes him back home even though the son had left his father without a second thought. He shows unconditional love and forgiveness, celebrating his beloved child.

As a parent, I long to offer that grace to my children and to myself.  I don't want to hang on to the frustrations and disappointments of our daily battles.  I don't want to judge them for not being who I expect them to be and miss the goodness of who they truly are.  

Instead of measuring out things in terms of what is fair, I want to love them as God loves us, extravagantly and without measure.  I want to embrace them fully as they are, while also encouraging the potential I see in them.  

I was not in this graceful frame of mind when we returned home from church, however.  In my haste to get the kids in bed, I was frustrated and short with them.  My son was quick to reprimand me for not showing the grace I had just been teaching.  It was a powerful lesson that he had heard, but even more, he was learning through my actions.  Likewise, I learned from him and realized how often he shows me grace in my failures.  I see it in his trust that each day is a new beginning. 

“God’s mercies are new every morning.  Great is your faithfulness.”

Part of this journey of grace for me is trusting the work of God in their lives, seen and unseen.  It is having faith in God’s presence that is always with us, wherever we may roam.  Grace shows up in forgiving past hurts and starting each day with a new hope.  Grace is teaching through our words and actions, but ultimately trusting in the power of God’s truth and love to transform all our lives.

I know that it must begin with me.  I pray for God’s grace to transform my anxious heart.  I seek God’s grace in my failings and in helping me to forgive myself and others as I have been forgiven.  May my children see God’s grace in me.

I pray that one day, when we send them out to make their own way in the world, that grace will always guide them back home to find God's love.

Hope for a new year

Advent has begun--the countdown to Christmas and also the start of a new church year.   I realize the gift of grace in having so many new beginnings, from New Year's resolutions on January 1st, to the beginning of the school year in September (and again for me personally in June), and this new church year before the end of the calendar year.  As someone prone to setting high (unreasonable) expectations and then watching in dismay as they crumble all around me, I need these second (and third and fourth) chances to begin again.  It's appropriate that we light the candle of hope first on the Advent wreath, a reminder that we must hang on to hope to make it through the darkness of the season, and the dark seasons of our life.  I can't envision a more powerful metaphor than the light of that single candle.

I seem to lose hope about a hundred times a day, and yet, thanks be to God, it hasn't quite lost its hold on me.  There is a greater power, a Divine love, that whispers to me that this is not the end, that all will be well...that all is well, even when I can't see or feel or understand that.  I was having one of these moments this weekend.  In a conversation with John, I was bemoaning my fears that for all the hard work of our parenting, nothing of value seems to be sticking with our kids.  As both of us are ordained, I specifically worry about how we are sharing our faith with our kids (and worry that we are not intentional enough about it).  It's so much harder than the faith environment of my childhood where the answers were so certain.  Granted, I bear the scars from that and wouldn't subject those I love to the rigors of fundamentalism, but as my faith and belief has grown and become more open, sometimes it seems so big and nebulous that I'm not sure how to share it.  I have cut out so much of the language that excludes and limits, but what words are left to show the ultimate grace and love that has captured me?  The best way would be to show it, to model it, and yet in my exhaustion and frustration, I fear I teach them the opposite of what I would have them to know.

But tonight we sat together in church, as we usually do, and I hoped that the prayers, scripture, and message would seep into their hearts.  I pointed out the change in the liturgical color and we talked about what Advent means.  During the service I looked over to find Maryn drawing an Advent wreath on her paper.  While we were singing the offertory, Brady put down his Pokémon book and siddled up next to me to sing along.  In the communion bread and the wine, we shared a ritual that reminded us of our place as beloved children in the family of God.  What grace.

After getting the kids in bed, I was readying their backpacks for school when I found a paper bag crumpled up in the bottom of Brady's.  I started to throw it away, but something stopped me, and I glanced inside.  There were multiple strips of paper, and I realized there was one from each of his classmates sharing why they were grateful for him.  The reasons included: 

He played with me when no one else would.

He helped me with a project.

He is a good friend.

He cares about others.

He works hard.

He is my BFF and is always there for me.

He is kind.

He is grateful.

These are the things I want most for my children--for them to be kind and loving, using their God-given gifts in service to others.  Reading these reflections from kids who are mostly strangers to me, I realized that they have seen the truth of our sweet boy.   How many times do I miss this?  How often do I overlook the goodness, the spirituality of our children and instead focus on insignficant and temporal things?

Deep down, I know that our children have good hearts.  They are created in the very image of God (and the imperfect but loving images of their parents).  They teach me about love and grace and forgiveness each day.  When I look past the daily annoyances, I understand that they are my own spiritual guides, pointing to God's grace and love.  They accept me as I am, while also pushing me to grow...much as I hope to do for them.

As we enter into Advent and wait for Christ to be born again within our hearts, may we celebrate how God is already with us, within us, and working through us to bring new life into our world.  May we hold on to hope that life is ever new and ever bright.

Leaving church

My family never moved when I was a child, so I have always been fascinated by the stories of people who have uprooted.  But I think instead of tracing my family’s journey on a map, we could mark our path in the church homes we have been a part of and the churches we have left.  There was my childhood church where I was baptized and had my first crush on our pastor.  My family left there in a church split over a pastor vote and went to start a new church.  This was the church where I learned to be a leader and a servant, the place where I found a second home and family.  It was also where I learned that women are not supposed to be called to ministry. 

There was the church where I explored my calling and found a passion for working with youth and young adults, the one I loved so much that I lied on the membership form where they asked me to sign stating I believed in a literal seven-day creation.  There were transitional churches during seminary where we worked for the paycheck and the experience but found that they gave something more in return.  They accepted our youthful idealism and the foolishness of our newfound “wisdom” and gently showed us that there was much to learn and unlearn.  There are churches that make you, and those that break you, and some that are a bittersweet in-between.

