There was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces…but the LORD was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.  – 1 Kings 19:11b-13

Beloved of God,

For many of us, living through the pandemic has meant letting go of life rhythms we’ve known and counted on—people, places, and habits that once grounded us.  This letting go, for some, has led to significant isolation; while for others it’s led to the rediscovery of walkable neighborhoods and creative ways of staying connected.  Our family has particularly enjoyed brief camping forays to Lutherwood and elsewhere, and physically distanced backyard dinners with friends.  The safety calculus—avoiding the virus—has become the dominant lens for all of us.  And while there are many things we miss—for me in-person Sunday worship is first among many; even at its best, live stream worship is no substitute for being with the physically gathered community!—we have grown accustomed to our forced flexibility.  And perhaps are less apt to take things for granted.

Where do we expect to find God these days?  How do we expect God to show up for us? 

The Scriptures record many stories of how, through the ages, people and prophets have had to come to terms with new ways of understanding who God is and how God might show up among us.  The quote above comes from the story of the prophet Elijah, whose battle against Israel’s worst king on record—King Ahab—and his evil wife Jezebel had taken its toll.  Even after pitching a shutout against the 450 priests of Baal in one of the most celebrated contests recorded in the Hebrew scriptures, (check it out—1 Kings 18:20-40) Elijah was feeling more vulnerable than confident.  So when, in the aftermath of that encounter, Queen Jezebel puts a bounty on his head, Elijah flees for his life, journeying 40 days and 40 nights to the holy mountain of God – Horeb. Elijah arrives there feeling depressed, defeated, fearful and alone.  He wonders whether all his efforts for God’s sake have been for naught.  Exhausted, he crawls into this cave and he waits for a sign.[1]

There’s a lot packed into this story, into what precedes it and what comes after it, but three verses captured my attention this week.  Elijah is commanded: “Go out and stand on the mountain before the LORD, for the LORD is about to pass by.”  And so Elijah, bone weary, looks toward the mouth of the cave.  This is what happens next:

There was a great wind, so strong it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind;

and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake;

and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire;

and after the fire, a sound of sheer silence…

It’s when Elijah hears that SILENCE—so deep, so pervasive that it tugs at his ears—that he wraps his mantle around his head, crawls to the mouth of the cave, and he stands up before the LORD. Elijah has been around God long enough to learn that God may just show up in ways we least expect—not through outsized events or huge natural phenomenon or feats of strength, but in the form of sheer silence (RSV: “still small voice”).

The answer to the question: WHERE WILL GOD SHOW UP FOR US DURING THE PANDEMIC? may surprise us.  The story of Elijah invites us to not come to conclusions too quickly about where we can find God, but to remain open to how and where we see God manifested during this vulnerable time. To listen for that “still small voice” which can only be heard when we learn to filter out all the other loud, boisterous, public, competing voices which vie for our attention.

With you, on the Way.

Pastor Erik

[1] Sidebar: Some of the ancient manuscripts, in verse 9, call it “a cave” where Elijah found refuge. That’s how it’s translated in the NRSV.  But others name it “the cave”; definite article  What’s the difference?  The first version suggests it was any old cave.  Version two suggests that this could be the very cave where Moses hid when we saw the backside of God.  See Exodus 33:17-23.

The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid; 

then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.

– Matthew 13:44

Beloved of God,

Massive shifts are under way in our society and world, and it remains to be seen how it all will sort out.  As we mark Independence Day, the symbols and sound bites that traditionally accompany our celebrations—like phrase “liberty and justice for all”—are sounding differently on our ears. The Black Lives Matter movement and the question of how or whether to “defund” police department budgets; the sharp rise in COVID-19 cases around the nation and the ongoing economic turmoil that attends the pandemic; the looming election; the question of what school and college education will look like in the fall—the list goes on and on.  It’s too much, really.  With no relief in sight.  What are we to do?

