tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70441662286126632882024-03-14T06:25:09.415-04:00Inside Nancy's NoodleNancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05894799922341495196noreply@blogger.comBlogger515125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-24191594019278980002024-02-14T12:14:00.001-05:002024-02-14T12:17:16.131-05:00No, you can't do anything if you put your mind to it<p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;">You know that scene in</span><span class="apple-converted-space" face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;"> </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;">Star Wars</i><span class="apple-converted-space" face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;"> </span><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;">where Luke Skywalker is flying his
little X-wing fighter into the Death Star and he has to find the exact spot to
destroy it, and instead of using his fancy high-tech instruments, he trusts the
Force to guide him, and he ends up saving the Galaxy? Well, don’t try that at
home. </span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">I
learned that back when I was in third grade. Ridgewood Avenue stopped at Adams
Elementary School on one end, and at the other end, four blocks away, it
stopped at my house, 435 Edwards Street. It was a straight shot from the school
to my house, downhill.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">So,
one day as I was riding my bicycle home from school, I got it into my head that
if I coasted perfectly straight and closed my eyes, I would end up at 435
Edwards Street. I knew nothing of the Force, since it was years before George
Lucas would even imagine</span><span class="apple-converted-space" face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Star
Wars</i><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">. But, in my mind, there was no reason why this wouldn’t work. So, I
closed my eyes and coasted toward home.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">A telephone pole jarred me into reality.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">When
you were growing up did anyone ever tell you that if you put your mind to it,
you can do anything? And do you remember when you learned that that’s a bunch
of hooey?</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">We
all have limitations. Our school years alone teach us that. Everybody can’t be
class valedictorian. We can’t all become the homecoming queen, or the star of
the basketball team. And for those who seem to breeze through it all
effortlessly with the wind filling their sails, it’s simply a matter of time
before they, too, are confronted with the reality of their limitations.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">It’s
just not true that if you put your mind to it, you can do anything. Learning to
live within the limitations of our lives is a primary task of growing from a
child to an adult.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">Since
I turned 70, I’ve been thinking a lot about how the limitations I’ve learned to
live with in my life are changing and how they will probably continue to change
even more.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">The
world that we once commanded in all its fullness gradually shrinks for us as we
age. Surely a senior citizen’s worst day is the one where they have to
relinquish their car keys, knowing that for the rest of their lives they will
be dependent upon other people for something as simple as picking up a loaf of
bread.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">In
all this thinking about growing old, I’ve had a revelation. In the past,
it’s seemed to me that growing older is primarily about loss. I think a lot of
people see it that way and that’s why they spend so much time pushing against
it. Few people like to admit to being old and they will resist the notion for
as long as they can. But I’m thinking that’s not the way I want to grow old. It’s
my hope that I will do a lot more than resist and resent it.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">During
the first half of life, we discover what the possibilities of our lives are.
But the second half of life is about accepting our limitations. It’s about finding
peace with our humanity.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">And
that’s the point of Ash Wednesday. It’s a day for all of us, no matter where we
are in our life’s journey, to remember that a time will come when our hearts
will stop beating, and our brains will shut down. It’s the ultimate limitation,
the one that not one of us can expect to escape.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">364
days a year, we may pretend that we are faster than a speeding bullet, more
powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. But
not today. Today we remember that we’re all going to die.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">That’s
the message of Ash Wednesday. We’re all going to die.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">Some
people may fight against that reality. Some run from it. Others face it with
fear and trembling. Or they resign themselves to the inevitability of death as
the sad reality of their lives.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">But
we gather on Ash Wednesday to face the ultimate limitation of our humanity in
the presence of God, standing in community with our brothers and sisters in
Christ all around the world. We come because God invites us to rest in his
grace. We can be at peace with who we are because we can be at peace with who
God is.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">Remember
that you are dust and to dust you shall return. Hearing those words and
receiving a cross of ashes on your forehead can feel a lot like riding a
bicycle with your eyes closed and being jarred into reality by a telephone
pole. Or hearing those words and receiving a cross of ashes on your forehead can
feel like falling into the arms of our God who is gracious and merciful, slow
to anger and abounding in steadfast love.</span></p><p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">Remember
that you are dust and to dust you shall return.</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR8RIG3gZCJLVkfG3lRMcdbVIADylsSRfUTcg38wtPCSaj0V2xujUwROL5Vo7GAzk247rHNe-FOqxXJcOztohv8l7f2g0VAivhOGuN-uc4F4pWyNx-qRefIXHo4h1qE4ktGJEDdAirD2pqPDVTPpqT1-ecNDoxxceYjImr6pfiO6cyi8vtc99-Yc2VQ-o/s541/ash%20cross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="541" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR8RIG3gZCJLVkfG3lRMcdbVIADylsSRfUTcg38wtPCSaj0V2xujUwROL5Vo7GAzk247rHNe-FOqxXJcOztohv8l7f2g0VAivhOGuN-uc4F4pWyNx-qRefIXHo4h1qE4ktGJEDdAirD2pqPDVTPpqT1-ecNDoxxceYjImr6pfiO6cyi8vtc99-Yc2VQ-o/s320/ash%20cross.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-13050019790647212712024-01-23T11:56:00.001-05:002024-01-23T12:11:48.429-05:00Aging, Acceptance, and a Word About Our Presidential Candidates<p> <span style="font-size: 14pt;">This is hard
for me to say, but I must say it. I’m not the person I was. And despite all my
efforts to hold onto the person I was, I need to accept that I’ve become someone
else. For me, this acceptance is the primary task of aging. I say “for me”
because I know that aging is not the same for everyone. I don’t assume that
what is true for me is true for others, but at the same time, I also can safely
say that I’m not alone in my experience.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I remember how
I found old people amusing when I was young. There was a woman in our
neighborhood who drove her car down the street at about 10 mph. Every time my friends and I saw her peering over the steering wheel we would howl with laughter. I’m
beginning to understand why she was so fearful, and it’s not so funny anymore.
(The fact is, she should not have been driving.) I often
rolled my eyes when old people told the same stories repeatedly without
realizing it. Now I can see how I too have the potential to become one of those storytellers on a loop. </span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">I used to wonder how an old woman could go out in public with long whiskers all over her chin. Why didn’t she take care of that? I understand now that she probably couldn’t see them.</span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">No, I’m not
there yet. But I am aware of the direction my life is going, and I can see it
coming if I live long enough. That’s just the way it is.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I felt this
happening before I retired at the age of 70. Yes, I could continue functioning
in my job. Yes, I had acquired wisdom from the experience of serving for over
forty years in my field. Yes, I was still enjoying my work. But I was not the person
I once was. Not as quick, not as creative, not as energetic. That wasn’t going
to change; it was only going to get worse.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Not very
long ago, I was in the thick of things. I was a vital part of important
decisions. I had amazing moments of triumph. I felt powerful. I could change
the world around me in significant ways. It was my time. That is no longer the
case. I’ve moved from being an active player in the game to
becoming a spectator on the side-lines. It’s a weird feeling.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Because I am
a Baby-Boomer, I know that, along with me, a whole lot of other people are
coming to terms with their aging status these days. We are learning firsthand about the indignity of agism in our culture. But a greater challenge seems to be the inability we Boomers have
accepting that our lives have changed. Most notable are the two likely
presidential candidates for 2024. Why are they hanging on for dear life as if the
future of the world depends upon them? The truth is, it doesn’t. It’s
time to step aside and trust that the next generation is capable. And, I dare
to say for all of the above reasons, more capable. It's their time. I’d like to
see what they can do.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I’m not who
I was. That part of my life is over. But that’s not to say that my life is
over. I have a future, and I have some control over how I will live it. I look
forward to spending more time with the people I love and new adventures yet to unfold. I long to savor good food, music, theatre. I continue to be curious about the things I've yet to learn. </span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">I believe I still have a contribution to make to the world around me. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I’m interested to see what comes next for our country and the
planet we share. All of that is true. And yet, in order to live fully in my
present reality, I need to accept the fact that the past is in the past. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><br />Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-50316421089313520512023-11-28T11:57:00.001-05:002023-11-28T12:13:27.198-05:00Who's going to clean up this mess?!<p> <span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m growing to love my little neighborhood in Queens. It’s
close to everything, so I can walk to the grocery, the butcher, the dentist,
the pharmacy, and my favorite bodega selling homemade honey-ginger tea with
lemon. Apart from the occasional parking space altercation, people look out for
one another. But there’s one thing I don’t think I’ll ever get used to, and
that’s all the trash on the sidewalks. I see it everywhere and want to shout, “All
the world is not your trash bin, people!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">It seems that once a person litters, it gives lots of
others permission to dump in the same spot. Every crumpled-up McDonald’s
bag, candy wrapper, snotty Kleenex or used condom tossed on the ground is like an
afront to me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I often see baggies of dog poop, all tied up, just left
on the sidewalk, and that really puzzles me. Kudos to those who go to all the
trouble of bagging their dog’s mess. But then, why do they just leave the bag for
someone else to dispose of? I can’t even…!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve been wondering why this bothers me so much. It’s deeper
than an esthetic gripe I have. Yes, I’d rather not see ugly trash while I’m
walking around in my neighborhood. But the sight of it actually pokes at one of
my pet peeves. It really grinds me when people leave a mess for other people to
clean up. Is there anything more self-centered and inconsiderate than that? </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">It goes way beyond trashing the sidewalk. It
can also mean irreparably harming a child or bombing the homes of innocent
people or destroying an ecosystem. Who’s going to clean up this mess?!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">None of this is to say that I haven’t been known to
create messes of my own because I certainly have. I suspect we all do, from
time to time. But I’d like to believe I don’t leave my messes for someone else
to clean up if I can at all help it. When I finish a drink, I don’t throw the
paper cup on the ground for someone else to pick up; I carry it home and throw
it in the trash. If I use the toilet and the toilet paper runs out, I don’t
leave the empty core for the next person; I replace the toilet paper. In the
same way, if I have hurt you with my careless words, I will do what I can to
make things right with you. If I find out that I can change a simple behavior to
make the earth a healthier place for people I will never know, I do it. I try
to show consideration for the people who will come after me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">As a woman, a mother, and a pastor, I’ve spent a lot of
my life cleaning up other’s people’s messes and I’ve reached an age where it’s
all I can do to keep up with my own messes. I can’t be responsible for yours. Is
it asking too much to expect people to clean up their own messes?</span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">*Deep breath*</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Okay. I’m done. I’m better now. (Until I go outside and look
at the sidewalk.)</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_DH_agRohBN2we8IkstizakCqRyt7ObUUBoMivZPLHzbN76ZN28GNvScXQYSikFjg9Uhf6oA6iGj6yi-cGDhXjccjFAAXxBksFlsftWvhCgLV4XzHKMEfQsdZhwNVpp-ZcvztejkLMsfGjXG-GHYEd9S7THNNeYRuD7wBIANqKgDWvtQ-ZrauYOCSUM/s194/download%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="194" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_DH_agRohBN2we8IkstizakCqRyt7ObUUBoMivZPLHzbN76ZN28GNvScXQYSikFjg9Uhf6oA6iGj6yi-cGDhXjccjFAAXxBksFlsftWvhCgLV4XzHKMEfQsdZhwNVpp-ZcvztejkLMsfGjXG-GHYEd9S7THNNeYRuD7wBIANqKgDWvtQ-ZrauYOCSUM/s1600/download%20(2).jpg" width="194" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-28053941699312266742023-11-02T13:19:00.000-04:002023-11-02T13:19:51.293-04:00The Amazing Guy Upstairs<p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The guy upstairs often amazes me. No, I’m not talking
about God here. I’m talking about the man who dwells in the top two stories of
the house where I live, above the lower level where I am. His name is Jon, and
he’s married to my daughter, Gretchen. He’s also the father of my grandsons, Nick
and Justin. In addition to being the kind of dad who tosses a football with his
sons, patiently helps them with their homework, and prepares their favorite
mac-n-cheese for dinner, he has a special dad-gift that never ceases to amaze
me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">With a background in screenwriting, Jon is a true cinephile.
I’d bet on him every time in a movie trivia contest. He has instilled this same passion in his sons from birth. Their vacation itinerary is often designed around visiting places where films were shot as the boys re-enact the scenes. Nine-year-old Nick has learned to write
screenplays, and he’s always working on one at the computer. When the Academy
Awards are on, it’s his favorite night of the year. He’s becoming a cinephile
in his own right.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The age gap between Nick and Justin, age 5, presents a
challenge to the movie-viewing in our family. This is most evident on Friday
night, our movie night, when it sometimes takes us as long to decide what movie
we’ll watch as it does to actually watch it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">We adults can only watch so many PG movies before we need
something more. </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">R rated movies, of
course, are off limits for family viewing right now. And that leaves us with
the wide-open category of PG-13 movies to choose from.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">PG-13 movies cover a wide range of sex, violence,
language issues that leave most parents struggling to decide whether their kids
can appropriately watch them. But this is no challenge for Jon; he’s something
of a movie-rating savant. He can tell us exactly why each movie is rated as it
is and if Nick or both boys can handle it. And then, his magical movie powers
go way beyond that. Not only does he know which movies are inappropriate and which pass the test, but if the movie is just a tad inappropriate, he also
knows exactly when the bad parts occur so he can censor the movie </span><b style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">while
we’re watching it</b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">. He knows just when to cover Justin’s face, or cough
loudly to bleep out the sound. And he can do this for hundreds of movies!
(Occasionally, a movie will come up that he hasn’t seen and he’ll preview it,
but that’s rarely necessary.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">How does he do this?! I’m a movie fan, too, but I’m at
the age now when I can scarcely recall what a movie is about. I’m often
half-way through it before I realize I’ve already seen it. So I couldn’t begin
to remember if an F-bomb occurs in the dialogue and exactly when so that I can bleep
over it before it happens. I am continuously amazed by Jon’s ability to do this.