As our family leaves our current church, I wonder how I will share the story with our children in the future.  “This was the church where you were dedicated, and this was the church where I baptized you.  This is where you shared in communion for the first time and read scripture standing on a stepstool from the pulpit.  This is where you sang with the children’s choir and everyone remarked on how they loved to watch you sing.  This is the church you first attended in my womb.  After our first visit, it would take a few weeks for our return, but then you were beside me in the pew in your infant carrier, or in my arms.  The music and liturgy became part of your baby dreams.  We watched you move up from the nursery and run off to your Sunday School classes.  I loved watching you skip into the sanctuary before worship, excited to tell me stories from your lesson.  We made friends here.” 

But how do we explain the leaving?

I don’t know the answer yet.  The wounds and the grief are still fresh.  Sometimes we stay out of habit, like in a bad relationship that we just can’t break.  Sometimes the leaving is easy.  But sometimes there is a breaking even though it feels like what must be done.  We want to know what will last, to trust that God can restore what has been broken.  I want to put my commitment into a place where we can serve and worship, knowing that it will not be perfect, but believing that it will be good again.  I want that for my old church, the Church universal, and for the future church that will receive us in all our hopefulness and fear.  It is not the first time we have been on this path, but faith means stepping out, even though we are not sure where the journey will take us, trusting that God is leading us home again.

For more of my blog posts about path in and out of the church, click here.

Sacramental Grace

During the church service, my children appeared to be off in their own worlds.  My son was reading a Geronimo Stilton book while my daughter filled out all the pew membership cards with information on the American Girl doll she hopes to receive for Christmas.  Sometimes getting them to sit quietly and still wins the battle over fighting them to pay attention, as I hope that I might take something away from worship for myself.  But as a minister, I often feel guilty that I’m not more intentional about the faith formation of my children. 

We’ve recently joined an Episcopal church, which came as a bit of a surprise for us lifelong Baptists.  But there is something about the liturgy and the evening service of this particular church that drew us in.  I love that communion is the heart of the service and that it takes place weekly (instead of monthly or quarterly like the churches in which I grew up).  And instead of ushers passing golden trays of stale wafers and plastic cups of grape juice to those saved and baptized members of the congregation, in this church we all come forward to receive the elements and share a common cup.  It is open to all, and there is a special joy in watching tiny children toddle up to the priest or stretch out their hands from their perch in a parent’s arms to take a wafer.  There is a welcome in seeing smiling faces as they pass by and in hearing the words of blessing, “The body of Christ”, “The cup of salvation” shared again and again.  The kids want to sit in the front so that they can be first in line, and even though I’m more of a “back row Baptist”, I’m just glad they are eager to be part of the service. 

This week, as we filed back into our pew, Maryn showed me the wafer that she had not yet eaten.  She held it up, broke it, and whispered to me, “The body of Christ,” and I knew that God was there, in that moment, in that bread, in the grace of a child who is learning faith through imitation.  The mystery of faith can’t be any more real than this. 

After the church family shared a meal and the children and adults separated for Christian education programs, I joined other adults back in the sanctuary to talk about the primary meal that connects us as Christians: Eucharist, the Great Thanksgiving.  The priest, who is as new to this church as we are, shared his thoughts on the sacrament of communion, saying that in our gathering around the communion table, we “are given a model of how all other meals should function, as an opportunity of grace.”  I had to smile as he started off saying, “Whether Baptists, Catholics, anything in between, or nothing, we are naturally sacramentalists.”  While I’ve been struggling to reconcile a new conversion of sorts, it was a reminder that it may not be as big of a shift as I make it out to be.  We are all branches of the family of God, and all humans seek meaning in the ordinariness and mysteries of our lives. 

I took notes so I could continue to ruminate on the sacramental theology that was shared by Rev. Eric Long (quotes are reconstructed to the best of my memory and notes):

“In the sacraments, God uses the stuff of life to bless our lives.  God breaks in and shows us the depth and possibility of life.  God gets our attention and offers [God]self.”  I learned that communion is based on the Emmaus story, when Jesus’ disciples are walking on the road to Emmaus after his crucifixion and a man joins them and asks why they are troubled.  They tell him what has happened, not knowing that it is the resurrected Christ that walks with them until they stop to eat and he gives thanks and breaks bread, just as he had done at his last meal with them, when he had told them his body would also be broken for them.  They remembered and they knew him in the breaking of the bread.  Just as my child, who shows little interest in church, still knows Jesus in the breaking of the communion bread.

“God uses the physical to touch and bless us.  This is what we refer to as sacraments.  Jesus is the greatest example…God became a physical being and entered our world, our stories.  He took his body, gave thanks for it, and broke it.  He did not hoard the gift, but shared it with us.  In communion, we literally take Jesus into us, receiving him, and trusting that he will help us to become who God says we are.”  We trust that we can be full in our empty and broken places and that grace can transform us into who we were created to be.  “The act of communion becomes a sacrament only as we join together in community, remembering who we are (not self-made, disjointed individuals, but made one in our baptism).”  In the brokenness of our world reflected in the bad news shared in the media, in the division of hatred and polarization, we are sorely in need of this reminder, this challenge to gather together like a dysfunctional family around the Thanksgiving dinner table.  We may not ever agree, but we can learn to listen to one another as we seek to live together in peace and work together for justice.

On a smaller and more personal level, I couldn’t help but think about how often family meals are a great frustration in our house, yet communion, the model for all meals, is the highlight of the church service for my children.  How can I shift from the stress and frustration of my own expectations and provide space for God to be present and offer grace?  What if in saying grace (when I remember to do so), I actually expected Grace to show up?  What if I invited Jesus to be present and believed that he was with us in the breaking of bread together?

What if I could see all of my struggles, my joys, my daily endeavors (parenthood, career, relationships) as sacraments and give thanks for them, offer them up for God to transform, and give them away instead of holding on tightly in fear? 

What if we treated all of life as a sacrament, an opportunity to let grace enter our lives and transform us? 

This Thanksgiving, I offer thanks for unexpected grace and pray that it continues to show up in beautiful, mysterious, transforming ways.  Come, Lord Jesus.  May it be so.

Baptist?