Reinhold Niebuhr, the great mid-20^th century theologian, who became known for an approach of Christian engagement in the world known as Christian realism, once articulated the human task this way:

Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope. Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore we are saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness. (The Irony of American History)

While personally and collectively we are called to “act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God” (Micah 6), we must understand that our conclusions and actions our neither perfect or pristine.  Shades of grey cover the field.  Motives are mixed.  Hazards abound.  We cannot see clearly.  Yet, choices must be made.

Thomas Merton, in a letter he wrote to young activist named James Forest, says it this way:

“Do not depend on the hope of results.  When you are doing the sort of work you have taken on, essentially an apostolic work, you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and even achieve no results at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect.  As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results but on the value, the truth of the work itself.  And there, too, a great deal has to be gone through, as gradually you struggle less and less for an idea and more and more for specific people.  The range tends to narrow down, but it gets much more real.  In the end, it is the reality of personal relationships that saves everything. . . The real hope, then, is not in something we think we can do, but in God who is making something good out of it in some way we cannot see.  If we can do God’s will, we will be helping out in the process.  But we will not necessarily know all about it beforehand.” (1st Vol. of Merton’s Letters).

Personally, I’m going to try to channel a bit of the wisdom that I picked up from a dear colleague of blessed memory, and recommit myself to being a less anxious presence in a world turn asunder by turmoil.  I have a notion that, focusing first on that task, I’ll be more likely to stumble upon that treasure hidden in a field.

With you, on the Way.

Pastor Erik

When Jesus saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, for they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. – Matthew 9:36

People of God,

Stories of being followed, stopped, harassed, threatened, intimidated, tased, arrested, falsely accused and otherwise abused by police officers sworn “to protect and serve” the public good are so legion and so deeply rooted in the experi­ence of people of color that it is has long since come to be treated as a fact of life.  Because of this, parents, when their children reach a certain age, sit them down for “The Talk,” laying out rules for engagement that must be followed if their children are to sur­vive in a dominant culture that—regardless of facts or intent—perceives them as threat, as hostile, as guilty because of the color of their skin.  For generations, parents have given the same lecture to their children: Don’t act out.  Stay away from bad places.  Avoid confrontations.  A list of do’s and don’ts every black person should follow if they want to avoid being bru­talized or killed by police officers or other white people.[1]  But after high profile and deadly confrontations in Minneapolis (George Floyd), Louisville, (Breonna Taylor), and Brunswick, Georgia, (Ahmaud Arbery) in recent months, what exactly should black parents be telling their kids now?  And what should white parents be telling their kids?

As a white parent, I didn’t give my children “The Talk”; it never entered my consciousness as some­thing I would ever need to do.  This is the definition of white privilege—the working assumption that systems of justice, government struc­tures, and public institutions that hold power in our society will, by and large, work well for me and mine and serve our in­terests.  Thanks to my younger kids’ multicultural peer groups and friendships, the teachers in their K-8 school and high school, and conversations that come up around our dinner table, Kai and Naomi are much more aware and conversant with issues of race than I was as a kid growing up in Montana and Minnesota.  The years of childhood I spent in Minnesota—grades 4-10—left me with overwhelmingly positive memories.  Now, the Minnesota I see portrayed on the television and the evidence of injustice from police forces that I’ve always taken for granted were “on my side” have me questioning what underbelly of the Midwest culture I’ve been missing.  This questioning moved deeper last week after conversations I had with my older son Nathan and his wife Dehydra, who live in the same Longfellow neighborhood where George Floyd was murdered; and deeper still when I read a post from a young black woman in Minneapolis, a hospital worker, named Emily Otiso, which my son had shared with me.  Here’s an excerpt:

“As a black woman I *know* that my brother’s life, that my life, is worthless in the eyes of the criminal ‘justice’ sys­tem. As someone who has lived in 5 states and traveled to 30 others, I have said, and will continue to say, that Min­nesota is the most racist state I have ever lived in.  I am constantly treated like a criminal in my own community.

I am constantly living in fear because of my race.  I have lived with these feelings for as long as I can remember, long before Black Lives Matter started trending. There are no words to describe the weight of the burden you bear when your skin is ‘the wrong color.’

