Hidden Scars and Inner Fire

It was April in 7th grade and that meant it was time for track in PE, or for me, hell. It meant we had to run the mile, and jump over those hurdle thingys and attempt to thwart our bodies over the high jump.  Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. I wanted to be  in theatre, in choir, or English, or home.  Anywhere but on that track, in the middle of an Illinois cornfield.

I hated it not only because I was the slowest, least agile kid in the seventh grade, but because it was in those 30 minutes that the bullying would be the worse.

His name was Warren and our lockers were right next to each other.  Every morning he would make gross, suggestive sounds under his breath, as we put away our coats and got out our books.  He would  make comments about my body, about what was too small, and what was too big.  He would be just insulting enough without being overt enough to make me feel like I could report him. – And no, he did not “like” me. This quiet harassment took place all school year.

Then came the spring and track.  Every day as I attempted to run a mile in less than 15 minutes, Warren and his friends, who had finished in under 8, would sit on the hill and laugh and throw rocks at my feet as I huffed around the track.

Finally one day I had enough. Warren and his cronies had to stop. I ran over, jumped on top of Warren and tried to hit him as hard as I could.  For some reason, the PE teacher, who never noticed anything, noticed this. I was sent to the office.  Mortified. Sweat, dirt and tears mixed together. I was so nervous, “Oh God, I’m going to be suspended!  Or worse, they are going to call my Dad!”

I went to the counselors office and cried and shared everything.  I was not suspended. They did call my Dad. Warren stopped picking on me.  Track ended. So did 7th grade, thank God.   Summer came, and when school started the next fall I learned that Warren had moved to Chicago.

Schools today do a much better job in addressing bullying. I had assemblies on drugs and alcohol prevention, my kids have assemblies on bully awareness. I think my kids are far better prepared today to confront bullying than I was, or at least I hope they are.

We know as adults that bullies show up in our work places, our churches and on the Highway. I believe that the only way to stop bullying in our society is for the culture to be mature enough to say that such behavior is unacceptable. – Which is why junior highs and church sessions are so vulnerable….that’s a joke.

But in all seriousness, we have to raise the bar of expectations of how we treat each other as a culture in order to put an end to bullying, harassment and violence. Only by setting the standard of acceptable behavior, can that behavior be obtained.

Here is my list of Do’s and Dont’s in dealing with a bully of  all ages.

Don’t make excuses for their behavior.

Don’t justify their behavior.

Don’t think you can change them or make them “like” you.

Don’t ignore it and hope it goes away.

Do address the behavior immediately. Call it out. “Dude, that is NOT happening.”

Do tell an adult or friend. Solidarity brings power.

Do find a way to regain power. Tell the truth. Call it like you see it. Your truth matters.

I think all of us have painful memories of bullying, like what happened to me in 7th grade. Some, much, much worse, I’m sure.  We all have stories locked up in our adolescent psyches that are still a part of who we are, and explain why we are cautious or defensive around certain issues today. It would be wise for us to treat each other with the understanding that we all walking around with hidden scars. 

While we all have hidden scars, we also have an inner fire that empowers us to step up, speak out, and stand strong.  Let’s stoke that inner fire and be stronger for it.

Just a side note, today I am a runner. – I found that inner athlete, deep down underneath that self-doubt and insecurity. – I’m still slow, but I don’t care.


Congress Should Learn To Play Sardines


Every youth group has their “go to” game. It’s the game kids want to play every week on a Sunday nights. When I was a youth pastor, our youth group’s game was Sardines.  Here is how we played it:  Turn off all the lights in the church. It should be totally dark.  Send two kids out to run off and hide somewhere in the church building. Wait five minutes for them to be good and hidden and then send the rest of the group off to find them.  If you find them, you join them, without letting the rest of the group know where they are hiding.  The goal is to get as many kids packed in one space possible. (Like Sardines)

Why is this fun?  Well for one thing you have permission to run in the church building. Second, it’s dark and spooky. Third, its something the group tries to accomplish together.  I remember one night, after 20 minutes of Sardines,  the youth leaders and I called “time” and the whole youth group of 30 kids came pouring out of a closet, gasping for air, laughing hysterically.  They were having a blast!

We have been watching our elected officials in Washington DC be snarky with each other repeatedly over the past, I don’t know a decade.  The latest episode being the fight over whether or not they were going to push our economy over the fiscal cliff.  The frustrating thing in watching this dysfunction is recognizing that it could be prevented.  I have heard people say that elected officials in Washington used to have better relationships.  They used to build relationships through recreation and social settings.  Today, members of Congress leave over the weekend and go back to their families and constituents.  They don’t stay in DC and  socialize or  play.  They don’t have an opportunity to care about each other on a personal level.