We pass the baptistry font on the way in and out of the church we've been visiting.  The kids view it with curiosity and love to touch the smooth sides and peek in to see if there's water.  Maryn wonders how she will fit in it as she has been considering baptism recently, after watching me baptize her brother two years ago.  We try to explain how people don't get immersed in Episcopal churches, but our explanation falls a little flat as we're not sure ourselves exactly how it works.

We love this church--the beauty of the architecture, the people we know who attend and minister there, and the loveliness of the liturgy and music.  We appreciate the Sunday evening service that leaves most of our day free for a family Sabbath.  Even the kids have been excited about returning to church again, which has been a happy change.  I was still caught off guard when Maryn saw a drawing of the church and referred to it offhand as "our church".  We've just visited four times and although it feels right, I'm reluctant to commit.

I still feel guilty about leaving our former church and yet I'm relieved not to feel the anger and negativity I was beginning to feel each time I thought about church in general.  Old scars are easily reopened.  I miss old friends, but feel that those relationships will continue in new spaces.  I worry about the message it sends to our kids and what it means that they have left their Sunday School classes and children's choir.  As usual, though, I seem to be the only one concerned as they are quick to move on to what is new.  But how long will it take before this becomes "old" to them?  On our way home tonight, Brady asked how long we had been at our previous church, and I answered, "Since Maryn was born...six and a half years."  And he responded, "Then we can stay at this one six years, too, and then find a new church."  They are quick to pick up on what we don't want to teach them.

I've been Baptist all of my life, but I never felt that it was an integral part of my identity.  I have attended Baptist churches, went to a Baptist seminary, and worked at the Virginia Baptist Children's Home for eight years.  But I've often been more frustrated by Baptist stereotypes than inspired by Baptist freedoms.  I get tired of always having to qualify that I'm not "that type" of [judgmental, closed-minded] Baptist.  But seeing the baptistry font instead of a baptismal pool seems like a marker of all we would be sacrificing.  I would not have the joy of holding my girl under the symbolic waters and raising her to new life in Christ.  I'm sure I could be convinced by the meaning and symbolism in the Episcopalian ordinance, but it is truly a departure from an identity I didn't know my soul had claimed.

It doesn't feel like a crisis of faith, but it is one of identity.  What does my Baptist tradition truly mean to me?  Am I Baptist only because of the tradition I was born into and the prevalence of it where I live?  What does it mean to be called elsewhere?  How is my current (Episcopal) seminary reshaping my theological leanings?

As I continue to fumble through the service, learning when to stand, kneel, cross, and bow, I fumble, too, with the tradition that has shaped me, scars and joys alike.  And the memories plunge me back into the waters of baptism where I was joined with a Church family I hoped to never leave, where my small son made a commitment in innocent trust and childlike faith, where we were both joined into the family of God that goes beyond denomination and finds common ground in the Spirit that connects us all.

Perhaps that same water fills the small font in the Episcopal church.

Perhaps it is enough.

What's in a Name?

Recently Coca-Cola® unleashed an ingenious media campaign in which they printed people’s names on the labels of Coke® bottles and invited people to “Share a Coke® with …..”  Not only were people searching for their own names, but they were purchasing bottles for their friends.  Some people were initially disappointed as unique names were unlikely to be printed, but Coca-Cola® came through yet again, allowing you to send a virtual custom Coke® to all of your friends, and placing special machines in various locations that would allow you to buy a custom printed bottle.  As my name was the most popular name for girls in the year I was born, I never had to worry about not finding personalized items with my name on them when I was a child.  But I did have to worry about what the teacher would decide to call me as there were always at least three Jennifers in my classroom each year.

Our names are important.  They give us our first sense of identity; they show our belonging.  As people come to know us, they give us nicknames to show their connection to us or to reveal something of our character.  As we grow, we are said to “make a name for ourselves”.  We build our reputation based on how we show who we are to others.  They know us by our name and by the choices we make.  Proverbs 22:1 says, “A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches, and favor is better than silver or gold.”

When I worked with youth, one of my favorite Bible study activities was to look at the significance of names in the Bible.  Names are given to explain family connections or to describe traits (such as “hairy” or “red” Esau and “cheater” Jacob).  Many of the names show connection to God.  I love the stories of when God changes someone’s name to show a pivotal event has taken place: Jacob wrestles with God and becomes Israel; Saul hears God’s voice on the Damascus road and becomes Paul.  After looking up the meaning of various biblical names, we would then turn to our own names.  I would ask if the students knew the story of their names.  Some would share about being named after a relative or a favorite character in a book or TV show.  Many did not know the meaning or story of their name.

I was consumed with the thought of names during both of my pregnancies.  I kept lists that were frequently updated, with vetoes or additions from my husband.  We went through hundreds of names in baby name books.  With our names being John and Jenny, I wanted something unique, but not too difficult or obscure.  I wanted something that would suit them, but how would we know when we had not yet met them?  In the end, it was my husband that suggested the names we chose for our children, Brady and Maryn.  I love the sound of them and their symmetry.  We played around with spellings and variations of them, and I checked to make sure they were not on any of those most popular baby name lists.  Brady’s middle name was a family name on both sides and his first name was a character’s name on a TV show that John and I watched together when we were dating.  But Maryn’s name was completely unique (so much so that it has caused a great deal of confusion with pronunciation and spelling. Oops.)  It wasn’t until they were out of babyhood that we looked up the meaning of their names.  Brady means “spirited” which is so very appropriate, and Maryn means “by the sea”, which is fitting for her love of vacations and the beach trip we like to take to celebrate their spring birthdays.

The closing part of my Bible study lesson was to reflect upon the meaning of the name “Christian”.  What does it mean when we claim this name?  What does it mean to be a follower of Christ?  Unfortunately, it has become a name that carries a lot of negative meanings for many in our world these days.  When you say Christian, the image that comes to mind for many is a hypocritical, small-minded judge.  We are known not by our love, as the song says, but by the ways we have excluded others.  Baptist churches I have been a part of have had a similar struggle, particularly in this part of the state where "Baptist" brings to mind Liberty University, whose leaders have had a history of saying inflammatory and hurtful things in the name of God and religion.  Do we keep the name "Baptist" as part of our identity, knowing that it will turn many people away?  Do we try and redeem it?  Do we let it go and start something new?