“What is happening is not just about George Floyd. His murder and the protection given to his murderers set off the racial powder keg here, in the most racist city in which I have lived, in America, a country composed of 400 years institutionalized racism, systemic oppression, police brutality, implicit bias, micro aggressions, and countless other legalized and socially acceptable ways in which our country keeps its knee on the neck of black communities.

“This pandemic has affected all of us and has, without a doubt, contributed to the violence that has erupted in our city. Covid-19 has led to people losing their jobs and filing for unemployment, it has led to frontline workers beg­ging for proper protection because their lives depend on it, and it has taken a massive toll on our country’s mental health. I implore you to take a moment to consider the parallels between this crisis and the crisis black communities face on a daily basis.”

For decades, incidents of police brutality were largely hidden from public view.  But ever since the 1991 video showing Rodney King, an unarmed black man, being brutally assaulted by four white Los Angeles police officers, the reality and fre­quency of abuse has been increasingly laid bare.  Over 1,000 people have been fatally shot by the police in the past year, according to The Washington Post.  And on May 25^th, in broad daylight, in the presence of eyewitnesses and with camera phones rolling, we watched four Minneapolis police officers ignore the pleas both of victim and bystanders alike, and en­gage in the slow, tortuous asphyxiation of Mr. Floyd.  The resulting protests and riots in cities throughout the country, in­cluding Seattle, have set loose a cauldron of raw emotions, peaceful and determined protests, acts of looting and arson, confrontations, property destruction, newly alleged incidents of police brutality, and National Guard deployments.

As some of you know, one of my public roles is serving as a Volunteer Chaplain with the Seattle Police Department.  This role has given me the opportunity to see police officers and their work up close on a number of occasions.  I’ve sat through regular roll calls and through debriefings after major shooter incidents; I’ve met officers at the homes of persons who have just committed suicide; I’ve listened to young officers who were experiencing circumstances for the first time and wanted to “get it right”; I’ve watched officers who’ve worked double shifts stand for hours in the heat, speaking compas­sionately to folks who’ve suddenly lost their loved ones; I’ve participated at the memorials of officers killed in the line of duty.  My take?  Just like pastors, not all police officers are the same.  Like pastors, officers are drawn to their vocation for a number of different reasons.  Like pastors, some have more gifts and aptitudes for the work than others. Like pastors, some perform well and others poorly; some are successful and others less so.  We cannot place every officer into a single bucket of attributes and tendencies or make assumptions about what motivates them.  Perhaps most importantly, the overall cul­ture of the police department where officers serve out their careers plays an outsized role in shaping the kind of public servants they become.  In Minneapolis, that culture has, by many accounts, been toxic to black citizens.  And police depart­ments across the country, since 9/11, have become more militarized in their weapons and tactics in the face of perceived and real terrorist threats.

Where are the signs of hope?  How about Flint, Michigan, (yes, that Flint) where Genesee County Sheriff Christopher Swanson, standing before a crowd of outraged protestors, told them “we want to be with you all for real,” and proceeded to take off his helmet and have his officers put down their batons.  When the protestors applauded, he asked them what he and the other officers needed to do, to which the crowd chanted their reply: WALK WITH US…WALK WITH US…WALK WITH US!  And so he did.  “We are walking with you,” he told the crowd, “because all you’re asking for is a voice and dignity for all, no matter who you are.”[2]  Resolutions are possible when, looking across the barricade, we see other human beings, not enemies.

When Jesus, as he moved through the cities and towns of Galilee, saw crowds of desperate, needy people, his response was one of deep compassion. The Hebrew word for compassion shares the same root as the word for womb.[3]  To have com­passion is to have a womb for someone—that is, to treat that person just like the one who once carried her in­side her own body; to remember how loved that person was even before eyes were ever laid upon her.  You can’t practice that kind of love without becoming vulnerable yourself.  That’s what Sheriff Swanson did in Flint; that’s what Jesus did again and again.