Imagine if the House or Representatives all played a rousing game of Sardines? Imagine if they just turned off all the lights in the Capital, and ran and hid and played, and worked together for a common goal. Imagine if they all poured out of the building, laughing. Congress needs a youth leader. They need someone to facilitate community building, report and relationships.  

We wonder why they are so dysfunctional. – It’s not because they are selfish or conceited. – Although for some that might be the case.  It’s because they don’t trust each other or know each other. They have forgotten their neighbor’s humanity.

They need to play a good game of sardines and then do some trust falls, maybe close off the night with a game of passing marshmallows with toothpicks and then all come together and lift up prayers of joys and concerns.  I’m not saying they all hold hands and sing kumbaya, but they need to figure out how to be a community. They need to care about each other, understand each other and respect each other. They need to understand how to hold each other accountable with kindness. 

If they could accomplish that – they could govern.



To Care and Not to Care


I have attached two contrasting commentaries from two leaders in the Presbyterian Church on the challenge of being a pastor and/or friend in the church.

As I read both of these articles I filled up with old, familiar feelings of loneliness and sadness.

I am often criticized for not being tough enough. I have often lost the balance between being tender-hearted and thick-skinned. My heart always wins.

When people leave the church for whatever reason, I am often reminded to not take it personally. But I do. Not because I have lost a friend, but because I have lost a parishioner. As a pastor, I am invested in people’s lives. I care deeply about their faith journey. When I ask people how they are, I really want to know.

So when the pastoral relationship is severed, part of me feels severed. I understand that people shop around for churches with the right music, theology, polity, demographics of young and old, building, location, etc. I understand that the church is not about the pastor, or at least it shouldn’t be. But that does mean that I ever stop being a pastor. I am a pastor as clearly as I am a mother. I can never turn it off. So, even when people leave the church, I do not leave them. I am still invested in them, their lives and their family.

TS Eliot once wrote, “teach us to care and not to care, teach us to sit still.” This is my life lesson.

The bottom line for me in this vocation is that relationships matter. People matter. The well being of any community is based on the quality of relationships in that community.

As a leader, I think I can only convene and give space for relationships to take place. I can only be open to relationships, or as a friend reminded me lately, “bring light to those I love.”

Peter Block says that leadership is about being intentional. I think as pastors we have to get our personal needs out of the way, and be about creating space for people to form relationships that matter. We create the environment of openness and listening, of vision, generosity, and accountability, and we set our personal needs and egos aside. We listen, we love, we ask questions, and we listen again.

That’s not sad. That’s reality for effective leadership.

When I Am Among The Trees


After a month of Advent festivities, church responsibilities and family expectations, I once again found myself earning for solitude. After a month of news of one tragic event after another, I found myself aching for silence. Sometimes nothing seems easy.  Living in community, whether that be our family, our religious organization or our global community, isn’t easy.  Sometimes we have to get away. We have to put our feet on the earth and marvel at the formation of a tree, or the deer in the woods, or the carving of a rock and be reminded that really life is very simple and that we make things so much more difficult than they need to be.   

I told my family for a Christmas present I would like to go for a hike in the woods. I wanted to sink my boots deep into the snow, to feel the cold air on my cheeks, to hear the silence of the woods, sleeping and dormant. I wanted to be among the trees.  So on Christmas Day, we bundled up and went out for a hike.

New Image

When I Am Among The Trees,  from her book “Thirst” by Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off each such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves,
and call out, “Stay a while.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say, “and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy,
to be filled with light, and to shine.”

Dialogue cannot…

Dialogue cannot exist in the absence of a profound love for the world and for people. The naming of the world, which is an act of creation and re-creation, is not possible if it is not infused with love. Love is at the same time the foundation of dialogue and dialogue itself…. If I do not love the world–if I do not love life–if I do not love people–I cannot enter into dialogue.

-Paulo Freire

Just The Way You Are

mr rogers

There is a quote from the Mr. Rogers that has gone viral. It’s a quote that reminds us and children that even though scary things happen, there are a lot of people in the world who also do good. Mr. Rogers has always been my hero. His calm, an assuming humility, his commitment to children and the greater good and his ability to join children in their wonder are all qualities I love about him. I also felt like he knew me, like he was talking directly to me, that he really did like me “just as I was.”

Mr Rogers spoke to adults as if they were children and children as if they were adults. He gave them the same amount of respect and knew that essentially we all need the same caring attention. We are all children at heart.

Mr Rogers asked us every week if we would be his neighbor. Jesus admonishes us that the greatest commandment is to love God and love our neighbor. Every week Fred Rogers, Presbyterian minister, preached the great commandment. He preached it over and over again. Have we learned the lesson yet?

Mr. Rogers never stopped affirming people. He was never fake or phony in his affirmation. You knew his words were genuine. He let people know they were special, and he meant it.