You wouldn’t think this uncanny ability to recall sex, violence, and swearing
would be all that useful, as information goes, but as a father who likes to
watch movies with his sons, it’s invaluable.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve told him that he needs to make a podcast or write a
blog for other parents to help them through this minefield, but don’t look for that
anytime soon. He’s too busy watching movies with his boys.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcvugmjd2udZK6D7K7LOm_mvarpq1ZrIcvazWu8dLJXHWouBI5rae-hxpNJq4l9zBGN9Noi_JM1d-IQGdLvVbPZ3i24lNv6M7YN3yR80wGodKQv8D9KDXO__FwSvoK-VkvtKSfRhLVzz-9T_IC-AmTZmsc3ORqZv8JcZ3fkBff1akCztW_ayHTJKIb1w/s640/3F3EFCEC-B6F5-43CB-AF88-04B33AC82226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcvugmjd2udZK6D7K7LOm_mvarpq1ZrIcvazWu8dLJXHWouBI5rae-hxpNJq4l9zBGN9Noi_JM1d-IQGdLvVbPZ3i24lNv6M7YN3yR80wGodKQv8D9KDXO__FwSvoK-VkvtKSfRhLVzz-9T_IC-AmTZmsc3ORqZv8JcZ3fkBff1akCztW_ayHTJKIb1w/s320/3F3EFCEC-B6F5-43CB-AF88-04B33AC82226.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-88679732702269301422023-06-11T15:54:00.004-04:002023-11-30T09:02:19.583-05:00From Trauma to Triumph on the Track<p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">When Nick was in second grade, some of his close friends
were running track with the CYO and he decided to give it a try. It’s a program
that is open to kids age five through grade eight. They compete against teams
from all around the area, and track meets are a big deal, often lasting 3 hours
or more. Nick has faithfully attended practices and done his part for the fall cross-country and winter/spring track meets over the past two years. His name is on
the banner with the rest of the boys’ team from last year as first place winners for the season.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Justin had been tagging along with Nick to track practice, and when he turned five in December, he said he wanted to join, too. This made
him the youngest person on the team, and it was a struggle. Sometimes he was into it and sometimes he wasn't. No one knew h</span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">ow he would handle an actual race. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">At Justin’s first track meet he ran a 50-yard dash. Even within
his peewee age-group, he was the smallest one. He was so anxious and distraught about running that I thought he was going to back out. It didn’t help that his
race was the very last one of the day so he had hours to get himself all worked up. But
when the time came, he did it! He ran his little heart out, finished third out
of four for his heat and proudly wore his medal. His parents and I breathed a sigh of
relief; it looked like he was going to be okay.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The next track meet didn’t go as well. Justin started the
race, saw the other kids running past him and stopped running, in tears. The meet
after that, he finished the race, but with tears streaming down his cheeks. What happened between his first meet and the second one? No one knows, but
now it had become a thing. And when something becomes a thing for a
five-year-old, the chance of recovery is slim to none. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">This week they had the last meet of the season. Justin
wasn’t happy when he got there and learned that he would be running in a relay.
He started freaking out. His teammates and Nick did everything they could to
convince him he could do it, but he wasn’t having it. Nick came to the stands
where his parents and I were sitting and said that the coach asked for one of
Justin’s parents to come and talk to him. So Jon went to him, and Justin had a
melt down. Clearly, it wasn’t going to happen.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The coach was understanding. She found another boy to
fill in on Justin’s leg of the relay and Justin would run in the 100-yard dash at
the end of the meet. No other peewees were running in that race. (They were all in the
relay.) Justin was a leftover and they put him in a race with an older
age-group so he could run. He was up against five boys who were three to four years
older than him. So there was Justin at the starting line, waiting for the pistol to go off, standing next to boys who were a foot or two taller than him. This
wasn’t going to go well. His competitors were going to leave him in the dust, and God knows how he was going to handle it. We were holding our breath.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Now, it just so happens that one of his competitors in
that race ended up being his almost nine-year-old brother Nick. As soon as the
race started, Justin fell behind, just as I expected he would. But what I hadn’t
expected was how Nick would run. Forgetting about the other competitors in his
race, Nick fell back to run beside Justin and stayed with him all the way to
the finish line, both of them smiling and laughing all the way.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">This time, the tears weren’t coming from Justin, but from his
mom, his dad and me. We all lost it. And I have to say that no matter what Nick may go on to accomplish in his lifetime, I will never be prouder of him than I was in that moment.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Justin was over-the-moon happy as he announced to me, “Nick
and I tied!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-G29qvzPxPmzHwaYxjg01m35iPGF7fclPwS6Nq7EZa7JUlyMIDt5YeGKFIGBpvFP5Cx83mpGKx0WbWEY2E1IsjpJdOlcOXELmqOqDUaDWmd0h8dCUHPqsdbBi2fjrumxBRrKLeaKvHXY37SF1C4WA-RusicpNXTeug-40a6lh_nm9N8OjVi6BGreq/s2173/IMG_1008%20(1).HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1620" data-original-width="2173" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-G29qvzPxPmzHwaYxjg01m35iPGF7fclPwS6Nq7EZa7JUlyMIDt5YeGKFIGBpvFP5Cx83mpGKx0WbWEY2E1IsjpJdOlcOXELmqOqDUaDWmd0h8dCUHPqsdbBi2fjrumxBRrKLeaKvHXY37SF1C4WA-RusicpNXTeug-40a6lh_nm9N8OjVi6BGreq/s320/IMG_1008%20(1).HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-5088391969155759122023-06-05T17:03:00.003-04:002023-06-05T17:15:58.282-04:00Confession of an Extremely White Woman<p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I was a freckly kid. When a neighbor boy poked fun at me
because I had a “dirty face”, my mom explained to me that I had fair skin. She said
it in such a way that it was like she was letting me in on a secret, and our stupid
neighbor boy had no idea that I came from royalty.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">As I grew into a teenager, I realized having fair
skin mainly meant that if I wanted to get even the slightest color on my ghastly,
ghostly whiteness, I would have to endure a sunburn first. So every summer, I baked
in the sun until I resembled a lobster and screamed in pain from the touch of
the clothes on my back. After a couple of weeks, the burn turned into a tan. It
was ever so slight. Unless I pulled my clothing back to where the sun never
shone, you wouldn’t realize the tan existed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">This was a never ending process for me. I would lay out
in the backyard until I was so hot you might as well have thrown me onto a
charcoal grill. It was grueling. But I was determined.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">During the spring of my senior year, I was looking
forward to prom. My mom sewed my dress--a pale pink, dotted Swiss, empire-waisted
dress with puff sleeves. It had a scoop neckline edged in a white ruffle. I
loved the dress but knew exactly what I had to do if I didn’t want to look like Casper’s
sister.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">About a month before prom I started working on it. I
baked in the sun to get good and burnt. And I did. I was so burnt that it made
me physically sick. It took a while to recover, but that was a small price to
pay for how I was going to look in my pale pink prom dress with the white
ruffle around the neckline. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Once the pain from my sunburn subsided, my skin peeled, mostly
on my chest—right where the white ruffle was to show off my tan. When the skin peel came off, so did my tan! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">It was only a week until prom and I was
undeterred in my quest to look fabulous. So I laid out again to burn again. And
this time everywhere I peeled, I blistered. It was a mess.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Now, days before prom, I obsessed about drying up the
blisters. But then, as the ooze was disappearing, a scabbiness took over, and
I had a chest of crackling pork rinds framed with a white ruffle. I tried to mask
it with make-up, which only made it worse. And that’s the way I went to my senior
prom.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m thinking about this incident today, not because it’s prom
time, but because this morning I went for my six-month exam with the
dermatologist. About five years ago I had a melanoma removed and, since then, little
chunks have been harvested from my flesh on a regular basis. So many places on
my skin worry me that, before I go to the doctor, I circle them all with a pen
to make sure none are missed. Invariably, the ones that concern the doctor are
the ones I completely ignore; I have no idea what I’m looking for. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">If I could do a “Back to the Future” trip to visit my
teenage self, I would warn her. I’d tell her to wear sunblock, cover herself, and
avoid U-V rays, even if it means living like a vampire. I’d tell her that fair
skin is better than skin with chunks removed, and it’s a helluva a lot better
than cancer. Of course, there are many other things I’d like to tell her, too. Things
that would have changed the course of her life. But that only works for Marty
McFly. The rest of us are victims of our own ignorance. It’s too late to change
some of our choices. That's why it’s so important that we learn to do better
with the choices we make moving forward. These days, sunblock is my friend.</span></p><p><i><span style="background: white; color: #202122; font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">O God, give us
the serenity to accept what cannot be changed, the courage to change what can
be changed, and the wisdom to know the one from the other.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-66611835668885942352023-05-17T12:00:00.000-04:002023-05-17T12:00:31.817-04:00When Parents Are Human<p><span style="font-size: large;">As another Mother’s Day passes, I have been thinking a lot
about the reality of parenthood. Not the stuff of Hallmark cards or unconditional
love that is glorified and projected onto mere mortals. I’m talking about the
reality that parents are human; there is no such thing as a perfect parent.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">When we're kids, we tend to idolize our parents. They are the
superheroes of our lives. It’s not until we're becoming adults that we begin to see
their shortcomings. While they may have done their best at raising us from day-to-day,
they also were people who had their own issues to work through. They couldn’t
wait until their deepest wounds were healed before they became parents. (If that were the case, humans would have become extinct long ago.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I know that some parents are absolute monsters to their
children. But even parents who devote themselves to creating a loving
environment for their kids to thrive mess up from time to time. Sometimes it’s
so obvious that they may ask for forgiveness as soon as they realize what they’ve
done. “I’m so sorry I yelled at you. I shouldn’t have done that. I love you.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Those times when our parents have no awareness of how they have chipped away at our souls may be the most difficult to forgive: a word spoken
in anger, treating our pleas for attention as an annoyance, a harsh punishment. What is long forgotten as a parent may remain seared on the brain of a child for a lifetime. Our parents may never see the ways they have passed their own brokenness onto us.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">We can blame our parents for the ways they have harmed us and
remain children, or we can forgive them for being human and grow up. Accepting
this has been one of the most difficult tasks of my life and I’m thankful that
I’ve been able to work my way through it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Now, in the later part of my life, I’m experiencing a
variation on this theme. I can’t stop thinking about my own parenting while my
kids were young. I have so many regrets, so many things I wish I had done
differently. I know I was not a
monster, but I made enough mistakes that I’m sure my two adult children have
plenty to discuss with a therapist. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I struggle a lot with my negative bias when I look back on
my life. It’s much easier for me to focus on the ugly parts of my past than it
is the beautiful ones. I need to give myself the same grace I grew to extend to
my own parents. While I was figuring out how to be a parent, I never stopped
being a human being, and I had more than a few issues to work through. I can beat myself up
over the mistakes I made, or I can forgive myself for being human. Of course, that's easier said that done. But I’m working on it. This growing up stuff never
ends, does it?</span><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-47067943284399580072023-02-24T22:46:00.002-05:002023-05-21T19:04:38.457-04:00Bad Decisions and Alligators<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve been thinking a lot about the 4-foot-long alligator
they found in Brooklyn this week. Most likely, it was someone’s pet and the
owner decided to rehome it in the wild. (If you can consider Prospect Park wild.)
Whoever the pet owner might have been, I’m reserving judgment. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">When I was growing up, we took all kinds of strange
animals into our small, urban home in addition to the usual cats, dogs and fish. I don’t
know what our mother was thinking. She either had a soft spot for animals or a
soft spot for my sister and me, but if we wanted an animal, it was ours. (As
long as we could afford it. No pony ever materialized, despite our pleas.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Often at Easter time, in particular, we ended up with
animals we had no business taking into our home. A few times, we had baby
rabbits. Another year, baby ducks. And then there were the cute little peeps
that were dyed pink. I can’t recall exactly how they came to live with us, but
they did. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Of course, the problem came after Easter had passed and the cute
little babies grew into adults. We built a hutch for the rabbits, and a pen for the chickens. I recall the ducks swimming in our one and only bathtub. I think about all of
this now and it seems bizarre to me, but at the time, it felt perfectly normal. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">At the end of the summer, the ducks were rehomed at a private
pond. I have no idea what ever became of the chickens. But my point is, what
may have seemed like a sweet gesture at the time always led to the difficult
decision about what to do with these animals when they became adults. I remember crying each time they had to leave us. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">My mom
isn’t around for me to find out how she dealt with this. I would love to ask, Mom,
what were you thinking? How could you have done this again and again? Did it
bother you when the animals grew up and you had to figure out how to move them
out?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">And then there was the alligator. I was in third grade and my sister Lorena took me to Florida with her. I had $5 for souvenirs. After spending $2 on a shell decoration with a lightbulb inside as a gift to my mom, with the remaining $3 I bought a baby alligator. I thought
it was the cutest little thing, and I couldn’t resist. (Now, I think, EEK!) It
was about 6 inches long and harmless. In true Kraft fashion, I didn’t think
through the repercussions of this decision. I also didn’t tell my mom about it; I wanted to surprise her.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">On the drive back to Ohio, I kept “Allie” by
my feet in the backseat in a cardboard box that was poked with lots of breath holes and </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 18.6667px;">lined with wet newspaper</span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">. I threw in a little ball of raw hamburger for him to nibble on. (How did
I know it was a </span><i style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">he</i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">? I must confess that it never occurred to me that such
a hideous creature might possibly be female.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Allie died before we made it through Georgia. I don’t
recall being terribly upset over it; we hadn’t bonded. But I do remember some
serious buyer’s remorse. I had spent most of my money on an animal that didn’t
even make it home so I could show my mom. What a waste!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I still wonder how Mom would have reacted to my purchase.