Let me be clear: People of color in this country have lived with vulnerability and trauma ever since the first slave ships docked on these shores 400 years ago.  Jesus is not asking people of African descent to maintain their position of vulnerabil­ity while they await some form of redemption.  Instead, he’s asking—commanding—those of us who, by virtue of race, gen­der, economic power, or social status live privileged lives, to come clean about that privilege, to learn to recognize the con­tinuing vulnerability of neighbors like George Floyd and Emily Otiso, to refuse to accept the status quo any longer, and to become part of the movement for sustainable, systemic change.   For some of us that may well mean a non-violent pres­ence on the street—marching or cleaning up the examples of defacement left by others.  For others of us it may mean working within our families, work contexts, among peers, and in our neighborhoods to make our solidarity and com­mitments visible.  For all of us it means giving new expression to God’s dream to “love our neighbors as ourselves.”

This is a moment in our culture to be seized upon for good.  Let none of us be bystanders.

Pádraig Ó Tuama, former leader of the Corrymeela Community in Northern Ireland writes:

In these moments the past and the future pivot.

In these moments the inner life of reflection

can help us reach out for the outer life of reconciliation.

We turn to each other.

We ask the difficult question.

We hear the difficult answer.

It changes us. We turn to each other.

We have the possibility of making something new together.

Our prayer deepens our action.

May we all be reconciled

living in the unity for which all were created.

Despite all the death that surrounds us, the injustices, the pains, the losses, the laments, God’s compassionate womb holds every one of us—on whichever side of death we find ourselves.  But God does more than hold us.  In Jesus, God sum­mons us to a compassionate Way of living in community, of exorcizing the demons of racism and white privilege, and of journeying with him on the path of solidarity and reconciliation.

Yours in Christ, Pastor Erik

_______________________________________________

[1] Does “the talk” work anymore:  https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/black-parents-wonder-if-the-talk-is-still-effective-in-keeping-their-children-safe/ar-BB14LFV2

[2] See New York Times article documenting the event: https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/31/us/flint-sheriff-protestors-camden-police-ferguson.html

[3] Frederick Niedner. 

“You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.” – Psalm 23

Beloved of God,

Each year, the 4^th Sunday of Easter is celebrated as Good Shepherd Sunday, and the 23^rd Psalm, a favorite for over 3,000 years, comes back into view.  Some of you remember committing this psalm to memory, as I did, during confirmation class.  Though new translations of this psalm have made their way into print through the years, it’s the language I put to memory 50 years ago that comes to my lips whenever the occasion warrants.  This year we’ll be incorporating several musical versions of the psalm in our LIVE STREAM service on May 3^rd.  I hope you’ll tune in.

An enduring memory from our family visit to Glendalough, the Irish monastic community founded by St. Kevin in the 6^th century, is walking in the rain along the boardwalk past grazing sheep, and then turning to find a brilliant rainbow touching down in the vary place where Kevin founded his church. That experience wedded the rainbow sign of God’s promise not to abandon this creation with the psalm of David: The Lord is my shepherd; my cup overflows.

St. Kevin was known for his connection to the creatures of the natural world.  Though not a shepherd, during his days as a hermit he relished spending long hours communing with the animals who he came to know there.  There’s a story about him holding out his hand to a blackbird one day.  When the bird finds Kevin’s hand a suitable place for building its nest, Kevin remains there—his arm outstretched—all through the ensuing cycle of nest building, egg laying, egg hatching, and fledging.  (Irish poet laureate Seamus Heaney wrote a poem about this story, which you can find here.)  It seems that “The LORD is my shepherd” expanded, for Kevin, into a lifelong ethos of caring for creatures and marveling at the abundance of God which “overflows.”  More at home in some ways with animal beings than with his fellow human beings, Kevin practiced tender kinship with God’s creatures 700 years before St. Francis was born.

The image of Jesus as Good Shepherd is one of the oldest in the Christian tradition.  You can find it painted on the walls of the Christian catacombs outside of Rome.  It testifies to the tenderness with which he cares for us and the fierceness with which he defends us from that which would do us harm.  Those who know his voice are secure; their cup “overflows.”

