Now that Bishop Budde has your attention...

Along with many others, I cheered as Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde spoke truth to the most powerful man in the world at the national prayer service after he was inaugurated. She exemplified the love of Jesus, not only in her words, but also in the way she spoke them. As a preacher myself, I have been gratified by the attention she has received from the media. But a part of me also is feeling unsettled because I suspect many of those who are cheering her on have an incomplete picture of the movement she represents. Here’s what I want you to know… 

Bishop Budde is not an anomaly. There are many Christians like her. I can’t tell you how many times I have seen all Christians attacked on social media and tried to assert that not all Christians are horrible human beings only to have my words met with animosity. A whole lot of people in our world want to have absolutely nothing to do with organized religion in general, and Christians in particular. I can’t really blame them. Christians don’t exactly have a great track record. Just consider the crusades, inquisition, witch trials, slavery, fascism, clergy sexual abuse and other atrocities that are a part of the Church’s history. But the Christian Church has also given us hospitals, universities, schools, great art & music, abolition, Civil Rights, prison reform, safer lives for children and immigrants, and so many other things that have made our world better. There have always been faithful people who have devoted their lives to following the life and teachings of Jesus, often despite the actions of the Christian imposters around them. Christian Nationalists and MAGA-Christians are not followers of Jesus. I know they are the ones you see in the media these days, but their ways are not the way of Jesus. For all those who assume that’s what it means to be a Christian and want nothing to do with us, please know that there are people in the world around you who are faithfully seeking to follow the Jesus way. (No, not perfect people, but people who are doing their best to live and love like Jesus.) Perhaps Bishop Budde opened your eyes to that reality. Know that she actually represents millions of Christians. She is not an anomaly. 

Did you know that on inauguration day there were anti-Trump protests all around the world? You would never have known this from American media. But Google it and you’ll see the pictures. It really happened. Many of the people involved in those protests were clergy and people of faith. I know this because I have friends who were protesting. Bishop Budde wasn’t the only person of faith who spoke out against injustice and made a plea for mercy and compassion. She was simply the only one who was given the opportunity to speak publicly to the newly inaugurated President’s face for 14 entire minutes. 

Please know that Christian leaders from a variety of denominations are doing their best to preach faithful sermons based on Biblical principles like justice, peace and love. Just as the prophets of the Hebrew Scriptures, Bishop Budde and so many others enter the pulpit fearfully week after week. Not knowing how their words will be received, but sensing a responsibility to show people Jesus, they are compelled by their calling and the Spirit to speak the truth. Just as Jesus did, they advocate for the poor and marginalized people in our world, including the homeless, LGBTQ folks, people of color and undocumented immigrants. 

Some of them preach in communities that receive their message with enthusiasm. Others struggle to open minds that are less than receptive. Many have reminded people of Jesus’ words to “be merciful as God is merciful”, and their congregations have been so offended by the gospel that it has cost them their ministry. This is a precarious place to be for those worried about providing for their children or retirement plans. There may be no group more maligned and more necessary in our nation than those who faithfully preach the gospel of Jesus in our churches in 2025. Unnoticed by the world, they are all heroes to me. (I’m giving myself permission to say this because, as a retired pastor, I find myself listening from the pews these days.)

I want you to know all this because Bishop Budde’s sermon caught your attention, and she represents so much more than her 15 (okay, 14) minutes of fame.

Surviving Another Trump Win with God’s People

The last time I blogged, I was dealing with pre-election anxiety, and I had decided Harris would be our next president so I could quit stressing over it. And we all know how that turned out. 

Still carrying PTSD from 2016, I recalled how I cried for weeks when Trump was elected. It was inconceivable to me, and I was angry—Angry with anyone who would choose a joke like Trump to be our President. Angry with the rampant misogyny, racism and general lack of human decency on display throughout his campaign. Angry with the Democrats for nominating a candidate who was so clearly despised by so many Americans. Angry with the people who voted third party. Angry with strangers I encountered on the street; I suspected they all had voted for Trump.

At that time, I knew that a portion of the people in my congregation in Maryland also had voted for him, and I will confess now, although I never would have confessed it back then, I was angry at them. I didn’t know exactly who they were. I didn’t really want to know because I still had to love them and be their pastor. There was an unnamed tension in the air. Of course, being who I am (incapable of leaving things unsaid), I felt compelled to name it. We had some healing conversations which seemed to help for a while, but the constant political implications of my sermons were inevitable, even when not stated overtly, because I was preaching the gospel and, well, that’s what happens. (In fairness to Jesus, he is equally offensive to Democrats and Republicans alike.)

After retiring to New York, for over two years I have been serving a small, nearby congregation in transition. Membership includes people on both sides of the political divide, but it leans heavily toward Trump. As the election approached, everything within me wanted to be anywhere else. Maybe with a congregation that was more my tribe. Or maybe somewhere in the Caribbean combing the beach for unknown treasures. I dreaded the election and the Sunday after. Especially when, before I even began serving them, leaders of the congregation had reservations about allowing me to preach from their pulpit after they googled me and saw my “liberal” background. Was it going to be déjà vu all over again?

To be honest, I was a bit miffed with God for putting me in this situation once again. I was retired, dammit. I didn’t need this shit.

I braced myself for the worst. And it didn’t happen. In fact, the Sunday after the election, no one mentioned it. At least not to my face, which I considered a great kindness. I was expecting some jubilant greetings or sideways digs, but they never came. A month passed and not a word.