After all the other animals we had taken into our home -- turtles, salamanders,
frogs, horned toads, hamsters, about a million prolific guinea pigs – I couldn’t imagine
that she would have a problem with an alligator. But perhaps that would have
been where she drew the line. It certainly SHOULD have been where she drew the
line. It never got that far, so I never knew how she would have received the
little beast into our home. </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Thankfully, we also never had to deal with an alligator
that outgrew our ability to care for it. It wouldn’t have been pretty. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">So when
I hear about the gator in Prospect Park, I don’t wonder so much about how
anyone could take such an animal as a pet. And it’s hard for me to
condemn them for dumping it at a public park. Bad decisions and alligators are
a part of my story, too. </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmg0pO5it5P_P5eAzhOWIxiu_tYJw77stLQcLI4pp52xLYuekdSJv-Gze0S_CMP402DJYTCfRSyBcESVc7Xtjlse7jernMiAhOCVFjAJz-mEmUASlHE3tuzA7hUCg_gcitPzUv__d6Z_rxWvEmGn-vCqplNhbfZg-LPz8DqYpaau8w8aHuidaGsxx/s1536/00ny-gators-04-superJumbo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmg0pO5it5P_P5eAzhOWIxiu_tYJw77stLQcLI4pp52xLYuekdSJv-Gze0S_CMP402DJYTCfRSyBcESVc7Xtjlse7jernMiAhOCVFjAJz-mEmUASlHE3tuzA7hUCg_gcitPzUv__d6Z_rxWvEmGn-vCqplNhbfZg-LPz8DqYpaau8w8aHuidaGsxx/s320/00ny-gators-04-superJumbo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-44002571754033276432023-01-27T13:35:00.005-05:002023-01-27T13:42:27.663-05:00La Cucaracha<p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I never planned to create a new game with my grandsons,
Nick (8) and Justin (5). It just sort of happened. One day I had a folded paper
bag and I smacked Nick on the butt with it. He laughed. Then, Justin wanted me
to smack him on the butt with it, too. (Let me assure you that it doesn’t hurt at
all to be smacked with a brown paper bag.) They loved it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I started chasing them with the bag and smacking
them whenever I got close enough. And for some reason, I thought of swatting
cockroaches. “I don’t like cockroaches!” I shouted as I smacked them with the
bag. And the game evolved from there.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">It mainly consists of me hiding and then chasing after
them when they find me, all the while trying to smack them with the folded-up
bag and calling them cockroaches. This mostly happens in my apartment, which is in the lower level of the
house. I hide in different places each time, around corners, behind furniture, etc. Sometimes I turn the lights off, and they have to find me with a flashlight. Every
time I go after them, their eyes radiate excitement as they scramble to get
away from me while they scream and laugh. I intermittently add a little singing
of “La Cucaracha” to get them going, and I’ve made it a bit creepier by drawing
a smiley face on the bag. Often, the bag appears before I do, and they shriek. </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">They always know the game is winding down when
I start to come after them with the bag over my head humming “La Cucaracha.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I can’t believe how much they love this game. I thought
it was a one-time, spontaneous activity, but they would play it
24-7. Every day Justin asks, “Can we play La Cucaracha?” So now it’s become a
thing. Ay Caramba!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 18.6667px;">There’s something unnatural about growing up without grandparents. </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">My grandparents were not a part of my life. Grandparents weren’t a part of my kids’ lives either because they died before the time my daughter and son were old enough to remember much about them. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">When I became a grandparent, I was ecstatic, but really bothered by the geography. Like so many other distant grandparents, I did as well as I could through video calls on the phone and frequent trips via car,
train, plane… But I always ached for more. My secret wish every year, when I
blew out my birthday candles, was for something that neither I nor my children
ever had. I wanted my grandsons to get to know me well enough that they would remember me when they got older.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I was counting the years, months and days until I could
retire and move closer to Nick and Justin. Conversations with my daughter and
son-in-law brought us to the place where they were planning to purchase their
first home, which would include space for me—someplace with my own kitchen,
bath and entrance so that I would have my own life, but be able to spend time
with them, too. During the pandemic I became even more desperate to be near
them and felt like it was nothing more than an elusive
dream.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">In August, it
actually happened. I moved to NYC, and I’m living the dream. I see Justin and
Nick every day. I’m able to help out with getting them to school,
staying home with them when they’re sick, serving with the PTA at their school.
I pinch myself every morning and am beyond grateful for the opportunity to be a part of their lives.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I don’t know how much time I will be able to spend with
them. I would love to </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;">be around long enough
to watch them finish school and enter adulthood. Or perhaps I won’t. However it
goes, I’m satisfied because they will know me. And they will have memories of
me that will become a part of who they are. Like playing La Cucaracha and
screaming their little heads off while I call them cockroaches and smack them
with a smiley-faced paper bag. It doesn’t get any better than that.</span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cDKoz9qKGHpCJ-ObGZoR1z0s3vMX0OdfugV1wLFNREkM-FnxLzrdCU48r9PrMxoV939vx9x_Z58x7k4h2Z7MlvmIJ17YzVMmnf6cqmkZQwoy01wD8PZDeYPI7aRKAKzUkCYR3DcDk2Fem8N-MN1JvFZ2trsx2Bd4BARaip2mrrLCKLy6wGjpvciG/s4032/E2377FF4-C13F-4AC7-AADA-802A4C027118.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cDKoz9qKGHpCJ-ObGZoR1z0s3vMX0OdfugV1wLFNREkM-FnxLzrdCU48r9PrMxoV939vx9x_Z58x7k4h2Z7MlvmIJ17YzVMmnf6cqmkZQwoy01wD8PZDeYPI7aRKAKzUkCYR3DcDk2Fem8N-MN1JvFZ2trsx2Bd4BARaip2mrrLCKLy6wGjpvciG/s320/E2377FF4-C13F-4AC7-AADA-802A4C027118.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-41684547480067703382022-10-31T08:57:00.002-04:002022-10-31T12:31:46.855-04:00Can You Hear God Laughing?<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">As I looked forward to my eventual retirement through
the years, I emphatically said, repeatedly, that when I’m done, I’m done. No
interims for me. I wanted to find a local congregation and worship in the pews
like everyone else, or if it I darn well pleased, sleep in on a Sunday morning.
After 43+ years in the parish, I had earned that! And, quite frankly, after the
past few years, I was so exhausted that I didn’t think I had it in me to do
much more.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">During my last year, I was keenly aware that everything
I did was for the last time. The last time I would look into the candlelit
faces of the people in my congregation as we sang “Silent Night.” The last time
I would pour baptismal water onto a forehead. The last time I would announce, “Christ
is risen!” and the congregation would shout back, “He is risen indeed!”
Everything I did was with a sense of relief mingled with melancholy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I gave away all my books, enough to fill a barge. I
passed on vestments, artwork, preaching props, and all kinds of other things
that I was certain I would never use again, and a younger pastor might find
helpful. I was leaving it all behind, and passing it on, and it felt good.
There had been so many times in my past when I came close to walking away from
parish ministry, but for some reason, God wouldn’t let me go. And now, it was
finally time to move on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">And then, before I even retired, Mother Gladys, an Assistant
to the Bishop of my new synod contacted me about serving as an interim pastor.
To say I was less than receptive is an understatement. But I’ve lived long
enough to know that I can never slam the door on the Holy Spirit without
spending time in discernment. So we decided to have another conversation once I
was closer to retirement.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I learned that I’m an anomaly in the Metro New York Synod.
When pastors retire, they normally move away from the city; they don’t move
into the city. I also learned that the synod is in dire need of interim pastors
these days. And as much as I kept telling myself, “That’s not my problem. I did
my time,” the love part of my love/hate relationship with the Church was
tugging at my heart. I told Mother Gladys, “Well, it would have to be very, very
part time, and it would have to be very, very close to where I live.” Did I really
just say that? I couldn’t believe those words were coming from my mouth.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">She ran a couple possibilities past me. One involved a
greater time commitment and considerable driving. Nope. And then the other was
a small congregation that would be closer to where I imagined I’d end up
living. Gretchen and Jon were still looking at houses at the time, but they soon
landed on the place where we’re now living, in Glendale (Queens). The
congregation in question was a mile from our house. And they only needed
someone to preach on Sundays, meet with the Council, and provide coverage
during emergencies.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">It was difficult for me to say yes to this. When I
initially met with the Council, they were as reticent about the whole
arrangement as I was, although for different reasons. Like so many other
congregations right now, their numbers shrank during the pandemic, and they
really couldn’t continue going in that direction. So they were approaching the
possibility with caution. I was something of a gamble to them. (They had no
clue about my own misgivings.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">We decided to give it a try, and after a month, I agreed
to serve with them for 12 months. Now I’m struggling a bit to understand how I
can help them move forward, given the limited time I am with them. (I’ve never
been one to leave well enough alone.) So, we’re figuring it out together.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">And here’s the big surprise in all of this, for me.
The more time I spend with the people of Trinity-St. Andrew’s Lutheran Church
in Maspeth, the more I’m enjoying it. It’s been a long time since I was part of
a small congregation, and I am remembering how much I love small congregations.
The caring within community is a beautiful thing to be a part of. And Trinity-St.
Andrew’s does it so well. In such a short period of time, they have already
captured this pastor’s heart.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">So here I am, once again doing something I swore I’d
never do. And I can hear God laughing.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir81gjUf6F7e-hUcwIiPtCae8IhYzxoXIKPt_mafbZ4Cyaia2IrWfL-O9xhWYte_uu6CqGSVYJE8b4yC-MdMhxcfH3JnF7lRyIp8K8w5Pwo0Zo8I_WNqH_D2ctdyGOJpl7EDF4tAOK9-JtCKEYnzrR4XOdV5jG4hERdh51TIk6XLptM2jsQrxEMjtj/s1920/Screenshot%20(5).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir81gjUf6F7e-hUcwIiPtCae8IhYzxoXIKPt_mafbZ4Cyaia2IrWfL-O9xhWYte_uu6CqGSVYJE8b4yC-MdMhxcfH3JnF7lRyIp8K8w5Pwo0Zo8I_WNqH_D2ctdyGOJpl7EDF4tAOK9-JtCKEYnzrR4XOdV5jG4hERdh51TIk6XLptM2jsQrxEMjtj/s320/Screenshot%20(5).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-73439389974563560122022-10-11T17:03:00.000-04:002022-10-11T17:03:05.601-04:00My greatest fear living in NYC<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Before I moved to New York, I tried to imagine all the fears
I would be forced to face: riding the subway alone, getting lost, rats… But I
never suspected what has come to scare me the most. Parallel parking.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I was 16, my driver’s training instructor taught me how
to pass the test to get my license. I practiced parking between poles, and he
had little tricks about where I would see the poles in my windows. It was fool
proof. The test wasn’t a problem. But like other times in my life when I
studied for the sole purpose of passing a test, once I got my license, I never
used what I learned again. For one thing, it only worked in the car I learned
in, which was also the car I used for my test at the DMV. This was not a car
I ever drove after that.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">For more than fifty years I managed to avoid parallel
parking. There was always plenty of room on the street, or there were parking
lots. But with my move to Queens, those days are gone. So here I am, living in
constant fear of being forced to squeeze into a tight space between two cars.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One night last week, I had to go to Home Depot. The good news was that they have a parking lot. The bad news, that it was dark
and misty out, which is always a challenge for my aging eyes. (I actually only
have vision out of one eye so have no depth perception, even in daylight
hours.) When I came home, I pulled into our driveway to drop off my purchases and then move my car to the street. (It’s a shared driveway and so narrow that I can only pull in as far as the driveway between the houses actually begins to drop things off.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We live up the block from a fitness center, which gets so busy
at night that there’s absolutely nowhere to park. I drove around a bit and
found a space that looked like a definite maybe. When I pulled in, I turned too
far and no amount of going back and forth was going to get me into the space.
Meanwhile, three cars were waiting to go around me. With sweat dripping down my
face and heart racing, I panicked and vacated the spot. Then I found another one,
not too far up the street, and it looked a little bigger. This time I went up
over the curb, and again, cars were waiting to go around me, and I gave up. I
drove around the block and found nothing doable for me with my limited skills—that
is, nothing either at least the length of two of my cars or on the end of the
block. So, I drove around another block, and another one after that. Finally, I
found a place about a quarter of a mile away. As I emerged from the car, tears
of frustration were streaming down my face. I felt completely defeated.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Gretchen and Jon had helped me unload and couldn't figure out why it was taking me so long to park my car. Then they saw how frazzled I was when I walked in
the front door. "Why didn’t you call us so we could park the car
for you?" they asked. Well, I thought of that, but I didn’t have my phone with me because… I
was just going to park my car! And although they might have rescued me that
night, that didn’t really solve my problem. Could I be any more pathetic? How
was I ever going to survive in NYC if I couldn’t park my damn car?!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The next morning, I woke up determined to conquer my problem.
For several hours I watched YouTube videos about parallel parking. I took notes
and quickly noticed that every single video offered different advice. It seems
that there is no easy step-by-step method for parallel parking the way I learned
it in driver’s training as a kid. It all depends on the size of your car, the
size of the other cars, the height of the driver, so many variables… Ugh.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I keep working on it and trust that by practicing through trial-and-error and enduring repeated humiliation, eventually I'll get there. Right now, my theme song is, “If I can park it here, I'll park it
anywhere. It’s up to you, New York, New York!” I’m hoping I’ll be able to stop
singing it in time for Christmas Carols.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-53460855264038476032022-09-23T17:39:00.000-04:002022-09-23T17:39:00.670-04:00YES!<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I didn’t care who saw me. Today I stood on Myrtle
Avenue, threw my fists in the air, shouted, “YES!” and did a little happy
dance, all by myself. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">You may know how it feels when you accomplish
something you never thought you could ever do, and it took everything you had,
but you couldn’t quit because the only way around it was through it. It would
have been so easy to give up, but you pressed on and were victorious. It’s in
that moment that you know life is good and you’re damn good! YES!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">When I was a kid, this seemed to be a normal part of
my life. It mostly happened when I was facing something new, and I didn’t think
I could do it, like learning to skateboard or ride a bike, when I tied my own shoes
or climbed to the tippy top of a tree. I knew in those moments that I could “do
anything if I put my mind to it.” (Was anyone else raised to believe this total
poppycock about themselves?) </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Such moments of triumph have been rare for me as an
adult. It happened when I defended my dissertation, and I left the room while my committee conferred before calling me back and announcing, “Congratulations,
Doctor Kraft.” How did I survive running that never-ending gauntlet? How did I persevere
when every step of the way I was ready to throw in the towel? Because I was amazing,
that’s how! YES! </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">This week I was determined to take care of all my DMV
stuff. First, I needed to get a NY driver’s license. I was advised to go to
Long Island for this, which is what I did. The whole way there I kept having
flashbacks of the time I waited for hours at the DMV in North Carolina only to
be told I didn’t have the correct paperwork. This time I brought a stack of
papers with me. I was prepared for any possibility. Of course, then I had too
many papers to sort through when the time came, but the woman who helped me was
a gem. Still, the drive was long and included a number of scary moments and jams
along the way. It took up most of my day. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I spent the balance of the day on the
phone getting New York car insurance, which became effective today. So, I was
determined that this is the day when I would have NY plates on my car. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">This time I opted to stay in the city, and I can only
say that for this out-of-stater, it was the most harrowing experience I’ve had
behind the wheel of a car since I drove down a mountain alone at night during a
blizzard. (Am I really going to get used to this?) I left at 9:30 am for a 10:15 appointment. My phone told me it took 25
minutes to get there. I arrived at 11:00. (90 minutes to drive 8 miles. Isn’t
that less than 10 mph?) And my GPS was worthless. I realized this while I was
sitting in a complete gridlock. Suddenly my phone was taking me to a highway,
not an address, the Van Wyck Expressway, which I was on at the time—multiple lanes
going each way and feeder roads beside them… all at a complete standstill. No
matter what I did, my GPS wasn’t going to get me there. I actually had to stop
and ask for directions. (Can’t remember the last time I’ve resorted to that. A tip of the hat to the parking lot attendant at the </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">New York Times</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> who helped me.) I
still don’t know how I got there. Well, after waiting for an hour, they finally
called my number and I had all the necessary paperwork, so I left with plates
in hand. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Next, I found a garage in the neighborhood to do my
inspection. This is when the story turns from terrible to terrific for me. I
love the garage owner and have decided this is the one I’ll be going to in the
future. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">After leaving the car off, I
walked home and made a stop at a place that’s already become a favorite for me.