I think this is the struggle that the Church is facing as well.  What it has come to be and to mean no longer connects with a large percentage of our population.  While we have continued to operate business as usual for far too many years, people are leaving the doors and not returning, seeing the Church as irrelevent.  I am serving a generation of students that were never part of the Church and see no reason to join in now.  Ecclesia (Greek: ἐκκλησία ekklēsia), translated "church", is also congregation, a group of people.  It was the name given to political gatherings in Greece.  So what makes us distinct?  So what are we doing to find our unique God-given identity?  What is our mission?

I don't have any claim to the answers, but perhaps we go back to this:

"We are one in the Spirit"

Author: Peter Scholtes

Tune: ST. BRENDAN'S

1. We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord,
We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord,
And we pray that all unity may one day be restored.

Refrain
And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love,
Yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.

2. We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand,
We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand,
And together we’ll spread the news that God is in our land.


3. We will work with each other, we will work side by side,
We will work with each other, we will work side by side,
And we’ll guard each one’s dignity and save each one’s pride.

4. All praise to the Father, from whom all things come,
And all praise to Christ Jesus, his only Son,
And all praise to the Spirit, who makes us one.

Size Matters

Back to school shopping is always a chaotic endeavor, but especially these days when my kids demand to pick out their own clothes and supplies.  Usually we do a scouting trip where they can show me what they like as I prefer to return on my own and shop at my leisure.  This time I went armed with photos of their picks, but as I went back through the store, I had to improvise.  The "shorts" that my six year old had picked out turned out to be a tight denim mini skirt, and I had doubts that the skinny jeans she wanted would fit her.  I sighed in frustration, knowing she would be disappointed and wondered to myself whether this ridiculous skinny jean fad will ever end.

While I have been grateful in past years for "slim fit" adjustable waistline pants for my small children, it's a little jarring this go round as it's the first time that slim fit doesn't fit.  The kids are a perfectly healthy size and weight, but it's impossible not to notice the change.  I try so hard not to obsess about size, but it is hardwired in me, and reinforced with a culture that emphasizes a certain look.  In sorting through the dozen pant options for my girl, I couldn't find many in her favorite store that weren't slim fit or skinny, and the scant options were not the trendy ones displayed on the mannequins.

And again, let me remind you that she's only six years old.  It starts early.

We've had to think about size since our first child was born.  Our boy weighed in at under five pounds and was slow to eat and put on weight.  We counted every ounce of breastmilk and formula he received for months, waking him every two hours to eat through the night and day.  He was weighed and re-weighed and each ounce seemed to be the measure of my success or failure.  "Failure to thrive" gets pretty personal when you're breastfeeding.  He wasn't even ON the growth chart for years, and even when he grew stronger and healthier, he remained the smallest in his class.  It has only been in the past year, since he turned eight, that he has finally reached the clothes size corresponding to his age, and is catching up in height with his peers.

We were envious of the chubby-thighed babies of our friends when feeding our tiny son and keeping him healthy had been such a full-time battle for the first year of his life.  It was a relief when our daughter was born weighing almost seven pounds and was pronounced slightly above average in size.  Now ages eight and six, our children are healthy eaters and they are growing well mentally and physically.  But with a history of obesity, diabetes, and heart conditions on both sides of the family, I want to instill within them healthy habits without it becoming a source of anxiety and shame.  I see them mindlessly eating when they are bored or immersed in screen time, and I realize I need to set a better example.

I have struggled with my weight for years and have watched the shame that my mom carries about her weight.  In middle school I was teased for being chubby, and I responded with a diet that slimmed me down, earning me the nickname "little Jenny" from one of my high school teachers, along with more acceptance and confidence.  But it was a battle I never completely won, and the negative voices remain in my head.  My weight goes up and down with my level of stress and lack of self-care and exercise.  I don't want my kids to have that struggle (either internally or externally), and I certainly don't want to be the one that puts the idea in their mind that they are not enough as they are.  They hop on the scale now with pride to see how big they are; I hop on with the opposite goal in mind.

We are a culture obsessed with numbers and measurement.  We want to know how much money we can save as we shop sales.  Meanwhile, we MEGAsize our drinks and our waistlines with unhealthy (but cheap) food.  We try to squeeze into skinny jeans because the number on the label is more important for our acceptance by others than our comfort with ourselves.  I remember Maryn tearfully trying to squeeze her feet into too small shoes last year, telling me that she would rather look good and be in pain than wear ugly but comfortable shoes that she didn't like.  I measure myself differently, but it is not without pain.  I anxiously await my school grades so that I can see where I stand.  It is where I found my value and motivation in childhood and that internal standard of judgment and anxiety remains, even though my current grades are pass/fail.  We are always measuring ourselves based on some standard, comparing ourselves to others or to society's expectations.

Churches have bought into this, too.  We count our attendance, mourn the decrease, and have visions of megachurches while Jesus says the Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed, a little child.

We seem to have lost all sense of what really counts.

We measure ourselves against yardsticks and scales when God reminds us that the true measure of a person is in their heart, in how they love.  God provides the ultimate model by knowing us intimately and accepting and loving us as we are.  I wonder what it would be like if I truly embraced my favorite scripture as my measuring stick:

Psalm 139

¹O Lord, you have searched me and known me.

²You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away.

³You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways.

⁴Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.

⁵You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.

⁶Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain it.

⁷Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?

⁸If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

⁹If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,

¹⁰even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.

¹¹If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night,”

¹²even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you.

¹³For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

¹⁴I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.

¹⁵My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

¹⁶Your eyes beheld my unformed substance. In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed.

¹⁷How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!

¹⁸I try to count them—they are more than the sand; I come to the end—I am still with you.