Last Sunday, I was talking about dualism in my sermon. I pointed out how we choose sides, and our side is always good while the other side is always bad. It’s us against them. And I suddenly went off script as only a manuscript preacher can when she has a flash of insight that had never occurred to her until that exact moment standing in front of her congregation. I suddenly found myself speaking about the presidential election that happened a month ago. I was honest with them about how I knew many of them voted in a way that I hadn’t. And I told them that I was expecting to have a problem with that as the election approached, especially if Trump won. But then, it was never a problem for me. Yes, I still had a problem with the way the election went. But I didn’t have a problem with them. I knew they were good people. It didn’t feel like us against them. Because I loved them. I had been surprised that I hadn’t reacted the way I expected I would and, at that moment, I figured out why. I had to tell them.

I hope they heard what I was trying to say. Christian love is the cure for us against them. How can you demonize people who sing hymns with you and share the Body and Blood of Christ with you? Of course, I've always known that’s true. But I lived it in the past month. 

I’m grateful to God for sending me to a congregation that isn’t my tribe so I could experience the grace that surpasses an us-against-them world. I would never have chosen this for myself and would have missed out on unexpected joy.

 

I have decided who our next president will be

You haven’t heard much from me lately because I have been so consumed by anxiety that it has nearly paralyzed me. Reading the NY Times every day on my phone before I get out of bed. Watching Morning Joe over breakfast. Morning, noon, and night checking in on CNN and MSNBC. Scrolling my social media for any glimmers of hope. Following the polls like the scoreboard at a championship game with everything on the line. 

I have been genuinely fearful that I might have a nervous breakdown on November 5. I’ve gotta figure out how to get a grip. This isn’t good for my mental health.

In September, I took a 10-day trip to Ireland with a lovely group of people. I thought it would be a great distraction for me. I needed to get away from this stuff. Because I would be traveling with people I hadn’t met, all from the Carolinas, I was worried that some would be Trumpies, and it would be difficult for me to relax with them. In reality, just the opposite proved true. They pretty much felt the same way about Trump as I did, and they weren’t afraid to make their opinions known throughout the trip. Apparently, there is no escaping this madness.

It’s comforting to know that I’m not alone in my anxiety. But that doesn’t help me deal with it. I was so distraught after Biden decided to run again that I was in a perpetual state of despair. When he withdrew, I wept. When he endorsed Harris, I wept. All through the Democratic National Convention, I wept. When I watch her on the campaign trail, I weep.

My daughter, Gretchen, has an amazing ability to compartmentalize and rise above what she can’t control. It’s a solid coping mechanism that’s gotten her through some tough times. She has a strength about her, and an ability to let things go, when they need to be let go, that I sorely lack. I want to stop obsessing over negative stuff, to live in the moment, and to accept what I can’t control. I long to be like Gretchen, to do my best and live with whatever happens because, really, what choice do I have?

Maybe this is how I could survive these days of uncertainty, I thought. I vowed that I would stop checking my phone, my TV and my computer for one day and see how it felt. Surely, I could do this. I almost slipped when 11 a.m. rolled around and my girlfriends on The View were meeting without me, but I held my ground. I made it until 10 o’clock that night, when I heard Lawrence O’Donnell on MSNBC whispering my name. I’ll just check in for the first 10 minutes, I said. And I was back at it.

I can’t look away. My obsession with the election has a hold on me; I can’t let it go. But it’s more than just a lack of willpower. It’s simply not who I am.When something is on my mind, I go after it relentlessly, like a dog with a bone, until it's resolved. Sometimes this has served me well, and other times, not so much, but it's always exhausting. As I've gotten older, this character trait has become even more pronounced. 

The unknown makes me a bit bonkers. When I was little I always peeked at my Christmas gifts and knew everything I was getting before Christmas morning. Somewhere in the first couple of chapters of reading a novel, I normally skip to the end to see how it all turns out. I binge shows on T.V. because I have to get to the finale as quickly as possible. By reading the spoilers online, I always know who The Bachelor picks at the end of the season before it even begins. Some would say this ruins all the fun. For me, it simply puts me out of my misery so I can enjoy myself.

Knowing this about myself, I think I finally figured out the best way to cope with the 2024 presidential election. I will just skip to the end. No need to fear the unknown. I already know what happens. Harris wins. Easy enough. No reason to fret. I will watch the process unfold as someone who already knows how it ends. Kamala Harris will be the next President of the United States. Decided. And done. She wins.

She has to.

 

No, you can't do anything if you put your mind to it

You know that scene in Star Wars 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. 

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.

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 Star Wars. But, in my mind, there was no reason why this wouldn’t work. So, I closed my eyes and coasted toward home.

A telephone pole jarred me into reality.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

That’s the message of Ash Wednesday. We’re all going to die.

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.

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.

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.

Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.

 

 

Aging, Acceptance, and a Word About Our Presidential Candidates

 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.

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. 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. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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. I believe I still have a contribution to make to the world around me. 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. 

 

Who's going to clean up this mess?!

 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!”

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.

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…!

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?  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?!

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.

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?

*Deep breath*

Okay. I’m done. I’m better now. (Until I go outside and look at the sidewalk.)

The Amazing Guy Upstairs

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.

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.

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.

We adults can only watch so many PG movies before we need something more.  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.

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 while we’re watching it. 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.)

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.

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.