Every day they make homemade honey ginger tea that tingles my tongue in the best
possible way. About an hour later, when I returned for my car, it had NY plates
and the inspection sticker in my window. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The next step was mailing my old plates back to Maryland.
It turns out the Glendale post office was just around the corner, so my garage
guy said I could leave my car parked at his place while I walked the plates
over. This was the first time for me at this little post office. I prepared
myself to wait in yet another line and discovered I was the only customer in there!
I mailed the plates, made my exit, and that’s where it happened. I stepped onto
the sidewalk, threw my hands in the air and… “YES!” I am becoming a bad-ass New Yorker.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw4CE0gIxgXzinLAYMvXXeStryLXArtIEiJVV9MFhfc9FDADTPic9uuuwzQz2KbhCb-a7Sh_QBAoVidW9do4EX_9Uc2ZqHFbqkbnoghk-E9c3IvakWT4JZO5_4gV_ow4gYrKU7Q3lBM_viT-xVtB3UHhaMdx1yyZ9eCnpAz_ub8Jx0_3somtlecS6A/s2016/IMG_0516.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw4CE0gIxgXzinLAYMvXXeStryLXArtIEiJVV9MFhfc9FDADTPic9uuuwzQz2KbhCb-a7Sh_QBAoVidW9do4EX_9Uc2ZqHFbqkbnoghk-E9c3IvakWT4JZO5_4gV_ow4gYrKU7Q3lBM_viT-xVtB3UHhaMdx1yyZ9eCnpAz_ub8Jx0_3somtlecS6A/s320/IMG_0516.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-65842687915908338132022-09-15T13:22:00.000-04:002022-09-15T13:22:29.521-04:00Update on my new life<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I’ve been in my new home for just about a month now, working my way through many layers of adjustment. After 25 years of living solo, suddenly I’m living with four
other people. School started after Labor Day and we’re figuring out a routine
for getting the boys to and from school, sharing meals a few times a week, and throwing
in an occasional adventure.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I expected that adapting to life in NY would be
challenging, and it is certainly that. People who have spent their entire life
in the City have no idea just how different things are here. In many respects,
it feels like I’m living in a different country. For one thing, in Queens, I
never know if the person I meet on the street speaks English. I’m also learning
whole new ways of dealing with trash, thinking through how much space I have in
my home before I buy items at the grocery, and pretty much obsessing over
parking spaces and the hours when they’re available. (I’ve seen more than one
car towed in my neighborhood.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Driving is always an adventure. Dodging cars double
and triple parked, people skateboarding in the street, remembering not to turn
right on red, and quickly turning left on a green light before the oncoming
traffic gets started—all of this is new to me. Overall, New York drivers seem to
be cooperative and understand the give-and-take of navigating the narrow, car-lined
streets. They are especially helpful when they immediately alert me at the exact moment a traffic light changes from red to green, in the off chance I might be driving
while blind. Fortunately, I can get to a lot of stuff on foot. Just a couple of blocks and I find pert near everything I need plus lots of cool places to explore. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">There were so many times when I had looked forward to
retirement and wondered if I’d ever even want to step inside a church again. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I. Was. Done. But after taking a couple months off from anything having to
do with Church, settling into life in New York, I found myself yearning for the
community I have experienced through the Church. The past couple of weeks I’ve
preached at a church not far from where I live. Every congregation has its own
personality, and I’m getting to know theirs. They are warm and gracious to this
foreigner. Occasionally, I have trouble understanding them, as they’re all died-in-the-wool
New Yorkers and they speak the part. But they also struggle to decipher my Buckeye
accent, and it’s all received in good humor. This week I had the occasion to
meet some colleagues at a meeting with the bishop. They were so welcoming and
kind that it was easy for me to feel a part of my new synod. I didn’t realize
how much I needed that sense of connection to the church. I'm surprised, but it's good to know.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I wake up every morning to the sound of feet running
across the floor above me. My son-in-law wonders if they should add some
insulation so it’s not so loud for me. Maybe someday, but not yet. It’s still a
sound that fills me with gratitude. Along with hearing all about how their day
in school was, and watching them play at the park, and those times when they appear
in my space just to say “Hi, Nana”, and give me a hug. Often over the past few
years, especially during the pandemic, I have longed to be with them so much
that I feared it would never really happen. Now I sometimes wonder if I’m just dreaming
it. And then I hear the feet running across the floor above me, and I smile.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I think I'm going to survive this move, but I say this with a bit of reservation. Next week I expect to encounter my biggest challenge so far... the DMV. Please pray for me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-64203093025903911752022-08-19T13:04:00.002-04:002022-08-19T13:12:55.612-04:00The restlessness of nestlessness<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">My grandma moved so often that my mom used to tell me every
time grandma needed to clean her house, she just bought a new one. Once when my
uncle showed up to mow her yard, as he did every week, a stranger emerged from the
house to inform him that grandma didn’t live there anymore. Oy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">My mom was nothing like my grandma. By the time I
arrived on the scene in 1952, my family was living at 435 Edwards Avenue and
that’s where Mom remained until she was carried out of the house in 1981 on the day of
her death.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m a lot more like my mom than my grandma. If I had
my way, I would have lived in the same house my whole life. You wouldn’t know
it, though, by the number of times I’ve moved as an adult. Since I finished
seminary, I’ve moved 11 times. (5 of them were in Charlotte alone.) I hate everything
about moving, from scrounging around for cardboard packing boxes to emptying and
breaking down those same boxes for recycling after they’ve been unpacked…and
everything in between. I hate it! And yet, here I go again. One of the things getting me through this
move is that I’m assuming this is the last time. Please, God, let this be my final
move!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I am a nester to the Nth degree. Separating me from my
nest is like throwing me overboard in the middle of the ocean without a life
vest. I know that sounds overly dramatic, but it's how it feels to be me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">People assume I’m into traveling now that I’m retired.
For those who have the means, travel and retirement seem to go hand in hand. But
whenever I travel, as soon as I leave, it feels like I’m holding my breath
until I can get back home again. That’s a sure sign that traveling is not my
thing. I know it’s something a lot of people love, but I’m not one of them.
That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy adventure because my curiosity about people
and places I’ve never experienced is boundless. But I don’t like living out of
a suitcase, I don’t like sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, and I don’t like being
away from my cat, Guido.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m a few days away from my big move to Queens, New
York. Although it’s not someplace I ever thought I’d live
in retirement, not even the allure of snowless winters can compete with living near my
grandsons. And I've decided that considering my aversion to travel and need to nest, coupled
with my longing for adventure, New York City may be the perfect place
for someone like me. There is so much to see and do that I can explore new places
every day and still spend the night in my own home.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The attachment I have to my home in Maryland is
pulling at me, and I know the melancholy will remain until I’ve built my new nest. Feeling unsettled is so... unsettling! I’m looking forward to the day when the furniture is arranged, boxes are
unpacked, the internet is connected, pictures are hung, and I’m in my recliner watching
T.V. with Guido on my lap. Then I will again be me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-65625701513193851272022-08-11T12:03:00.002-04:002022-08-11T12:31:19.794-04:00Can the ELCA really change? <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m enough of a church nerd that I’ve been watching
the Churchwide Assembly of the ELCA on YouTube. I'm also following comments on
Twitter because I’m especially interested in seeing how people a generation or two younger perceive what’s
happening. For example, I have long been a fan of Roberts’ Rules of Order for large group
gatherings like these. And I enjoy those moments when the proceedings go off
the rails and the parliamentarian is called upon to rescue the group from the
weeds. But yesterday I read this tweet: “what’s going to happen when there are
no more boomers and nobody knows roberts rules of order?” A sacred cow of our
denomination was under attack! Are these rules so confusing and restrictive
that they keep people from participating, particularly those who are already being
marginalized? Rather than allowing everyone a place at the table, is Roberts a
barrier to keep some people in and others out? Yes! I can clearly see the truth
in these questions. Why had it eluded me before?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The whole issue of inclusive language continues to be a
huge indicator of division among God’s people. This tweet and others like it
keep popping up: “It’s petty but, it’s an immediate no if you cannot expand
your greeting to add ‘siblings’ when you address a room full of beloveds.” It’s
another lesson for us Baby Boomers. There are a whole lot of people in our
world today who will not hear another word we say if we begin what we say by
excluding them. It’s as simple as that.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I suspect millennials may think they’re the first ones
to deal with these struggles over inclusive language. As a pastor who attended seminary in the 70s, I can assure them that they are not. Of course, back then,
the issue was using language that included women. The favorite communion hymn
for my seminary community was “Sons of God”, and we sang it every week. I remember
one day in particular sobbing through chapel when all the hymns, the liturgy, and the sermon used exclusively male language for God and people
in general. The hymn “O Brother Man, Hold to Thy Heart Thy Brother” was the one
that pushed me over the edge and I had to leave. Contrary to any of the verbiage
we used at worship, there were women in attendance that day. Yes, most of worshippers
were men, so much so that we women couldn’t hear our own voices when we sang,
but we were there. I already felt out-of-place, like I was trying to break into
a club where I wasn’t welcome, and this didn’t help. What hurt the most was
that the men didn’t seem to notice. Why did we have to tell them, again and
again, that we needed to be included?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">B</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">ack in the 70s, when people referred to a pastor as “he
or she” or addressed the congregation as “brothers and sisters” it went a long
way. But what once was considered inclusive has now become exclusive. And, once
again, it’s the people who are feeling excluded who are put into the position of reminding us repeatedly
that “brothers and sisters” is leaving a whole lot of people out. I can understand why they resent it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">During my lifetime, I had the privilege of being in attendance
at Churchwide Assemblies that made consequential decisions for the life of the
church. As a member of the ALC, I voted to merge with two other church bodies
to become the ELCA, and then I was present at the constituting convention in Columbus.
I also had the honor of voting to remove barriers with ecumenical partners. And
I was present for the big decisions in 2009 around fully including gay folks in
the life of the church.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m sensing something different about this year,
though. For all those decisions, we knew what our goal was, and we made it
happen. And now, I’m not sure the voting members know exactly what they want to
happen. The majority clearly know they don’t want things to continue as they are. They want the church to change to meet the needs of the world today, not
the world as it was 35 years ago. There is a lot of tension between preserving
the institution and authentically living out the gospel in a way that is just,
inclusive, and compassionate. The desire is for a radical shift in understanding
who we are as a church. Of course, an undertaking like this requires a smaller group of people to do the work before bringing it back to a Churchwide Assembly. And this seems to be what's freaking people out. Can we trust this process to really bring us to a new place? Perhaps the good news is that it's all up for grabs so the Spirit has space to create something new. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">In many ways, it’s a terrifying time for our Evangelical
Lutheran Church in America. Only God knows what will become of us. But I’m ever
hopeful. This Baby Boomer has seen a lot of changes in my lifetime. And now I
watch and wait with those who have come after me. I feel a strong kinship with them, perhaps because of their passionate quest to cut through the bullshit. I pray they don’t give up the
struggle and that I can support them along the way as they teach us all new
ways of being church.</span> </p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-88864959501180851332022-07-22T18:39:00.002-04:002022-07-22T22:48:40.382-04:00My New York state of mind<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">For my retirement last month, I received a jigsaw puzzle of the
NYC subway system. Today I finished it. As I worked on it, I ruminated on this place
that will become my home in exactly one month, and I gained some newfound respect
for the city. Noticing how many of the puzzle pieces were blue, I saw how the
city has water everywhere—around and within it. So, of course, there are
bridges and ferries and tunnels everywhere, too. I wonder why anybody thought
it was a good idea to have this densely populated center of culture and commerce so inaccessible. And yet, people have been able to make it work. I also
made note of how many puzzle pieces were green. Large and small parks occupy so
much space in the city. In Manhattan, Central Park takes up a significant amount of prime real
estate. It’s remarkable to me that a city so strapped for space has devoted a large portion of it to something that generates no revenue and, in fact, costs over a billion
dollars a year to maintain. How did that come to be? And then there’s the subway
system itself, which is astounding. What’s the story behind that? I just
downloaded </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Subway: The Curiosities, Secrets, and Unofficial History of the
New York City Transit System</i><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">on my Kindle. Suddenly, I’m
curious about all things New York. For me, that’s a huge surprise. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Up until very recently, I’ve never aspired to live in New York City. Mind you, I’ve never been one of those people who says, “It’s
a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.” But that's mainly because I
haven’t even thought of it as a nice place to visit. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">So, you may be wondering,
why am I moving to a place I’ve never wanted to live? Two reasons: Nicholas and
Justin. Like most grandparents I know, I’m nuts about my grandchildren. And
like so many grandparents I know, I’ve struggled to spend as much time with
them as I’d like because of the physical distance between us. So, when it came
time for me to think about where I’d like to retire, it was a no-brainer. There
is no place I’d rather live than NYC. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve been getting used to the idea for a couple of years now. And I think I've sorted through what my big aversion to New York City has been. I confess that a lot of my
dislike for the city is fear-based. It’s so different from any place I’ve lived
that I don’t know what the heck I’m doing when I’m there. And then there’s the
fact that I’m always watching TV shows and movies about New York. It’s the
setting for many of the books I read and the source of my daily news. In many
respects, it’s been the mythic center of my universe. How could I actually live
in such a place? Truth be told, New York City intimidates me!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">From visiting my daughter over the past 14 years, my level of intimidation has decreased. I’ve learned that there’s so much more to New
York City than the ball dropping in Times Square on New Year's Eve. Yes, there are fabulous opportunities to enjoy the
arts, museums, and restaurants. And in Queens I’ll be living in the most culturally
and racially diverse place in the entire world, which is an adventure I welcome
after spending most of my life in a Caucasian cocoon. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">And here's the big thing about New
York that most outsiders don’t realize. It's a place where babies are
born, kids play soccer at the park, folks cook burgers on the grill, and old people
gather with their friends to play cards. For over eight million people, it’s
home. And I’m about to become one of them.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlTCmQcJWR7d8uSFYebsRQNC_vncL92fJ1dOR9goCqR4hBeUH50ht006VR7qzcIPvwhLuAekQNxcqdsBq1ZyXGPEJoHV0iP4z0b6Q_tvNwZcgErQJ-pHJ_YwRv0xqdnAwsSSJtU5wmCbLgJ27CL42jArh2xHaJC4sNrN9DykKLvEG5zpXZuRRXYPi/s4032/PXL_20220722_221134726.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlTCmQcJWR7d8uSFYebsRQNC_vncL92fJ1dOR9goCqR4hBeUH50ht006VR7qzcIPvwhLuAekQNxcqdsBq1ZyXGPEJoHV0iP4z0b6Q_tvNwZcgErQJ-pHJ_YwRv0xqdnAwsSSJtU5wmCbLgJ27CL42jArh2xHaJC4sNrN9DykKLvEG5zpXZuRRXYPi/s320/PXL_20220722_221134726.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-53157678851191416212022-07-06T15:32:00.010-04:002022-07-07T09:21:34.326-04:00Distancing Myself<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I had my big farewell with Ascension the last
weekend of June. It was a bittersweet celebration of the time we had shared before
we parted ways for what comes next. I was not yet officially finished for four
more days, which I spent tying up loose ends: saving the files I thought I might need from my
computer at the church, deleting my voicemail message, extricating myself from managing
all church-related online accounts, and turning in my keys. I tried to leave all the
information the interim pastor might find helpful in a three-ring binder. I slipped him my
parking pass for the hospital. We did lunch and I introduced him to the staff.