May we be known and loved completely, realizing that we are fearfully and wonderfully made just as we are in God's abundant presence.

Family Sabbath

I believe in church, even when it is messy and hurtful.  It has often been a sanctuary for me, although I'm not unaware of the pain it can also cause.  I trust that we gain more in seeking together in community than we do individually.  I believe that there is room for the "spiritual but not religious" and "the religious and spiritual" to coexist and learn from one another.  Religion (and church as the institution that makes space for it in my traditon) gives us a foundation for exploring and practicing spirituality together.   Spirituality brings us into the mystery of the divine, a sense of awe and wonder greater than we ordinarily find in ourselves.  I have found that beauty in church and I hope to find it again.

But sometimes, my soul longs for Sabbath, for rest and re-creation.  Sometimes this introvert needs to hide away to rediscover my soul, and to rebuild community with the ones that share the most central places in my heart.  Sometimes I find God when I stop pushing so hard, when I stop seeking in the same expected places and am surprised to learn that I have been standing on holy ground all along. I was looking for burning bushes when instead God is in the messy pile of drawings and half-eaten bowls of cereal on the table.  When I can't hear the still small voice, God is in the laughter and arguments of my children.  

Sometimes it takes a change of plans to awaken me to the holy ordinary of my life.  On these days, Sunday morning church looks like this:

"Surely the LORD is in the place and I did not know it!"

When a sanctuary becomes a battleground

In this moment, I don't know which is more painful--the grief of walking away, or the continued pain of staying.  It's like a bad relationship where you continue to hang on, hoping you can change the situation or the person, but knowing in your heart that things seldom change in the ways you want them to.  It's hard not to look back as we contemplate walking away, afraid that we might return, or that I might just turn to a pillar of salt on the spot.  Although I believe in resurrection, sometimes things just have to die in order for something new to be born.

As much as I've fought to stay, to heal, the place that once was a sanctuary is now a place of accusation and suspicion.  I'm tired of pointing fingers and I'm tired of the blame game.  I'm tired of my own responsibility in it and how it is provoking the bitterness that I thought I had buried forever.

When I dream now, it is of gathering with friends, and the laughter and deep reflection that comes from authentic and unplanned times of sharing.  It's about finding connection again, with God and others, without submitting to the rituals of "this is how we've always done it."  I want to be moved by the power of relationships and the vulnerability of uniting in our struggles.  I long to dig deep and find meaning without drawn out discussions over policy and meetings about programs.  I want to shed this exhaustion and frustration and get back to the love that first drew me in.

I catch glimpses of how it used to be, back in the honeymoon stage where everyone was on their best behavior.  There are moments now when we can remember and share, and the defenses come down, and the urge to fight or leave is exchanged for a desire to have a seat and stick it out.  We can acknowledge that we are all hurting, that we have been both victims and accomplices, and that we want to make something beautiful out of this mess.  It seems only appropriate as we walk through Holy Week and admit that we are broken, grieving sinners in need of salvation.  We can simultaneously hold the very real threat of death with the hope of the resurrection.

I want to believe in resurrection.  After all, isn't that the gospel my faith is built upon?  I long to understand what Jesus was talking about when he told of the temple being destroyed and rebuilt in three days.  What does his death have to teach us about the many deaths we experience?  Shouldn't church be the primary place we practice the art of creating new life out of what appears to be dying?

I believe...help my unbelief.

I don't know where we will end up on this journey, but I know it look different than where we started.  We'll keep walking, one step at a time, and put our trust in a God who became human in all its messiness and pain.  Jesus lived as an example of divine love and grace, was put to death, and then rose again to make a new way for us all.  When we reach the empty tomb on Easter, may what we find be a joyful sign that love has won out over death once again.

Do you want to be healed?

Source: IF: Equip 

This is a response to a devotional sent out by IF: Equip.

After this there was a feast of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. Now there is in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate a pool, in Aramaic called Bethesda, which has five roofed colonnades. In these lay a multitude of invalids—blind, lame, and paralyzed. One man was there who had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had already been there a long time, he said to him, “Do you want to be healed?” The sick man answered him, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am going another steps down before me.” Jesus said to him, “Get up, take up your bed, and walk.” And at once the man was healed, and he took up his bed and walked.

Now that day was the Sabbath. So the Jews said to the man who had been healed, “It is the Sabbath, and it is not lawful for you to take up your bed.” But he answered them, “The man who healed me, that man said to me, ‘Take up your bed, and walk.’” They asked him, “Who is the man who said to you, ‘Take up your bed and walk’?” Now the man who had been healed did not know who it was, for Jesus had withdrawn, as there was a crowd in the place. Afterward Jesus found him in the temple and said to him, “See, you are well! Sin no more, that nothing worse may happen to you.” The man went away and told the Jews that it was Jesus who had healed him. (John 5:1-15)

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"Do you want to be healed?"

Sometimes, I'm not so sure.  It's way too easy to hang onto these hurts, my cyncism, my fear that it will always be this way.  I want to hope and trust, but I'm all too quick to say, "I just knew it wouldn't work.  It always goes wrong."

"Do you want to be healed?"

I want to believe that people are good at heart, but when things go badly, I am quick to judge others' motives.  I speculate and worry and spend way too much time wrapped up in rehashing the conflict.

"Do you want to be healed?"

But it's not my problem.  If THEY would change, everything would be fine.

"Do you want to be healed?"

It's impossible.  It's the same old cycle again and again.  If I could change I would have already.


"Do you want to be healed?"

But I am already healed.  I'm fine.  See, you can barely see these scars.  It's all good.

"Do you want to be healed?"

But I've been here for so long, and no one will help me.

"Do you want to be healed?"

I'm not sure I have enough faith.

"Do you want to be healed?"

Do I?

Do you?

Girl on Fire

There's a fire within me, a passion that could light up a room,
or a force that could destroy the whole building.

There's a hurt within me that can build empathy for those in pain,
or that could break relationships with all those I love.

There's emotion that I call holy and righteous anger,
but I may just be yelling God's name in vain.