During this time when so much of what we know is collapsing; when the whole world is holding its collective breath while awaiting relief and the opportunity to move back into familiar rhythms, we are called to trust that we are being held, blessed, and offered abundant life by a Shepherd who walks alongside us. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me, your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”  Trusting the truth behind these words, trusting in the accompaniment of the Good Shepherd, allows us the confidence to reach beyond ourselves and show concern and care to others.  Many of you are doing just that—finding ways despite social distancing to express caring and love to others who desperately need it during this pandemic.

Last week I was called to the bedside of a man I’d never met who was dying from cancer.  There, in the home he shared with his husband, I offered assurance that the Good Shepherd would hold him fast as he made the final journey to the life beyond this life.  This promise brought him a peace that awaits all of us when we hold fast to the promise the “neither life nor death, nor anything else in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

With you, on the Way,

Pastor Erik

“The import of the commandment against killing is this: In the first place, we should not harm anyone… In the second place, this commandment is violated not only when a person actually does evil, but also when he fails to do good to his neighbor, or, though he has the opportunity, fails to prevent, protect and save him from suffering bodily harm or injury.”

– Martin Luther, The Large Catechism

Beloved of God,

The church building is a quiet place these days.  Too quiet.  As I’ve ridden my bicycle to Peace in recent weeks, there have been days when not a single car has crossed my path.  Much of any given day I’m the only body here at Peace.  Yes, the building is abnormally quiet—and yet my days are full of people: phone calls, ZOOM meetings, collaborations with Peace staff and leader, conversations with pastoral colleagues, virtual huddles with our Tech Team to produce videos and plan ways for maintaining connection with each other during this time of forced separation.

The shift to this new world happened so swiftly that many of us found ourselves reeling; yet many of us are finding ways to acclimate ourselves to this new normal, which we now know will be in place at least through May 4^th.  In the process of acclimation, some of us are discovering capacities we didn’t know we had.  A recent phone call to the Sunde household revealed that, with a little ingenuity and a few strategic purchases, face shields were being made for a local medical team.  Another phone exchange revealed how Michael T. was becoming the “go-to” coffee and chocolate supplier to his neighborhood using Fair Trade items that would otherwise sit untouched in the Peace narthex.  Working from their home studio, Jon and James have recorded music to embroider my weekly audio and video messages; and Laura B. has been writing original music to accompany the Holy Week reflections written by Boots W—and on it goes. The upshot?  This novel virus is unleashing novel ways of serving others—God’s Spirit is alive and well among us and for that we can give thanks!

If your household has discovered new ways of connecting with and serving others, I’d love to hear about it!  Please share it with me via phone or email.

Brother Martin, in excavating the deeper layers of the 5^th Commandment, reveals that at its core the prohibition to murder is more than a line in the sand God commands us not to cross—it is an invitation to proactively look out for the welfare of our neighbor.  This kind of proactive commitment to care for those around us is in high demand these days.  As much as our focus of care surely should be on those within our family and household circle, can we also extend our field of vision to include neighbors who may have needs we can help address?  I know that many of you are doing just that—and doing so while maintaining proper safety protocols!  You, my friends, are doing God’s work!  While the 24/7 flood of dire news about this pandemic can have a debilitating effect on us, making us cautious about every interaction, and causing us to turn in on ourselves, it need not be so among us.  Through the centuries people of faith have demonstrated in a variety of ways both great and small what neighbor-love can look like.  We continue in that long stream.

Pastor Erik

Dear Friend,

During this time when we are learning to cope the best we can with these circumstances forced upon us because of COVID-19, creativity is being unleashed in the world in powerful ways which inspire hope.   A beautiful example of this creativity came to my email inbox from my sister in Massachusetts: a virtual recording of Beautiful City (from Godspell) put together by the Southshore Children’s Choir.  Hearing these young voices brought tears to my eyes!

Another beautiful example is the poem by Capuchin Franciscan Brother Richard Hendrick of Ireland, which has been making its rounds.  You can find his original post here:

Lockdown

by Capuchin Franciscan Brother Richard Hendrick

Yes there is fear.