After I prayed with them, I quietly exited the meeting so they could carry on
without me. It wasn’t nearly as traumatic as I had imagined. Everything was
going to be fine.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">On the night before my last day, I decided to go to
the food trucks. They come to Ascension’s parking lot every Wednesday night as
a way to create community in the neighborhood and pass along the revenue the
church receives from the vendors to help organizations serving food insecure
folks in the Baltimore area. I hadn’t been to the food trucks since they
started up again back in May and knew that once I was retired, I couldn’t put
myself in the position of rubbing shoulders with Ascension people, so I figured
this was my last chance to go. I went, knowing I would run into members of the
congregation, and my plan was to pick up my food and leave as swiftly
as possible. But, of course, I couldn’t ignore folks. That would be rude. So I
stopped briefly to greet them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Technically, I was still their pastor. But
practically, what on earth was I thinking? They weren’t expecting to see me.
They had showered me with love a few days earlier and said their goodbyes. And I
realized immediately that my appearance was a mistake. It was awkward to the
point of embarrassing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Once a person makes a final, dramatic farewell to the people they love, they need to go. I should have learned this back when I was in college and the guy I had been dating since junior high was drafted. As he headed off to
the Army, we had a deeply emotional goodbye, which included the loss of my
virginity (something I had been saving for a worthy occasion, like sending a boyfriend off to war). We clung to each other amidst our tears, not knowing if we would
ever hold one another again. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">A couple weeks later, he showed up at my college dorm
unannounced. They pulled him off the bus when they saw that he had a bad knee
from an old high school football injury. He didn’t call me to tell me this. He
wanted to surprise me. And, surprised I was. I should have been thrilled to see
him, but I wasn’t. In fact, it resulted in the end of our relationship. I was devastated when he didn’t immediately tell me he had been spared from Viet Nam. I had been crying over his fate
for months, and he waited a couple weeks to tell me he didn’t even go. But worst of all, he put me through a gut-wrenching goodbye, and then he didn't follow through by leaving. He had been playing with my heart like a yo-yo. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">When a pastor leaves a congregation, it’s important to
say goodbye in a meaningful way, and then leave. For the sake of the next pastor and
the congregation itself, they need to move on. That’s the rule pastors live by.
But it’s a little different for me this time. In the past I’ve always gone from
one call to the next one. As much as it’s hurt to leave a church community,
there was always another one waiting for me. This time, that isn’t the case. Yes,
I’m looking forward to the future, living with Gretchen, Jon, Nicholas, and Justin, and whatever
God has in store for me, but that’s nearly two months away. And here I am, cut off
from the only community I’ve ever known in Maryland, while I wait for the
moving truck to arrive on August 22.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It's a strange, liminal space for me. And that's okay. I
have stuff to keep me occupied, and I enjoy my own company. To be honest, I need
to be alone for a while. Some members of Ascension have reached out and asked
to get together with me. A month ago, I thought this would be great. We could
meet for lunch secretly, and no one would need to know. But it doesn’t feel
that way now. I can’t do it. The very thought of it makes me want to run and
hide. No, no, no! It seems that the deeper the feelings I have for the
person, the stronger my aversion is to seeing them right now. And I am seeing
the whole rule about the former pastor distancing themself from the
congregation in a new way. It’s not only best for the congregation and their next
pastor, it’s also best for me. I need to grieve so I can let go, and eventually
move on. And I can’t do that unless I distance myself from Ascension. My heart can’t
get through this any other way.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I need to distance myself. They need
that, too. Not because those are the rules but because, right now, it's the best
way to love Ascension--and myself.</span></p><br />Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-47487176697229271702022-06-26T17:22:00.000-04:002022-06-26T17:22:43.035-04:00How Could I Plan for This?<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I had my life all planned and knew exactly where it
was headed. Buckeye born and buckeye bred, one day I would be buckeye dead.
When I entered Bowling Green State University, I figured I would graduate and
teach little kids how to play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” somewhere near my
hometown of Hamilton, Ohio. I had it all planned. But that’s not how it went.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Seemingly out of nowhere, I felt this inexplicable,
dare I say, bizarre call to become a pastor. I hadn’t grown up a church person
and didn’t have a clue what that might mean, but I felt like the Hound of
Heaven was never going to give me a moment’s peace until I went to seminary so
I might as well do it before it drove me nuts.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">From the get-go, God and I were at odds with one
another. Maybe it was because, when I began, I had no women role models. Or
maybe it was just me. But, as a pastor, I always felt like I was pretending to
fill a role. When I put on my collar and my robe, it was like wearing a
costume. For the longest time, I wasn’t completely convinced this was who I was
or what I should be doing with my life, and I always had one foot out the door,
ready to make my exit. No one is as surprised as I am to see that I’ve made it
this long. How did this happen?!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">If you had followed me through all my calls, you would
know me as very different pastor in each of them. In the beginning, I was a
young mom and shared ministry with my then husband, also a pastor. I was all
about children and education. I wrote children’s songs and Bible School curricula
and directed children’s musicals.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I had such a passion for Christian education that I
decided to pursue a doctorate. I was sure God was calling me to teach in a
college or a seminary. I completed my dissertation and earned my Ph.D. after I
had served on the bishop’s staff and then returned to the parish. Timing and
the circumstances of my life got in the way and my window of opportunity to
move to a teaching position closed. Was this God’s way of keeping me in parish ministry?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">When my marriage and my life fell apart, I didn’t know
if I could continue as a pastor. I needed time to heal and ended up serving a
congregation with a colleague who gave me the space I needed to do that. But,
in the process of healing, I felt like something had died inside me. I went to
school to do something else, and I publicly announced that I was leaving
ordained ministry. It was over.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And then, once again God wouldn’t let me go. We had
quite a go round about it until I went on a retreat to sort it all out, and a
wise spiritual director said two things to me that changed my life. The first
was, “Following Christ doesn’t always have to be hard.” Really? I hadn’t
experienced that. I always thought that following Christ meant choosing the
hard way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And second, she told me, “When you love someone, you
want what they want. You don’t fight them every step of the way; your wills
become one.” And I realized it was time for me to stop doing battle with God. God
was not my enemy. God loved me, and all they wanted was for me to love them
back. And if God wanted me to be a pastor, I would become a pastor, full hog.
No holding back. No fighting it. (This was when I started wearing a full clergy
collar. Prior to that I had worn one of the little tab collars. There was
symbolism in my switch to a full collar. When I put it on, at last I was
saying, “I’m all in.”)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I went to serve at a congregation that should have
scared me to death. They were less than a year from going down the tubes if
things didn’t change, and yet I knew everything was going to be okay. That’s
where I really became a pastor. But I was still a pastor with a plan, and I
planned to stay with that congregation until I retired.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">God had another plan, and that brought me to Ascension.
Those of you who’ve worked closest with me probably realized early on that I’m
a compulsive planner. I had all staff and committees writing goals, implementing
and evaluating them every year. I carefully built a staff that could handle the
transition from having two or three pastors to a solo pastor. I started lay
ministries to share the joy and, quite frankly, to make it possible for me to
breathe. I gave myself totally to the task at hand. And it was all </span><u style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">very
organized</u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I was in my comfort zone, things were going well, and
I had a plan for my time at Ascension. Before I finished up, we would spend
some time developing a long-range plan and revising our goals to better reflect
where we were as a congregation. And then, after we were squared away on that, we
were going to have a capital campaign to reduce our mortgage payments. Then it
would be time for me to retire. And I could leave Ascension in a great position
for the next pastor. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It was a great plan. But, of course, I hadn’t planned
for covid.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As a planner, it probably goes without saying that
chaos is my idea of hell. I don’t do well with chaos. And yet, for some reason,
God has given me the gifts to be really good in a crisis. And I rose to the
occasion. From the first day until now, the pandemic has not gone the way I expected,
and I’ve worn myself out thinking through, what if this happens? what if that
happens? planning for one possibility after another. The pandemic has left me
exhausted. But I’ve also come to realize that my exhaustion goes way beyond the
pandemic. Over the course of a lifetime, I’ve exhausted myself trying to
control everything. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I know there’s some of that need to be in control in
all of us. And you might think that I’m telling you all this today as a
cautionary tale. But that’s not it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Looking back on my life as a pastor, I’ve made some good
choices and some questionable ones. I’ve often found myself in circumstances
that were clearly beyond my control. I’ve had a few heartbreaks. And I’ve
experienced some amazingly delightful surprises along that way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And here’s the thing… Through it all, I’ve never been
alone. God has been with me every step of the way. And the way I’ve experienced
that is through the people God has sent into my life. I’ve had more of that
than any person could ever hope for. Through my family and dear friends,
through people in Columbus, Ohio and Marine City, Michigan, and Jamestown, North
Dakota, Carrollton and Kilgore, Ohio and Uniontown, Ohio, and the Northeastern
Ohio Synod and Charlotte, North Carolina and now here in Towson, Maryland. Thank
you for your partnership along the way. I have been so incredibly blessed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">We never know where our journey will take us, and it
usually isn’t going to go the way we’d planned. A big reason for that is that
we ourselves change so much along the way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">As a pastor, I’ve changed the way I think about so
many things: About how to interpret scripture and the meaning of the cross. About
Holy Communion and who ought to be receiving it. About the value of children
and youth—not for the adults they will one day become, but because of the gifts
they bring us right now as children and youth. About gay, lesbian, bisexual,
and transgender folks and what they have to teach us about living authentically
as the people God created us to be. About racism that’s blatant and racism
that’s latent, and how difficult it is for us white people to see it. I’m not at
all the person I was when I began as a pastor. I couldn’t have planned for
that. And God isn’t finished with me yet.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I can’t expect to know what’s next, and neither can
Ascension. God doesn’t give us a roadmap for what lies ahead. The best we can
do is take a step forward and wait on the Spirit to guide us as we take the
next step, and the step after that. And trust that when we’re living into God’s
reign, our lives have purpose. God has a plan for us and all creation. We may
not be able to see what it is, but we can trust we’re a part of it whenever we
embody the Jesus way in the world around us: the way of mercy, compassion, and justice.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It's been an honor to do that among you as your
pastor. Thank you.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-49699567155886786712022-06-22T08:57:00.002-04:002022-06-22T09:10:51.244-04:00Switching Pronouns<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m having a lot of trouble with pronouns these days.
I’m not talking about honoring the preferred pronouns someone chooses. That’s a
good thing, although for those of us who didn’t grow up with such options, it’s
often difficult. But those aren’t the pronouns I’m having trouble with right
now. It’s when to use </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">and when to use </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">you.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">For six years I’ve been </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> with Ascension. I’ve
challenged our community in sermons with the pronoun </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">. I’ve remembered
our past with </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">. I’ve looked forward to our future with </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">. We
have been doing ministry together. We have had some glorious moments. We have
worshipped inside, outside, with various levels of precautions. We have weathered some storms. We have butted heads at times. We have laughed often. And we
have loved and cared for one another through it all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">But now I am starting to refer to Ascension as </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">you</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">.
It usually happens when I’m leaving instructions for something that needs to
happen after I leave. And I catch myself in the </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">. No, </span><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we</b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> aren’t
going to be doing this next week. </span><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">You</b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> are. It’s all very confusing and
leaves me in complete liminal limbo—right smack dab in the middle of nowhere.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I like the warmth of living in a </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">-state. </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">You</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">-ville
is such a detached, uncaring place to be. My </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> days are rapidly coming
to an end, and I wonder how long it will take me to permanently lose the </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">.