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As I sat through my pastor's last service at our church, my mind and heart were a mess of emotions: sadness, anger, confusion, bitterness, denial, hurt, fleeting hope...the whole spectrum of grief.  Perhaps the greatest testament of her gifts as pastor was exhibited in the way she left with grace and kindness, showing the gentle leadership that will be her legacy.  Each scripture, prayer, and hymn reminded us of the importance of coming together as a church led by God.  The sermon challenged us all to let go of our grudges and get to the work of caring for one another in this difficult time.

The words from Isaiah 58 hit home for me:

If you remove the yoke from among you,
   the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,
if you offer your food to the hungry
   and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,
then your light shall rise in the darkness
   and your gloom be like the noonday.
The Lord will guide you continually,
   and satisfy your needs in parched places,
   and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
   like a spring of water,
   whose waters never fail.
Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
   you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
   the restorer of streets to live in. 

While I want to point the finger of blame, I know I'm accountable, too, and anger and judgment aren't what will heal our brokeness.  My instinct, though, is to burn bridges instead of building them.  But running away has gotten me to this point time and time again.  The old "fight or flight" response kicks in.  Fortunately, through my pastor and this church's love, a lot of wounds have begun healing, and I don't want to give up the fight this time.  I want to be known as a repairer of the breach, a restorer of this spiritual home.  I want to...but I still have a long way to go.

Old habits die hard, and I was reminded of it in all the emotions this transition has brought up.  I've been through church battles many times before, and it's like the scars are showing up once again (I think about how Harry Potter's scar burned every time Voldemort was near).  I don't want "church" to be a PTSD trigger for me.  I don't want to think about parched places, but to see it as an image of a spring of water bringing life.  I know it has been that for me more that it has been a source of hurt, but it's easier to hang on to the hurt more than the joy.  But perhaps there's no greater parable of redemption than the church, broken and beautiful, damaged yet hopeful.  It's there in the broken bread of communion we share, in the tears we shed together of grief and joy.  We are reminded that life is not easy, but the hard things grow our strength and faith.  These times remind us that we are not alone, and even when we feel like retreating, life is better (though harder) when it is shared.

This song, which I sobbed through during the service, is my hope...that we can be gathered together in this place centered on God's love and our shared calling.  My the fire within us be of love, a light that will shine in the darkness.

Wholly Holy

Do you ever strive to be holy, but end up feeling holey instead?  That's where I stand right now as I try to discern where God is leading us through this difficult church season (for more about this, read here and here).  I'm not so sure what I'm sure about anymore.  As I struggle to reconcile what I believe about the church to the reality I encounter, all that once was sacred now feels empty.

In the meantime, I've been working on a sermon for another church that addresses the Holiness Codes in Leviticus 19.  Leviticus is best known as the book that derails any attempt at reading straight through the Bible with all its attention to arcane laws: you shouldn't wear clothing of mixed fibers, don't boil a calf in its mother's milk, and the gory details of appropriate animal sacrifices.  The section I'm studying is a little more familiar as many of these rules compare to the more familiar and revered 10 commandments.  The part that most intrigues me is the very beginning: "Be holy as the LORD your God is holy."  It leaves me wondering what holiness really involves.

I grew up hearing that "holy" meant being set apart.  God's people were to be held to a higher standard, leading to the saying that we should be "in the world, not of it".  That never cleared up the confusion for me, but it did explain the growth of the Christian subculture, including the Christian music genre (where Jesus' name was inserted into sub-par pop love songs), and the prevalence of Jesus tchotchkes at the local Bible store.  Apparently, "the world" was evil, so we needed to retreat to the safety of a faith that provided a clean line between what was right and what was wrong.  It felt safer to feel like we had the answers and that we were on the right side of the battle.  Somewhere along the way, however, I became less sure.  The world, as I learned more about it, seemed less black and white and more technicolor.  The simple answers no longer brought comfort, but only prompted more unanswerable questions.  It could have been terrifying, but it felt like freedom.  I didn't lose my faith, but felt it expanding, growing, broadening.

Because of this openness within me, it didn't make sense to wall myself off and erect boundaries to keep others out.  It seemed that Jesus was always reaching out, getting in trouble for hanging out with the sinners and breaking all the rules.  But he did so with a spirit of hospitality and love, welcoming all to experience the freeing good news of grace.  It seemed hypocritical to judge who was of God and who wasn't as I believed we were all created in God's image and all were offered the gift of forgiveness.

But I still couldn't make sense of what it meant to be holy like God is holy.  The God I trust is not set apart, but is close with us (Emmanuel).  This God is not exclusive, but welcoming to all seekers.  The Holy One does not respect the boundaries of what is secular and what is sacred, but comes to meet us in the ordinary and extraordinary, wherever we are.  I stumbled across this article that talked about the Jewish understanding of the word holy ("kadosh" in Hebrew) which is more about being boundless, not able to be contained.  The image that comes to my mind in from Isaiah 6 in which God's holiness filled the temple.  God is not bound by our expectations or boundaries, but works in surprising and mysterious ways.

It makes more sense that holiness should be about reaching out and drawing others closer than pushing them away.  It is about joining over commonalities than dividing over differences.  We are to love our neighbors as ourselves...not just as we want to be loved, but sharing them honor and respect because they are people just like us.  In our worship, we should be able to connect others to the love and grace of God instead of the pain of judgment.  After all, we can only point the finger at others and demand their repentance when we are somehow able to forget that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.  We can only deny admittance to others when we have convinced ourselves (falsely) of our righteousness.

It's not easy, and it goes against every human instinct within me.  I want to protect myself by walling myself off to any risk.  Connecting seems terrifying when I don't know who can be trusted.  Being open to the mystery of God also means admitting that I don't have the answers and can't be sure of anything.  But it opens my life to the fullness that I believe Jesus was pointing to.