Mr. Rogers was a champion for children. He believed they deserved respect, care, love and honesty. He treated all children with dignity. He welcomed them into his home and invited them to explore.

Mr. Rogers understood that children need ritual and stability. He switched from jacket to sweater, from dress shoes to gym shoes, and fed his fish every week, not because he lacked creativity, but because he understood the comfort of routine and predictability. In the same way we know in our worship service the Prayer of Confession follow the Call to Worship. Our rituals tell us we are home.

Mr. Rogers knew we need creativity and imagination. The Land of Make Believe, was always my favorite part of his show. It was the take home message of his sermon.  I loved Daniel and King Friday. I loved the permission to go to the Land of Make Believe. I think we need to give ourselves permission to use our imagination and go to the land and ponder and create.

Here is his Benediction.  He always blessed us before he walked out the door. Promising us that he would be back with a new idea, or two:

Thank you Mr. Rogers, for being our neighbor. It’s time his congregation of viewers, who heard him as children now adults to go teach what we learned from him. We are the caring people who can do the work for the world.

Close your eyes… who has made a difference in your life?  Go tell them thank you and be that person for someone else.

Will you be my neighbor?


Things Like That Don’t Happen In Our Town


This is the phrase I keep hearing. “Things like that don’t happen in our town.”

Our community is still reeling from the recent news that the bodies of two little girls who were abducted this past July, were finally found in a woods in a neighboring county. Things like this don’t happen in our town.

As a nation we are finding enough oxygen to inhale the news of the mass killing of little children and teachers in Connecticut, and we hear over and over again, “things like this don’t happen in our town.”

Yesterday 10 little girls ages 10 and 11 were killed in Afghanistan carrying firewood. I have no doubt that community laments, “things like this should not happen in our town!”

We all want to live in communities that are safe and lovely and full of promise. What are we to do with when the facade of that image is broken and we are left facing the truth?

Truly we have witnessed unspeakable sadness and feelings of disillusionment in the past two weeks. But we also have witnessed tremendous acts of resolve and compassion to bring about justice to our broken world.

The fifth century African bishop Augustine once said, “Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage; anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain the way they are.” Oh, how we need such hope…and anger…and courage today! We have to have enough hope that we can change the world, enough anger in the way things are now, and enough courage to make a difference.

The hymn “O Come O Come Emmanuel” speaks to the hope for a ransomed captive Israel. It tells of time when people were hopeless for the world they were living. It’s a beautiful and haunting tune, that leaves with a space in our heart that Jesus is meant to fill. The space that remains empty for many parents today, the space that will be filled only with tears and heartache and horror. Unless the world can help fill that space with something else.

We can fill that space. We can bring hope to the hopeless. We can be Christlike to others. We can fill the space of despair with the space of hope. How? You fill the space of despair when you look at a social problem like world hunger or gun violence or greed and you volunteer, or serve a meal, or give a donation, or become politically active and you say with resolve, no more. You fill the space of anger when you love people who cause you pain and you don’t return their hatred with hatred but rather you love them anyway.

To keep Advent is to keep from losing hope, for ourselves or for the sake of others, even when all seems hopeless. It is to plead with God even when God seems hidden. It is to do the right thing even without promise of reward. It is to have courage even in the face of overwhelming odds. It is to live fully even in the valley of the shadow of death. It is to watch without losing hope, even when we wonder where in this moment of hell, is God?

This morning, like millions of other parents, I made lunches for my kids, made sure they took their vitamins, packed hats and mittens to keep them warm, made sure they ate a good breakfast and had on clean socks and brushed teeth and I hugged them tight and told them I loved them.

This morning I am different. This morning I am angry. Angry that the truth is the world is not as safe as I want it to be. This morning I have courage. Courage to say I will send my kids to school and will not let fear be the dictator of my actions. And I have hope. I have hope that our community and all communities and can do better, and stand strong and say, “Enough!”


It has been said, “that  there is, quite simply, no more emotionally evocative, powerful, or important idea than home,” and we will all, in some way,  over the next four weeks, go home—as we carefully rehearse customs precious in our families, as we bake the cookies, decorate the tree, we create home.

How do you know when you are home?   In college I knew I was home when I could walk to a kitchen, as opposed to a cafeteria and open refrigerator full of food.  In seminary as I commuted by train every week to Chicago, I knew I was home when I was in my own bed.  As a child, I knew I was home, when everybody in my family was also home. Food, shelter and family from a physical needs perspective are indicators of how you know you  are home.  But how do you know when your soul, your spirit is at home?  That is a very different question.  You can be at home and not really feel at home.

I recently read a wonderful novel by Iowa author Marillyn Robinson, entitled Home.  The reader quickly realizes that this story is an allegory to the Prodigal Son.