That will be when I start referring to Ascension as </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">them</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">. Ugh. I’m not
ready to think about that yet. I’m having enough trouble going from </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">we</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> to
</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">you</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">.</span> </p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-66351500323839593602022-06-20T09:14:00.000-04:002022-06-20T09:14:02.841-04:00No pigs were harmed in the preaching of this sermon<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrirsonw20hNGyPqGWCHpECdaVWP7tsox09kkv_NjwKkjY5fWy-nLyDeq2vWFfm2uWM16aewzeUwNoKqXhX58RG7OhQxp3WvidkKqygP8NMF9GVceKN3b9IMcGrRBvmSvs7Bl4-QDFIvAUaZmb8qcLkJNaZk5iSiTKn2hBDwEkgo6sPWpzXxKvk4h/s548/Picture1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="548" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrirsonw20hNGyPqGWCHpECdaVWP7tsox09kkv_NjwKkjY5fWy-nLyDeq2vWFfm2uWM16aewzeUwNoKqXhX58RG7OhQxp3WvidkKqygP8NMF9GVceKN3b9IMcGrRBvmSvs7Bl4-QDFIvAUaZmb8qcLkJNaZk5iSiTKn2hBDwEkgo6sPWpzXxKvk4h/w228-h152/Picture1.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Can’t you just hear them squealing as they run for the
cliff? They plunge to their death and *splat*, the squealing stops.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Poor pigs. It was a horrible way to go. Of course, so
is having your throat slit, being butchered, and eaten, so maybe we shouldn’t
feel that sorry for them when the demons send them over a cliff.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">It’s just a terrible thing to be a pig. I understand
they are very intelligent animals. And yet, they’re of no value to us humans
until they’re dead. They’re not good for their fur, or their milk. Their only use
is for meat. And for the Jews, they aren’t even good for that since Jews don’t
do pork.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Perhaps those who watched this bizarre incident had no
sympathy for the pigs. But what about the pig owner? Surely, he deserved some
restitution. His investment had literally gone over a cliff. Those little
piggies were never going to market! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">This is my penultimate sermon for God’s beloved at
Ascension, and I’ve been musing a lot about those pigs. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">What if I could put some demons inside a few pigs
and send them over a cliff for the sake of Ascension? I don’t mean literal
demons and pigs, but metaphorical ones. The demons who are oppressing our
ministry and holding us back from living into the Kingdom of God that Christ is
calling us to be a part of. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 107%;">I want to name some of those of those demons for you today
as a hope and a challenge for you as you move into a new chapter of ministry. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 107%;">The first demon I wish I could send
over the cliff for you is <b>confusing the huddle with the game.</b> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibD97RGbxdad_Ga2cbM7aD-_kujrebyS4b87hTuLubUfeVWM6PfftF7g9_24A3ZhiiFr2wOovOQTQHYjeJ9MEPWXtfriNwgL_6XD4JBs0OhnDbCLWz8AWh0L22S2yGvYVkXs6nyjbMTkCFxPHLzV_RCoq4IP_1JfI6CrKQU4IUx3XtMMKwH4wyg4WY/s210/Picture2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="170" data-original-width="210" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibD97RGbxdad_Ga2cbM7aD-_kujrebyS4b87hTuLubUfeVWM6PfftF7g9_24A3ZhiiFr2wOovOQTQHYjeJ9MEPWXtfriNwgL_6XD4JBs0OhnDbCLWz8AWh0L22S2yGvYVkXs6nyjbMTkCFxPHLzV_RCoq4IP_1JfI6CrKQU4IUx3XtMMKwH4wyg4WY/s1600/Picture2.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></div>Our
worship ministry is so important for us, and all the people who make it
possible by serving on Sunday mornings: altar guild, choirs, ushers, readers. During
the pandemic, we’ve learned that our worship ministry doesn’t need to be confined
to this space. Many of you are with us today via YouTube.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Our ministry also includes caring ministries within
the congregation: eucharistic ministers, Stephen Ministers, Sunday school, and
youth group.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">And then there’s outreach in the community around us:
our nursery school, Christian Service Group, Quilters, food trucks, work with
the refugee family living in our parsonage, our partnership with Lutherans in Nicaragua,
ACTC, Food for Thought, BRIDGE Maryland, Campus Ministry, and more... It’s a
long list of ministries that we’re involved in as a congregation. A big thank
you to everyone who gives so much of themselves to these ministries.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">But what I've neglected to say as often as I should
have as your pastor is that most of the ministry of Ascension doesn’t happen through
the programs of our congregation, or even our partnerships in the community. Most
of our ministry happens in schools, and hospitals, and banks, and restaurants,
corporate offices, and small businesses, caring for family members and neighbors.
Wherever you are living out your lives as followers of Jesus, in your homes and
the places you work and volunteer, that’s where most of the ministry of
Ascension is happening.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">What we do here on Sunday mornings serves the purpose
of a huddle during a football game. We come together and huddle here in this
place. But that’s not where our ministry happens. We huddle to get us ready for
the ministries we have on the field. The huddle is not the game. It could
change the way we do ministry at Ascension if we stopped confusing the huddle
for the game.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Another
demon I’d like to put into a pig and send on its way for Ascension is </span><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">concentrating
on the rearview mirror. </b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10-RZul_aLgXqk2vWantIOv5VBc9MrEwNhO0NvnnzeFXML76GgOm-9sWPuE7XkL_1nBhDSjFc4h4i0y0uu66SryWP5CUzGvog4Bok_rTQeZNPirx_kZ-kp0Rn0wVhrdaAdCWfOGthlXXfa8KgqdP4JhjldaHu52GdKoSF2ENTtSBYN7Twg-6IiUwr/s734/Picture3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="210" data-original-width="734" height="92" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10-RZul_aLgXqk2vWantIOv5VBc9MrEwNhO0NvnnzeFXML76GgOm-9sWPuE7XkL_1nBhDSjFc4h4i0y0uu66SryWP5CUzGvog4Bok_rTQeZNPirx_kZ-kp0Rn0wVhrdaAdCWfOGthlXXfa8KgqdP4JhjldaHu52GdKoSF2ENTtSBYN7Twg-6IiUwr/s320/Picture3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><p><span style="font-size: 16pt;">God has given us an opportunity with covid—an
opportunity, not to return to the church we once knew, but to allow God to do a
new thing through us. I pray that you don’t miss this opportunity God is giving
you. And I pray that your next pastor will have what I am lacking right now—the
energy you need for this new beginning. I also pray that you aren’t expecting
the next pastor to help you return to the way things were before the pandemic—what
many people call “normal” as in, “I can’t wait for things to get back to
normal." Ugh. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: 16pt;">The more things change and the more uncertain they
become, the more we tend to look wistfully in the rear-view mirror. But if
you’ve ever driven a car, you know that you can never move forward while you’re
preoccupied with looking behind you in the rearview mirror. If you do, there’s
a very good chance you’re going to end up driving off the road.</span></p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">In the months and years ahead, may you move your
attention away from the rearview mirror, and instead wait eagerly on tiptoe,
trusting that God is doing a new thing at Ascension. Living into the unknown is
scary, but it’s the only faithful way to embrace this opportunity God is giving
you. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: justify;">The next demon I’d like to send over
a cliff for you is </span><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: justify;">cutting the head out of the picture. </b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHmQod_C0GNm4x546RJCKBLEjIn0AB-mzjVH8jyyqC0sQpbln3EQdco3P_NUNXuzeZTAkWrmeCU0k1_dZM6Qb5m2iWgfjwSE86gmU0SYSfdedBHq5ojWM2M_VkUHArg9EDWSoeHSpe7diZbEPNW7gTat0-NrJwvy1pxJnQc6KD6jEi12t1sPss6bwn/s468/Picture4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="468" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHmQod_C0GNm4x546RJCKBLEjIn0AB-mzjVH8jyyqC0sQpbln3EQdco3P_NUNXuzeZTAkWrmeCU0k1_dZM6Qb5m2iWgfjwSE86gmU0SYSfdedBHq5ojWM2M_VkUHArg9EDWSoeHSpe7diZbEPNW7gTat0-NrJwvy1pxJnQc6KD6jEi12t1sPss6bwn/w263-h174/Picture4.png" width="263" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: justify;"><p><span style="font-size: 16pt;">You know how
sometimes you can take a picture on your phone or camera, and you cut off
someone’s head? It all depends on what the focus of our picture is, doesn’t it?</span></p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">Do we cut the head out of Ascension’s picture? Let me
be clear about who the head is in this metaphor. It’s not the pastor. Or the
staff. Or Council. Or our nursery school. Or music ministry. Or youth group. Or
anything else that may be near and dear to us. Our head is Jesus.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">Our primary focus as a congregation is not to offer
more programs. It’s not to get more butts in the pews on Sunday morning. To
keep the building cool in the summer and warm in the winter. It’s not to
increase our offerings or balance our budget. And it’s certainly not to keep
everybody happy all the time. It’s always nice when those things happen, but
when they become our primary focus, we’re cutting off our head.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">When we cut Jesus out of our picture, by focusing on
anything else, we are no longer the church. We may be a social club or a service
organization, or any number of other things, but we’re not a church.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">The most important thing we do when we huddle together
is spending time with Jesus. Understanding what he said and taught and did.
Allowing him to challenge us. Preparing ourselves to do what he sent us to do
in his name. And allowing him to transform our lives.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">Jesus who answered the question, “Who is my neighbor”
by telling the story of the Good Samaritan. Jesus who told a rich man to give
away everything he has to the poor. Jesus who, when the soldiers came to arrest
him, told Peter to put away his weapon. Jesus, who says people will know we’re
his followers if we have love for one another. Jesus, who calls us to deny
ourselves, take up our cross and follow him. Jesus, who will judge us by how we
show our love for him—feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting
prisoners, caring for the sick.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">Focusing on Jesus is challenging. It’s easy to see why
we might prefer to cut off our head. And that brings me to the final pig I’d
like to throw over a cliff for you.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">In this pig, I’d like to stuff what
I’ll call, </span><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">clinging to the boat</b><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">.</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS9o6mecr8LJ_OnN3dAjShq3CWXCJwOrN79wZGlpUQDDiUTP148q7t_zvxGMRERzIPMZjN83Pb0BgLT-k4pkjg7_JQuzldr8h4q25cCDLOBZD5cY5lXNQIy4bwTQvMuw5cK3SVd1OLLnli_-BG6SjNprHc9CL7HqWRE-11kH-NJyTZtddvuxD2vmEn/s393/Picture5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="296" data-original-width="393" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS9o6mecr8LJ_OnN3dAjShq3CWXCJwOrN79wZGlpUQDDiUTP148q7t_zvxGMRERzIPMZjN83Pb0BgLT-k4pkjg7_JQuzldr8h4q25cCDLOBZD5cY5lXNQIy4bwTQvMuw5cK3SVd1OLLnli_-BG6SjNprHc9CL7HqWRE-11kH-NJyTZtddvuxD2vmEn/w238-h179/Picture5.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">Do you remember the story of
Jesus walking on the water? As he approaches the disciples’ boat, Peter asks, “Ooo.
Ooo. Jesus, can I do that too?” Jesus says, “Sure, come on out.” Well, Peter
steps out on the water, and he’s doing fine until the waves pick up a bit. He
panics and almost goes under, but Jesus reaches out a hand to save him. The
part about that story that really amazes me is not Jesus walking on water, but
Peter actually stepping out of the boat. No doubt, he is petrified, yet he
faces his fears and takes a bold step toward Jesus.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">As disciples of Jesus, we’re called, not to cling to
the boat, but to step out in faith.</span></p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">We’re living in a scary world right now. I don’t know
that any of us would deny that. Increasing gun violence, war in Ukraine and
elsewhere, fires in the western US, droughts, floods, and other effects of
climate change, the coronavirus that just won’t quit, both blatant and latent
racism that won’t go away without a whole lot of struggle, the deepening divide
between political parties, widening economic disparity, a global refugee
crisis. There are so many reasons to be afraid for our future.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">The gospel calls us, not to ignore our fears, but to
face them, to step out of the boat. This is a time for bravery and boldness. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">We
cannot cling to the boat and follow Jesus. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">Are you prepared to step out of the boat and follow
Jesus? Know that he’s always there to catch us when we fall, but first… </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">we
have to get out of the darn boat!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Those are the four pigs I’d like to throw over the
cliff for you:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Confusing
the huddle with the game</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 107%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Concentrating
on the rearview mirror</span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Cutting
the head out of the picture<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Clinging
to the boat<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">Of
course, I know I can’t just fling what’s holding Ascension back over a cliff.
If I could, I would have done it six years ago when I came to you.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">The Christian church is facing unprecedented
challenges in the years ahead. Ascension, like all churches, will come to a
time in the future when you will become preoccupied with survival. And when
you’re in survival mode, it’s especially difficult to remember who you are and
what you’re called to do. You will be inclined to play it safe, confusing the
huddle with the game, concentrating on the rearview mirror, cutting the head
out of the picture, clinging to the boat. It’s when you’re worried about
survival and everything in you says, “play it safe” that you need to do just
the opposite and step out in faith. That’s when I hope you’ll think about this
sermon. Or maybe think about it whenever you’re munching on a slice of bacon.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">I’ve gone a lot longer than usual today because this
is my final sermon to Ascension. I need to stop before you decide to stuff me
in one of those pigs and send me over a cliff. Next week I’ll be addressing the
occasion of my retirement. Today’s sermon is what I want to say to Ascension as
I leave you.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;">You’re entering a new era. So is the world around you.
No one knows exactly what lies ahead. I can assure you it won’t be without some
pain. I hope you know that. Know also that Ascension has been richly blessed by
God with abundant gifts to do God’s kingdom work in wondrous ways. Prepare
yourselves for the next big adventure!</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt;"><i>Preached for God's beloved saints at Ascension, Towson on June 19, 2022.</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-24641428980707928372022-06-13T09:30:00.004-04:002022-06-13T17:55:58.083-04:00My Brush with an Emmy Award<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">Today, this headline popped up in my newsfeed: “Band of
Brothers Struck Gold at the Emmy Awards 20 Years Ago.” And suddenly, I was sitting
at my desk one evening in Charlotte, North Carolina. No one else was around,
the phone range, and I picked up. It was a random man with an even randomer
question.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">He introduced himself as Erik somebody and told me he was
working on the screenplay for a series called “Band of Brothers” coming to HBO.