It's interesting to me that holy has the homonym "wholly", and they share common roots that give us these synonyms: sacred, complete, unhurt, fully, focused, restored, total, healthy, unbroken, and perfect.  We are holy when we are whole, when we seek a healthy and full life unbounded by the world's restrictions.  We are wholly holy when we live life fully as God created us, using our passions, gifts, and calling in service of God and our neighbors.  We are holy and whole when we trust God to fill the holes in us and heal those hurts that would become reasons to further divide us from others.    We are not to remain distant out of some sense of righteousness, but to see that we are all connected by our deep need for God's love.

May we learn to seek and share that together, being holy as the LORD our God is holy.

For the next part of this series, click here.

Why we're not enough to fix the church (but God is)

The page lies open large and white as the snowy landscape outside the window.  I sit, waiting for words to come, wondering if there is anything left to say.  There's so much noise already, the background sounds of Panera, and the loud cell phone conversation of the mom arguing with her son over a phone bill.  Perhaps such a conversation would be more helpful (and less ironic) in person.

I write to process my feelings, and yet the numbness defies words.  I'm grieving the loss of the familiar and fearing changes that will come as our church adjusts and fills the hole of our resigning pastor.  It leaves me struggling again to find my place in the church and brings back former hurts.  My last blog post on leaving the church seemed to hit a chord with so many people, and I understand that church has been a cause of so many scars.  And yet, I still believe in it (Lord, I believe...help my unbelief).  I believe in the power of church when I see how my children connect with other adults like a second family.  I believe in the way we carry one another's burdens, checking up on those who are sick and taking meals to those who are down.  I believe in the way we can share our deepest sorrows and joys and have the freedom to be authentic and vulnerable.

I know that it's not always this way, of course.  We lose our focus on the community and seek out our own needs.  We feel hurt, betrayed, or ignored when we don't receive what we think we deserve.  We get tired of always being the one who says "yes" and resent the ones who say "no".  We forget the message of Jesus who was willing to die so that we might understand God's promise of love and life.  We neglect to offer that love to everyone and think we can be the judge of who is deserving (and who is not).

Sometimes I get sucked in by the lie of "not enough".  I'm not strong enough to hang on; I'm not skilled enough to make a difference.  I believe the church doesn't have enough to fix all that is broken.  And I guess that's true.  It's been proven time and time again through failure.  But my big mistake is believing that it's all about me, that it's all about anyone except for God.  As hard as I try, I'm not enough in myself.  As much potential as it has, our church is not enough with just the members.  As she is quick to remind us, a pastor (even one as fabulous as our departing one) cannot save a church.  It is only through God that we are enough; that we were created in God's image with gifts, passions, and love to use in healing a broken system and a fallen world.  It is only because of Jesus' sacrifice that we understand the sacrificial love that is necessary to die to ourselves and find our higher purpose in serving others.  It is only through the presence of the Spirit that we are reminded, again and again, that God is in this place with us, creating holy ground right beneath our feet.

I'm reminded that we don't have to be enough, because God is.  In fact, his very name that he shared with Moses was "I AM".  I was reading Rob Bell's Tumblr series about the Bible yesterday and he was sharing about the covenant that God makes with Abraham in Genesis 15.  Covenants were common in that period, and were signified by an animal sacrifice with the two parties walking through the animal that had been cut in two.  But in this covenant, God is the one who walks through, showing that God pledges to uphold the covenant, regardless of what Abraham does.  We see this again and again in the Bible: God reaches out to God's people and they obediently follow for a while, but inevitably fail and turn away from God.  But God reaches out over and over, giving them a new chance.  That is love, and that love is grace enough for us hang onto as we continue to make our messy way through life.

When we feel like we're not enough, when we believe that the church is not enough, it's okay.  We don't have to be, because God is, and with God dwelling within us, we are enough, too.  In fact, we become the very church that God calls us to be.

See the third part of this series here.

Why I Left the Church...and Why I Returned

photo credit: Tru Stevens Photography

It seems that for every happy, churchgoing Christian, there is another who has a painful story of how they've been wounded by the church.  As a college chaplain, I encounter more reasons for why my students don't go to church than reasons why they do.  Of the 58% of our students who self-profess the Christian faith, only a small percentage go to church regularly.  This seems to mirror a growing trend as many articles and studies point out, and it's not just among young people.  I received a message from someone who had left the church and found life to be surprisingly comfortable without the Sunday commitment.  She asked me, "Why do we need to go to church when it seems that churches only hurt people?"

I found myself an unlikely advocate for the church.  I've have my share of scars from churches behaving badly.  My beloved home church that I grew up in does not support women in ministry, and instead of celebrating my call to ministry, denied it.  My first church internship was in a "purpose-driven" church that seemed to be more about stage lights, catchy music, and attendance numbers than authentic faith (although, to be fair, I met wonderful people there that are still part of my life, and the church has grown to create some wonderful outreach ministries for the community).  I watched my fiancé (now husband) get battered by one church, then another, and the bitterness still rises whenever I see those self-righteous committee members that declared him unworthy, while the staff stood by silently, continuing to pat themselves on the back and rake in their big paychecks.  After 5 years of being in a much better place in terms of our careers, finances, family, and church, I still struggle with anger over how we were treated, and how common our painful experience really is.  

It took a lot of searching and a lot of healing (still in progress, obviously) to find a safe place for us to return to church, and that was only with the understanding that we would just be pew-sitters for a while.  The community of faith that we found was not what we expected.  From the surface, they looked like a dying congregation, their numbers decimated and aging in a large and mostly empty sanctuary that reflected better days.  There were few programs, and no Sunday School class for us; our kids and the pastor's children were almost the entirety of the children's department.  It did not look promising, but, oh, how they reached out to welcome us.  Against our initial impressions, we felt like we had found a home.  We knew things weren't perfect, but we were able to let our guard down.  As the first year wound down, we felt ready to get involved again.  When the cracks began to show, we were already committed.  Our kids had been dedicated, one had been baptized, and we had made friends as more young families began to join.  Our pastor was a wonderful preacher, a compassionate leader, and a friend and mentor to me.  We spoke up in strained business meetings, we stepped up to fill leadership roles, and we prayed that the ugliness of the past would not repeat itself.  At least this time, we weren't in paid staff positions.