Yes there is isolation.

Yes there is panic buying.

Yes there is sickness.

Yes there is even death.

But,

They say that in Wuhan after so many years of noise

You can hear the birds again.

They say that after just a few weeks of quiet

The sky is no longer thick with fumes

But blue and grey and clear.

They say that in the streets of Assisi

People are singing to each other

across the empty squares,

keeping their windows open

so that those who are alone

may hear the sounds of family around them.

They say that a hotel in the West of Ireland

Is offering free meals and delivery to the housebound.

Today a young woman I know

is busy spreading fliers with her number

through the neighbourhood

So that the elders may have someone to call on.

Today Churches, Synagogues, Mosques and Temples

are preparing to welcome

and shelter the homeless, the sick, the weary

All over the world people are slowing down and reflecting

All over the world people are looking at their neighbours in a new way

All over the world people are waking up to a new reality

To how big we really are.

To how little control we really have.

To what really matters.

To Love.

So we pray and we remember that

Yes there is fear.

But there does not have to be hate.

Yes there is isolation.

But there does not have to be loneliness.

Yes there is panic buying.

But there does not have to be meanness.

Yes there is sickness.

But there does not have to be disease of the soul

Yes there is even death.

But there can always be a rebirth of love.

Wake to the choices you make as to how to live now.

Today, breathe.

Listen, behind the factory noises of your panic

The birds are singing again

The sky is clearing,

Spring is coming,

And we are always encompassed by Love.

Open the windows of your soul

And though you may not be able

to touch across the empty square,

Sing

Christ walks with you

Keep calm.  Stay safe.  Carry on.

P Erik

Grace, mercy and peace to you on this 5^th Sunday in Lent.

My message this week is being made available to you both as a VOICE RECORDING as in past weeks, AND as a VIDEO RECORDING. The message is tied to two Scripture readings for this Sunday: Ezekiel 37 and the 11^th chapter of John, both of which speak powerfully to the experiences we’re going through right now—one takes us to the VALLEY OF DRY BONES; the other to the TOMB OF LAZARUS.

Once again, I’m grateful for our TECH TEAM and MUSICIANS which made these recordings possible.

God keep you close as you listen in!

Pastor Erik

Lent 5A recorded message for 3-29-2020Audio

Lent 5A PRELUDEWhat Wonderous Love is This Piano Solo James Jelasic

Lent 5A POSTLUDERestore in Us, O God – Jon and James

O Love of God How Strong and True – Jon and James(1)

Here’s an uptempo version of I WANT JESUS TO WALK WITH ME (YouTube) by Laura Bermes: https://youtu.be/iCjcA6n9gv4

Lent 4A recorded message WAV for 3-22-2020

Dear Friends,

I hope that as you listen to today’s message you and those you love are managing well as we continue our journey through this unprecedented time.  As social isolation becomes more strict, adjustments must be made that test our capacity for change.  Yet, in times such as these, we may find ourselves summoning capacities we didn’t know we had! I hope you feel new capabilities rising within you and members of your circle, so that the changes being asked of you are not overwhelming.

I’ll continue sending weekly communications via email as well as posting on the SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENTS section our homepage: www.peacelutheranseattle.org.

I’m working closely with our technology team to enlarge our capacity to connect with each other during this time.  We hope to expand options for group and individual video sharing soon.  I’m grateful to Jon and James for the music offerings contributed today, and to Dustin Smith for knitting it all together.

To listen to the music that accompanies this message, click below.

PRELUDESavior, Like a Shepherd Lead Us and JSBachJamesSolo

POSTLUDEJesJoyHighKingofHeavenJamesSolo

INSPIRATIONALSONGIHeardtheVoiceofJesusSayJonandJames

Peace member and performer Laura Bermes created this rendition of Amazing Grace for us that also fits into the day’s theme about moving from blindness to sight.  You can find her performance here on YouTube: https://youtu.be/TdPMM5iS05k

The peace of the Lord be with you always.

Pastor Erik