He explained a bit about the plot, that it was something about World War 2. But when he mentioned the name Steven Spielberg, I was suspicious. I mean, if
someone were going to prank me about writing a screenplay, wouldn’t they mention
Steven Spielberg? Of course they would.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">Erik Somebody explained that he was one of many writers
who were working on this project. And then he finally got to his question. He
was writing a scene that took place at a graveside. The person being buried
was a Lutheran, so he needed to know the wording. What exactly would a Lutheran
pastor say at the graveside?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">Okay. Maybe this was legit. But is this really how people research
screenplays for bigtime shows on HBO? Do they just open the phone book, go to Lutheran
Churches, and start calling? (Yes, people were still using phone books back then,
and I was serving at </span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Ad</b><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">vent Lutheran Church, so we were at the top of the alphabetical listing and got a lot of strange
phone calls.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">Rather than hang up on him, I decided to play along. I
pulled out my </span><u style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Lutheran Book of Worship</u><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"> and read some pastoral graveside verbiage
to Erik. He thanked me and that was that.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">But then, after he hung up, I realized I hadn’t given him
the correct information. I gave him the words </span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">I</b><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;"> would say at a graveside,
but this scene took place during World War 2. That was two service books ago! I
quickly searched my bookshelves for the old black hymnal that would have been
used back then and called Erik back. After I explained my error and gave him
the correct wording that would have been used in the 40s, again, he thanked me,
and again, that was that.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">I was relieved when I finally learned that Erik hadn't been pulling my leg. There really was a series coming to HBO called, "Band of Brothers" and Steven Spielberg was involved. When it aired, I watched it intently,
waiting to see my contribution, but it never happened. It must have ended up on
the cutting room floor… if it even got that far.</span></p>
<p><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14pt;">So, I didn’t win an Emmy. And my contribution was a small
one. And it wasn’t even used. But still, it’s the closest I’ll ever get to an
Emmy and I’ll take it. I accept this non-award on behalf of the <u>Common Service Book of the Lutheran Church</u> and the telephone book, both now obsolete but not forgotten.</span></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-89541445320640322422022-05-18T14:25:00.001-04:002022-05-18T14:32:27.030-04:00Letting go, moving on... and praying I can do it<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">In addition to retiring in a little over a month, I’m
getting ready to relocate my life. The plan is that I will move to be with my
family in Queens, New York. We have talked about this for years and it’s hard
to believe that it’s almost time to make it happen. I’m grateful that my
daughter, and especially my son-in-law, are okay with this. As a single person,
it doesn’t make much sense for me to stay in Maryland or move anyplace else
without family nearby. And I’ve always had this longing to live close enough to
my grandchildren that I could become a part of their lives, and they would be
able to really know me. This is something that neither I nor my children ever
had the opportunity to experience, and I want this for Nick and Justin. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The plan is for us to live together in the same house
with a separate space for me where I can have my own privacy, and I won’t be
constantly annoying Gretchen and Jon (or vice versa). I can offer an extra hand
with the boys, and they will be nearby to help me as I continue to go downhill
in the years ahead. (I'm obviously getting the better end of the bargain.) </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Jon and Gretchen have been renting in NY, so this means
purchasing a home. Of course, I’m also selling my home in Maryland. That’s been
easy. I put it on the market and it sold immediately. But as buyers, Jon and
Gretchen have faced one challenge after another since they started looking back
in March. They’ve extended offers on a number of houses that have gone nowhere.
One was accepted only to have someone else come along and offer more money, and
that was the end of that. Right now, they’re moving quickly to get a house they’ve
fallen in love with. I’m praying with my fingers crossed as I hold my breath. I
hope this is it. I have to say that I’m beyond proud of the way they’ve
persisted; they’ve learned a lot along the way and are determined to succeed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve also had some reckoning of my own to work
through. I always knew that I would have to divest myself of a lot of my
possessions to make this move. I began getting rid of stuff during the
pandemic, selling some and flat out giving a lot away. But it wasn’t enough.
I’m coming to terms with the reality that I’m going from 2000 sf to something
more like 300 sf. That means that pretty much everything I own must go. I know a lot of older people come to this point, if they live long enough, but I wasn’t
ready for it quite this soon. I keep telling myself that it’s just stuff, and I will finally have the opportunity to live a simpler lifestyle. Yes, I can do this. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Throughout my life, it’s been like a death every time
I’ve moved, leaving behind my life and the people I loved who were a part of it. It’s a gut-wrenching trauma that I suspect has taken years from my
life every time I've gone through it. This time is a bit more than that for me. I’m not just leaving
behind a congregation of people I love. I’m leaving behind a way of life, the
only way of life I’ve ever known as an adult. As ready as I am, I know it’s
going to be hard for me, and a part of me is already grieving. But, on top of
that, there’s this moving thing going on. Literally leaving behind tables,
chairs, beds, pictures, books, dishes, linens… stuff that I’ve been lugging
from one place to another my whole life. It’s a lot to say good-bye to. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I've also learned, every time I've moved and started over, that resurrection always follows the time of death, and the grieving gives way to joy. I know that's the way it works. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m praying that I will have the grace I
need to let go and enough faith to trust in the gift of new life that always seems
to find me on the other side. Experience has taught me that I have every reason
to believe my prayer will be answered.</span></p>Nancy's Noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09929669786221808498noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-33395292151773807402022-04-18T16:11:00.002-04:002022-04-18T16:18:43.616-04:00Easter, Marvin K. Mooney, and me<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 18.6667px;">On Easter Sunday, after the dust settled, in a moment of self-reflection, I posted this on my Facebook page: <i>I never wanted to become one of those pastors who doesn't know when it's time to retire. Today began when I put on two pairs of panties. I've never done that before. Then after worship, I went to leave the building and noticed I was still wearing my robe and stole. I wish I could say that I've never done that before, but I can't. This afternoon I watched the video of this morning's worship on YouTube and saw I made the same announcement twice without realizing it. On my final Easter as a parish pastor it has been confirmed for me once again... It's time for me to retire.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">Judging from the comments my post elicited, I’m feeling the need to say more. First of all, if you know me, you know that I like to exaggerate in my storytelling. So, regarding the panties, I realized while I was putting the second pair on that I already had the first pair on. I did not wear two pairs of panties on Easter morning. And then, about exiting with my robe on… I didn’t get very far before I realized I was still wearing my vestments. It’s not like I made it to the car. And, regarding the duplicate announcement… Even though I didn’t realize I had already made the announcement about taking home Easter lilies at the beginning of worship, it was still a good idea to say it again just before the benediction. If I hadn’t confessed the fact that I didn’t realize I did it twice, no one would have noticed. And, it was a simple mistake, considering the fact that I hadn’t written it down anywhere and I had a gazillion things to remember on Easter morning. In other words, I might have done the same thing 20 years ago. So, I appreciate all the people who tried to make me feel better by encouraging me to be gracious with myself.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">But here’s the thing for me, and the real reason I wrote that post. Although it was the first time I led in-person worship on Easter since 2019, I can still remember how it was back then. And I am not the person I was three years ago. Everything was more stressful this year. Keeping track of the details took more effort. Just getting through it felt like it took everything I had. Perhaps to those who were sitting in the pews, it didn’t seem that way, but from inside my skin, that’s how it felt. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">Prior to Sunday, I wondered if I would be able to make it through leading my last Easter worship without shedding a few tears. In reality, I didn’t even come close; I simply didn’t have enough bandwidth for emotions. I was working too hard to do what I needed to do so folks at Ascension could have a nice Easter. And I gave it the best I had to give. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">Later in the day, reflecting on my experience, it was clear to me that it’s good this is my last Easter as a parish pastor. I don’t say that with any regret or angst. I’ll turn 70 this year. I’ve been doing this for over 43 years now. That’s long enough. And, of course, I’m not the pastor I once was. After I’ve crawled on the floor ironing the wrinkles out of an Easter banner, I need some help getting up. When I do the Easter Bunny Hop with the kids, I have to fake my hops. I sometimes have a brain fart and can’t remember names when I give people communion. And every little thing I do requires a tremendous amount of effort. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">I don’t say any of this with a sense that I’ve somehow been defeated. I’ve spent enough time with old people through the years to know that it’s normal. The affects of aging are going to continue for the rest of my life. And I’m grateful to be alive! (I’m also grateful that I have the ability to laugh at my own limitations.) I suppose what I’m saying is that I don’t need to prove that I’m still young and up to the job because I’m not. And that’s okay.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">I keep thinking about a book I read to my kids when they were little, Dr. Seuss’s <i>Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now!</i> All through the book, the narrator is trying to get Marvin K. Mooney to leave, and he won’t go. “You can go by foot, you can go by cow. Marvin K. Mooney, will you please go now?” So it continues, and Marvin K. Mooney just won’t go. Until the very end when we read, “I don’t care when and I don’t care how. Marvin K. Mooney, will you please go now!” And after begging, cajoling, and demanding that Marvin K. Mooney go, we finally read, “I said go and go I meant. The time had come, so… Marvin went.” </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">I don’t deny my limitations as I age. And I don’t wonder if maybe I could hang on for a few more years. Instead, I hope it will be said of me, when all is said and done, that I went out like Marvin K. Mooney. “The time had come, so… Nancy went.”</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLYcxxM63upnH7kY-G4e81atPUkftmWuByPW33ykHDqOjS-SUlm9rDpEgBvEct4hxHE44BixARxlQMJxB1poojAsAU9oWuUJmsJg1sYKUY5XRtXqo_mILTizpgKvrwQFs6s4tnJkjhA3V9f_XIjkYoyMEajfHBAOiqbVgdAGjFlnOXUeyBLX5OBXUh/s2048/278723672_10158593523303344_4836192174723560215_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLYcxxM63upnH7kY-G4e81atPUkftmWuByPW33ykHDqOjS-SUlm9rDpEgBvEct4hxHE44BixARxlQMJxB1poojAsAU9oWuUJmsJg1sYKUY5XRtXqo_mILTizpgKvrwQFs6s4tnJkjhA3V9f_XIjkYoyMEajfHBAOiqbVgdAGjFlnOXUeyBLX5OBXUh/s320/278723672_10158593523303344_4836192174723560215_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><br /></span></span><p></p><div><br /></div>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05894799922341495196noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-55736669088489553702022-03-11T14:08:00.002-05:002022-03-11T15:33:21.849-05:0043 Years Later<span style="font-size: medium;">Since this is the last anniversary of ordination I will observe as an active parish pastor, it’s a good time to reflect on what these 43 years have meant to me. On the day I was ordained, I was absolutely clueless. I hadn’t a clue what my life would be like and all that would happen in the years ahead. And I hadn’t a clue that I would still be doing this into the 70th year of my life. <br /><br />In my first call we used mimeograph machines, and address-o-graphs. For single copies, carbon paper did the job. We taught with filmstrips and overhead projectors and thought we were so cool. Of course, all those became obsolete. But the lessons I learned from my first call went far beyond that. I’ll forever be thankful to the people of Trinity in Jamestown, ND, who patiently walked with me as I figured out what it meant to be a pastor. <br /><br />It made sense that Trinity was the church to call me because they were progressive, always the first to take on new ventures. When I came to serve them, I was the first ordained woman in the ALC to serve in my district (and state). At the time, I don’t think I fully appreciated the significance. I was too busy trying to figure out what it meant for me to be a pastor. Particularly, with virtually no women role models, I struggled to understand how to be a woman and a pastor. I was also keenly aware of the fact that everyone was watching me to see if I succeeded or failed. If I failed, it would be a set-back for those who followed me. In the early years, that may be what kept me going. <br /><br />I married another pastor while we were both in seminary, and we served our first two congregations together. We each worked half-time so we could spend the other half taking care of our two children. It worked for us, and it was a great way to parent. However, I knew that being part of a clergy couple in the same church made it easier for me to get my first call. It actually came sooner than we wanted it to. Our first child, born while I was typing my final paper of seminary, was only 6 weeks old when we had our interview. Other women who were seeking their first call had to wait far too long. <br /><br />I knew that being attached to my husband, also a pastor, made it easier for people to accept me. But it also made it more difficult. I didn’t feel like people took me seriously, and in many cases I was viewed as a helper for my husband. I became painfully aware of this in my second call. After serving a progressive congregation in North Dakota, I moved back home to Ohio to serve a church that was clearly stuck in the 50s. It was oppressive for me and I had to get out. <br /><br />So I went to grad school. It was something I had been thinking about for a while because I had a passion for Christian Education and my seminary training in the field was so lacking that I wanted to change that. But, in all honesty, when I went to graduate school to get my PhD, it was as much about survival as anything else. During that time, I also served an interim, which kept me in parish ministry enough to know that I still loved the work. <br /><br />When I was ABD (all but dissertation), I served as Assistant to the Bishop in the newly formed Northeastern Ohio Synod at the very beginning of the ELCA. I had the honor of working on an amazing staff with people who became like family to me. But it was like an ill-fitting shoe; I was never comfortable in the role. I am not a company person, and I found myself in situations where I had to speak for someone else about ideas that I didn’t always agree with. I knew this was not a long-term commitment for me. <br /><br />While working with a congregation in the call process, I became convinced that God was calling me to become their next pastor. I gave them a strong list of candidates to interview and told myself that if they didn’t work out, I would go to the bishop and explain to him that I would like to be considered, along with my husband. And that’s where I went next. It was a wonderful congregation, we were growing by leaps and bounds, and I really thought I’d stay there until I retired. (By the way, this is also when I finished my dissertation on “Nurturing a Social Consciousness Through Church Education” and earned my PhD. Although the circumstances of my life never allowed me to teach Christian Ed in a college or seminary, this study was an important part of my ministry and led me to where I landed.) <br /><br />And that’s when the shit hit the fan. Long story short, my husband was guilty of sexual misconduct and what felt like my time in Camelot came to an end. I stayed on at the church, and we divorced. But then, I made the biggest mistake of my life—I quickly married again. To say the marriage was a disaster is an understatement, since he was already married to someone else at the time. I still feel great sorrow over the turmoil I brought to the people of Advent in Uniontown, Ohio. I dearly loved them, and they didn’t deserve to be a part of the upheaval my ex-husband, and then I myself, put them through. <br /><br />I knew I needed to move someplace where an entire synod didn’t know the sordid details of my life. So, I moved to the place I loved to vacation and always thought I would retire, North Carolina. First, I served