But now, the brokenness is undeniable, and I wonder if it's irreparable.  We are saying goodbye to our beloved pastor who is resigning after doing her best to hold things together for the past 18 years.  There is grief with all its stages: sadness, denial, anger, bargaining...I want to run away one minute and fight the next.  So the question, posed the day before the straw that broke the camel's back, becomes even more relevant and personal: "Why do we need to go to church when it seems that church only hurts people?"

My answer would be a little more hesitant and uncertain than it was just a few days ago, but deep in my heart I believe in the power of a church community.  We are there to support, encourage, and keep one another accountable.  We join together to seek God's vision as a group so that it doesn't just become all about "me".  We are stronger together, so that we can reach beyond the church walls and minister to our hurting community as the Body of Christ, a real and tangible reminder of God's presence, concern, and love with us.  Just like the first disciples, we won't always "get it".  We will hurt each other, intentionally or not, and we will betray the very Jesus we claim to follow.  We will get more wrapped up in business than ministry.  We will point fingers of blame and give in to fear instead of faith.  But, with God's help, we will heal together and learn to trust God and each other again.  We will fight the temptation to isolate ourselves and will do the hard work of breaking down our walls of protection, softening ourselves to the risks and rewards of authenticity, honesty, and vulnerability.  We will share our stories with one another and learn that even those that seem so different are connected to us by the bonds of family.

We will take our inspiration from the bread we break, remembering the body of Christ, broken as we are, and yet is the source of healing and hope for us all.

Read my follow-up post on "Why We're Not Enough to Fix the Church (but God is)" here.

Church Sanctuary (#31 days to Sanctuary day 22)

Last night, I sat with a group of friends who have been part of my ministry journey.  One is a seminary friend who is working outside of the church, and the others (besides myself) are serving in local churches.  We talked about the reasons people give for not attending church these days, along with the reasons why we haven't always been a part of the church (or sometimes wish we weren't).  So many people are busy, and often Sundays are filled with sports, errands, or sleeping in.  There's an entire generation that is becoming more removed and doesn't understand the value of an hour (or more) sitting in pews passively listening to a sermon.  Others have been hurt or excluded by things said and done in the name of God. A lot is said these days about how the church is either dying or being reborn into something new.  There are statistics about fewer people in the pews, and also inspirational stories about how "church" is being done in new ways, outside the walls of a building.  We all have dreams of what it could look like, and hurts from times it hasn't lived up to the ideal.

Something keeps drawing me back, though, time after time.  I may grumble and complain, and I've been known to bad-mouth particular congregations due to bad experiences, but Sunday usually finds me in church.  For me, church has truly been about sanctuary.  My dad died when I was young, and it was the church that gathered around and supported us.  Church people brought casseroles and sat with me during the funeral.  Church men filled that missing male role in my life.  I gained leadership experience through opportunities within my congregation, and it was the church who sent me off to college and sent me notes to let me know I was missed.

Yes, it is broken, as any human institution.  Community is always messy, but the things that involve the most hard work are usually the things that earn our pride.  I've learned about grief and joy standing beside others as we share our concerns and celebrations with God and one another.  I've been reminded that it's not all about me as we work together to help others in our community.  It has been a safe place for my children to find other loving adults, ones who have publicly pledged to help raise them in faith.  When we are worn down by the stresses of parenting, we take advantage of our church's Parents Night Out program and thank God for a break.  When there is good news, there is a place where it will be shared and affirmed.

Church is not the only place in which we find community, but for me, it has been a sanctuary in which I find my place in the larger story of God's work in the world.  I am reminded of my calling to share the good news and to continue the work of restoring a broken creation through love.  Through the inevitable failures and frustrations, I try to rely on grace, understanding that it has been extended to me so many times.  I focus inward as I move outward, always seeking sanctuary wherever the journey takes me.

A picture of (childlike) faith

Dripping wet, all of his 35 pounds shivering with cold and excitement, he turns to me and asks, "Can we do it again?"  We are stepping out of the baptistry and his smile is beaming as my heart grows bigger and bigger.  My son Brady is six and I've just had the privilege of baptizing him.  Years down the road, when I'm once again questioning my calling, I pray that this image will come to mind, my hand on his wet head in love and blessing, his face glowing with joy.

This boy, heart of my heart, is a child of God.  As I spoke the words of commitment and blessing, for a moment I was not just his mother, I was a minister, a representative of Christ, entrusting this precious life into the hands of God and our congregation.  I am now his sister in faith, joined not just by blood, but by water and the spirit, as I am with all those who profess their faith as Brady did, "I believe in Jesus as my Lord and Savior".  I am joined with my pastor, Donna, who also had the joy of baptizing her daughter the same day.  A shared second birthday for our two, and a shared gift of ministry, motherhood, and friendship for us.

Some question Brady's age and what he is capable of understanding.  I humbly admit that after 29 years as a Christian and 13 years as a minister, I know little to nothing.  My answers to his questions of faith were stumbling, halting, uncertain, and yet...there is no doubt that Brady is God's beloved, that the Spirit is working in his young and precious life.  My son's tenderness and love have so often been reminders of God to me; his spirit and his curiosity stir my soul.  His very faith and desire is an inspiration for me to keep learning and growing with him.

And a little child will lead them...

We are now on a new journey together, bound by Christ.  I stand ahead a little, knowing about the pain, and uncertainty, and darkness that he has not yet faced.  I want to shelter him, and yet, I know that this is his cup, too.  He, like me, has been buried with Christ in his death, and raised to new life in the resurrection.  And I pray, how I pray, that the new life will continue to grow and grow and grow...forever.  I hope that this moment will be forever etched in his heart as well, and when the tough times come, he will remember his baptism and the loving presence of God and God's children surrounding him.  I hope he will remember my hand on his head and remember that nothing, NOTHING can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

(and with the picture, I couldn't resist sharing the video, 

"Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Pastors")