The story is about two adult children Glory and Jack, who return home under different circumstances. When the story opens, Glory, the youngest of eight children, has returned to Gilead to nurse her ailing father. In her time away she suffered the disillusionment of a false love affair, but being home is a trial for her. “I hate this town,” she says. “Because it reminds me of when I was happy.”

Soon after her return, a letter arrives from Jack expressing his desire to come home. He’s been gone 20 years. Ten years earlier he missed his mother’s funeral. Glory fears that once again Jack will disappoint their father.  As a teenager, Jack impregnated a farm girl and had a daughter who died before her fourth birthday. His indifference to this tragedy shocked and bereaved his family. He now has a son by a black woman whom he met during his stay in St. Louis. His pain that he cannot make a life with the mother of his child becomes an important undercurrent in the story, reminding us of what our society looked like, mid-20th century, in the years of Rosa Parks and Emmett Till.

As the story is woven, the reader sees how broken Jack is by this inequity and by countless other sorrows and doubts. Here is a man who doesn’t know how to live in the world, torn as he is between belief and unbelief.

After a troubling incident with Jack, Glory worries, “Her father and brother were both laid low by grief — and she had nothing better to offer them than chicken and dumplings.” Then she recalls her mother filling the house with fragrant smells of food, restoring harmony when discord threatened. “It would mean this house has a soul that loves us all, no matter what,” thinks Glory.

Robinson uses her considerable talents to explain her religious belief that love is neither earned nor deserved.

That’s what it means when your soul is at home. Your soul is at home when it is at a place where you are loved and accepted no matter what.  The tragedy in this story is that Jack is never able to accept that he is loved unconditionally. He wants to believe it, but he just can’t and so for him home is always a place of exile.

Advent always begins in a place of exile, and the call to come home.   You understand that home is not the place where your clothes are kept and books are stored.  Home is how close you are to Christ.  If you are with Christ, no matter where you are, you are home.  So are you going home for Christmas?    How will you know when you have arrived?

You will be home when the power of Christ is in you and you are Christ like to others. It is to extend grace to them. To love them, not for what they do, but as they are.  The home we long for and belong to is  finally where Christ is.  And Christ exists both within us and among us as we wend our prodigal way through the world in search of it.

Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come; tis grace that brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home.

Who is your neighbor?

My friend, Kate Hall wrote a tribute seen below,  in memory of her 97-year-old neighbor and our parishioner.

It got me thinking about neighbors, and the loss of what it means to be a neighbor.

When I was little girl we lived across the street from an elderly man named John Newnan. John lived in a little brick house with a red door. He was a retired professional jazz drummer. He had an eclectic collection of drums and percussion instruments in his basement. He smelled like coffee and cigarettes. He always wore soft sweaters and plaid shirts. He had yellow canaries.

Every time he paid us a visit he always brought Hostess Ding Dongs. I think it was the only time I was allowed to eat Ding Dongs – was when John came over. Mom would make a pot of coffee and I would sit next John and lick out the center and then eat the chocolate, while he and my mom talked about politics.

I had no idea what they were talking about.

It didn’t matter. When John was at our house, I felt like I was home.

He was our neighbor.  He died over 30 years ago.  But he is still with me.  He is  still my neighbor.

Here is Kate’s tribute:

Driveway Moments on December 9, 2012

My sweet neighbor Wayne passed away yesterday. He was ninety-seven years young and he taught me so much in the twelve years of being his neighbor. He was frugal (to the tenth power), a child of the Great Depression who understood the value of hard work and being a good steward. When his peers were slowing down he could be found in his kitchen putting up thirty quarts of tomatoes for the winter. This fall he tracked down an old family recipe for apple butter and promptly made it and shared it with his friends and neighbors. His wife passed away when he was eighty-nine and I remember asking him how he was doing and his reply was, ” Well, sometimes the walls feel like they’re closing in on me; especially when I watch the shows we liked to watch on TV, so, I’ll let myself feel sad for a while but then I get up and do something or change the channel and watch a good old movie.”

Wayne and I had so many driveway moments. I’d be in our garage refinishing furniture or out weeding my garden and he’d sidle over and start chatting. You name the topic, we covered it. Old memories, currents events, politics (his choice—we were on opposite sides and I eventually had to tell him we’d have to leave that alone) his children, my children who he doted on like his own grandkids, gardening,etc. He was ever-curious about life. I remember the times he and I went out to a local farm to harvest strawberries. The farmer gave us boxes and indicated where we could pick. I joked that maybe we should have a contest of who could pick the most berries. Later he laughed with glee when the farmer weighed our boxes and it was clear who the winner was!

I could go on and on about this wonderful old gent but I’ll sum it up and say this: This neighbor’s friendship was a blessing and gift. He taught me countless things about growing old gracefully and embracing life with gusto. I will try to honor this gift by passing it along.