the good people of Advent in Charlotte and worked with Pastor Dick Little, a man who changed my life in so many ways. It was a perfect place to recover and heal from the trauma I went through in my former call. When it became apparent that I had outgrown my call at Advent, I still felt like something inside me had died, and I couldn’t imagine ever having the emotional energy I needed to love and serve another congregation. So, I made the difficult decision to leave parish ministry. I began working on a master’s in teaching ESL while I continued to serve the church part time. <br /><br />I was all but gone. I had one foot out the door and the other foot, too, except for one pinky toe. But God wouldn’t let me go. One thing led to another and I was called to serve the incredible congregation of Holy Trinity in Charlotte. Like me, they were hanging on by a thread. I knew I had nothing to lose. But I also really wanted them to make it, and I believed I was the person who could help them. <br /><br />I had watched them from a distance since moving to North Carolina eight years earlier. It was during the time when our denomination was struggling to figure out how we would receive the gifts of LGBT folks into the life of the church, and for many years Holy Trinity was the one little shrub voicing the call for full inclusion surrounded by a forest of trees shouting, “No!” While they were struggling to survive, other congregations were pointing to them saying, “See, that’s what happens when you welcome gay people into your church.” I wanted to bring them to a day when other congregations were no longer saying, we don’t want to become like Holy Trinity to the day when they were asking, “Why can’t we become more like Holy Trinity?” <br /><br />During the eleven years I served there, we came to that day. When the ELCA churchwide assembly voted to ordain people in same-gender committed relationships, I was there. It was an absolutely glorious day for the church, for me, and for the people of Holy Trinity. And it was repeated a few years later when a court in North Carolina allowed same gender folks to legally marry. I had the honor of being one of the plaintiffs in that case and the celebrating afterwards was through the roof. After illegally marrying couples for years, I became a marrying machine and lost track of the number of couples I married after it became legal for them to do so. The first was a group of five couples who were featured on the front page of the <i>Charlotte Observer</i>. <br /><br />If it had been up to me, I would have remained in North Carolina until the day I died. I lived in Charlotte longer than I have lived anywhere, 18 years. But during that time, my daughter Gretchen, who had been teaching and studying in North Carolina, moved to New York City. I understood why she had to do it, but emotionally, I felt abandoned. I had no family nearby. Then came Nicholas, grandson number one. And Gretchen talked about a grandchild number two. She landed a good paying job teaching theatre in the NYC public schools, and I knew I was rarely going to see my grandchildren if I didn’t get closer. <br /><br />Right about that time, out of the blue, a congregation asked to interview me. Never wanting to slam the door in the face of the Holy Spirit, I said, sure, it doesn’t hurt to talk to them. Well, in the process I had to fill out my mobility papers. I had forgotten what a pain-in-the-ass it is to do that. Ugh! After I spoke with the call committee that started everything, I knew they were not the call God had in mind for me. So, I thought, what the heck, I spent all that time filling out the paperwork… I’m just going to draw a line from Charlotte to NYC and any synod that touches that line, I’ll have my mobility papers sent. Barely a week later, I was contacted by the Delaware-Maryland Synod. They had a congregation in mind. <br /><br />Now, you need to know that by this time I was 63 years old, and I thought, no congregation is going to seriously entertain the idea of calling a pastor my age, not a congregation that is as vital and vibrant as Ascension in Towson, Maryland. Every step of the way, I thought it would never happen. And much to my amazement, Ascension called me to be their pastor. Now, here I am, wishing that I had come here when I was much younger so that I could stay longer, but knowing that it’s time for me to retire, and it’s time for Ascension to begin a new chapter with its next pastor. <br /><br />I do love the people of Ascension and am thankful to finish my time in active ministry with them. Pandemic and all, it has been a very full ministry. I’m often reminded from leaders of the congregation that they brought me to Ascension to help them change. And they tell me I've done that. Perhaps there have been times when I pushed a bit beyond the comfort zone of some, but I did what they called me to do, and I trust that, after recovering from my ministry and maybe even benefiting from it, the congregation is in a very different place than they were when I began my time with them. I also trust that next pastor will bring the gifts necessary to lead Ascension into the future God has for them. <br /><br />When I was young, much of what I did centered around my family. My congregations knew my husband and my children. I concentrated a lot of my ministry on children. When I moved to North Carolina, I set out on my own, and I became a different pastor entirely. My later congregations wouldn’t recognize that pastor I was in North Dakota and Ohio. I have served seven different calls, and in many ways, I have been a different pastor in each. I’ve changed, depending upon the phase of my life as a woman, my experience, and the circumstances of the people I’ve served. But I’ve also been who I am for over four decades. <br /><br />When Barbara Brown Taylor said, “... being ordained is not about serving God perfectly but about serving God visibly, allowing other people to learn whatever they can from watching you rise and fall”, I thought she was talking about me. That’s the kind of pastor I’ve been throughout my ministry. Love me or hate me, I am authentic. I can’t be otherwise. <br /><br />That means I am honest. Once while I was serving on the synod staff, a churchwide staff person, who had been around for a long time, confided in me, “Nancy, you are the first truly honest synod staff person I’ve ever met.” It’s the highest compliment I’ve ever received. (And part of why I couldn’t remain in the job.) <br /><br />The downside of being honest is feeling compelled to speak when I might do better to remain silent. This has improved in my old age, but I often can’t help myself. An adage I adopted early on was: It’s better to kick myself later for saying something than kick myself later for remaining silent. For those of you have worked with me, from seminary up until Ascension, that may explain a lot.<br /><br />Also, related to honesty, I’ve been very intentional about never preaching something I don’t believe myself. At times, this has been difficult, like when I’ve been going through a faith crisis and I’m not sure what I believe about God, or even if I believe God exists. (Yes, I go through those dark times just like everyone else!) I’ve done some tap dancing in the pulpit from time to time, but I’ve never said something I don’t believe. I will not lie to people. Especially about matters of faith. <br /><br />My compulsive honesty also applies to being transparent. If I’m struggling, I let people know. If I’m so filled with love that I think I’m going to burst, I let them know that, too. If I have messed up, I confess and ask for forgiveness. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I’ve always borne my soul in public. Some things are best kept private, but I have been open about my humanness. As Barbara Brown Taylor says, other people have been able to learn whatever they can by watching me rise and fall. <br /><br />That’s not to say that I don’t have regrets, because I do. I’ve done the best I could with what I have to give. But I’ve often been working against God. I’ve made decisions that weren’t wise. I’ve said and done things that have hurt people. I could spend a lot of time wallowing in all the mistakes I’ve made, and sometimes I do. I still can’t forget the night I was supposed to have dinner with a prospective member family, I got distracted, and completely forgot about it. Terrible! I have to acknowledge my regrets, forgive myself for being human, and move on or I’ll get stuck in all the things I’ve done and left undone, and I won’t be good for anyone or anything. <br /><br />As I think back on my years in ordained ministry, I am so grateful to be a part of an adventure that I never could have imagined. There have been moments I wouldn’t change for anything. Listening to children sing musicals I’ve written, walking hand-in-hand with Dr. William Barber for a Moral Monday March, bringing a live sheep into Christmas Eve worship (and the ensuing chaos), baptizing a naked baby boy who proceeded to “baptize” me back, recommending Elizabeth Eaton to a call committee in Ashtabula, Ohio, filling the pews at a struggling country church on Christmas Eve when all of its 12 children sang in the choir, riding in a convertible for the Pride parade as its “Outstanding Ally”, singing the ”Hallelujah” chorus with the congregation on Easter Sunday, being present at churchwide assemblies for all the BIG votes, including the vote to form the ELCA, worshipping outside during the pandemic and being overwhelmed by cicadas, publishing a memoir that a few people actually read, … So many glorious moments to cherish. It’s been a great way to live my life. <br /><br />Through it all, I hope that the people I’ve served have known that I love them. I always told myself that when I can no longer love the people I serve, it’s time for me to leave parish ministry. And I think that’s what has kept me in it all these years. Now that I am retiring, it’s a bit of a struggle because I haven’t stopped loving them. But now it’s love that’s calling me to leave. <br /><br />A few months remain between now and my retirement. Just as I could never have imagined what my life would be like when I was ordained at 26, I can’t imagine how it will feel to stand before my congregation for the last time and bless them on their way. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> <i>Soli Deo Gloria.</i></span>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrnQtmYKj5Fgvk7JYlYGJxg0CHJTQafvMbLjf0pEGQ6PTmi_otNiVYwYF8eA6h7ckRCxC2OeCaOYfp5NBswNtbdNvLJ_MquesYtA9mMPEmIawVZZZX84jK9p3wRAa_pbR6AiI8Ks89S2qwEX1KQ2rMvbk9h62HQFG40BcuT0lo1m5MFDHI9__7ufHy=s2908" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2908" data-original-width="1938" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrnQtmYKj5Fgvk7JYlYGJxg0CHJTQafvMbLjf0pEGQ6PTmi_otNiVYwYF8eA6h7ckRCxC2OeCaOYfp5NBswNtbdNvLJ_MquesYtA9mMPEmIawVZZZX84jK9p3wRAa_pbR6AiI8Ks89S2qwEX1KQ2rMvbk9h62HQFG40BcuT0lo1m5MFDHI9__7ufHy=s320" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p></div>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05894799922341495196noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7044166228612663288.post-3380597595865663112022-02-14T17:38:00.001-05:002022-02-14T18:08:12.888-05:00I said what I had to say, but inside I felt sick.<span style="font-size: large;">I felt a little sick on Sunday morning. Physically, I was fine. But I was like the gorilla at the zoo who throws her own feces at the glass, just to let those who are watching on the other side know exactly what she thinks of them. But the thing was, for me, these were people I truly care about. This was not even remotely what I thought of them. And yet, I threw it anyway. What kind of jerk does something like that?</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">This wasn’t the first time I’ve felt this way, but I don’t remember ever feeling it like I did this past week. It happened while I was preaching the sermon. In my defense, the text was Luke 6:20-26.<br /><i>Then he (Jesus) looked up at his disciples and said:<br />“Blessed are you who are poor,<br /> for yours is the kingdom of God.<br /> “Blessed are you who are hungry now,<br /> for you will be filled.<br />“Blessed are you who weep now,<br /> for you will laugh.<br /> “Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets. </i><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">If Luke had stopped with the blessings, like Matthew did, all would be well, but Luke had to go on with the part about the woes. And that was the problem.<br /><i>“But woe to you who are rich,<br /> for you have received your consolation.<br />“Woe to you who are full now,<br /> for you will be hungry.<br />“Woe to you who are laughing now,<br /> for you will mourn and weep.<br />“Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.</i><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">(In my faith tradition, we have a schedule of readings that we go through every three years called the Revised Common Lectionary. I can deviate from it if I want to, but then I would always be preaching on my favorite passages and that’s not exactly an honest way to preach God’s word to folks. So, the lectionary forces me to preach on texts that challenge me. And that’s a good thing. Good for me, and good for those who are on the receiving end of my sermons.)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> <br />Now, it’s not that I have a problem with Luke’s version of the Beatitudes. I’ve preached on them before without an issue. But this time was different. Although I've always been a preacher who tends to challenge people, during the pandemic, I’ve been trying hard to be more comforting than confronting. In a time when people are feeling so beaten down every day, they don’t need to be beaten down by their pastor. So, over the past two years, I’ve been emphasizing Biblical themes like compassion, trust, and hope whenever I can. But Luke 6:20-26 wouldn’t let me go there.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> <br />Before the pandemic, I had occasionally been criticized because I didn’t preach in a way that left everyone feeling good, like Joel Osteen. I figured that the scriptures don't always leave everyone feeling good, so I didn’t allow their feedback to change the way I preached. And really, even my challenging sermons were always infused with grace, I thought. (Of course, grace may be the most challenging theological concept of all.)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Then last week, I received an email from a member I hadn’t seen during the entire pandemic and it rattled me. She told me she could no longer attend worship because it left her feeling bad about herself, even though she knows she’s a good person. I tried to reassure myself that I wasn’t responsible for how she feels, but a part of me wondered if maybe I was. Maybe my confrontational sermons had been too much. And then, on Sunday, here I was, doing it again.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />We are entering a time when people who have been away from the church for the last few years are deciding whether they want to return. It is the “Great Reset.” We don’t know who will be among us when we come out on the other side. The majority of our Ascension members continue to worship online, and we don’t know exactly who they are. Some of our members are going to other churches now. We also have welcomed new people to Ascension. In some cases, we have swapped members with neighboring churches. And then there are those who no longer have an interest in any church at all.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Somehow, politics have crept into this Great Reset. While we figured out how to coexist during the Trump years, we haven’t fared as well during the pandemic. A few people left Ascension when we put “Black Lives Matter” signs in our front yard, which was enough to encourage others to join us. Some disagree with the cautious way we have asked people to worship with us during the pandemic, which is perceived as politically motivated. I’ve struggled with this much in the same way that I struggle to be faithful to Biblical preaching. What does it mean to be faithful to Jesus in this time? It’s not so much about a need to be right as a need to be faithful to the Jesus I’ve come to know and love, the Jesus revealed in the scriptures, the Jesus who taught us, “By this everyone will know that you’re my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Sometimes I get it wrong, but this is always what I’m trying to do.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">On Sunday, when I stood in the pulpit and said what I had to say, inside I felt sick. I didn’t want to beat people up. Heck, I’m getting ready to retire, and I’d prefer that there be a congregation to leave for the next pastor. And yet, I was telling my overwhelmingly white, affluent congregation that God has a bias that favors the poor, the hungry, the oppressed. I shared with them that Luke’s gospel celebrates the Great Reversal as a sign of God’s Reign here on Earth. Where the hungry are filled with good things and the ones who are full are sent away empty. Where the rich are brought low, and the poor are lifted up. And here we go again with the politics. Except it isn’t politics. It’s Jesus. So, I said what I had to say. But inside I felt sick.<br /> <br />And why am I telling you this? Because I want you to know that I don’t take the things I say from the pulpit lightly. That when I was ordained, I promised to faithfully preach the word of God and that means doing my best to not preach the word of Nancy. That sometimes the scriptures compel me to say things I really don’t want to say. That as a human being, I don’t want other people to dislike me. I don’t want to come across like a jerk. I don’t want to be a gorilla flinging my feces at people. I want you to know that I'm human, and sometimes I feel sick when I say what I say in a sermon. But I’m a pastor, so I need to say it.</span><br /> </div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqExFLy1BNz_SctGVlivsKdZcGBldJVcFEYr23GFB9BNtciputk86MJStR_a2MK02P1otuSZ9qq8YbMaSbb4y5ci9drhHlBXK3gDYzOzj_zYM8L5Np6SMUX3KxmTHZz2aw538ABaFqK1mVPkmSK1hgMWCAQl7V_Dfy0RJpfEwR0OLvta4dlV_bKEcB=s1760" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="990" data-original-width="1760" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqExFLy1BNz_SctGVlivsKdZcGBldJVcFEYr23GFB9BNtciputk86MJStR_a2MK02P1otuSZ9qq8YbMaSbb4y5ci9drhHlBXK3gDYzOzj_zYM8L5Np6SMUX3KxmTHZz2aw538ABaFqK1mVPkmSK1hgMWCAQl7V_Dfy0RJpfEwR0OLvta4dlV_bKEcB=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05894799922341495196noreply@blogger.com0