“One of the most obvious characteristics of our daily lives is that we are busy. We experience our days as filled with things to do, people to meet, projects to finish, [emails] to write, calls to make, and appointments to keep.  Our lives often seem like overpacked suitcases bursting at the seams.”

– Henri Nouwen, Making All Things New

Dearly Beloved,

Do Nouwen’s words reflect your reality the way they do mine?  I love (or is it loathe?) the image of an overpacked suitcase bursting at the seams.  With all the transitions going on in our family life of late, “down time” seems more elusive than ever—and I know I’m not alone.  The season of Lent brings additional layers of activity and possibilities for the life we share in community, but I hope and pray the effect is not to make those suitcases burst even more!  In truth the opposite is what Lent strives for:  to help us unpack the suitcase and stay awhile.

Nouwen continues his thoughts:

“From all that I said about our worried, over-filled lives, it is clear that we are usually surrounded by so much inner and outer noise that it is hard to truly hear our God when he is speaking to us. We have often become deaf, unable to know when God calls us and unable to understand in which direction he calls us.  Thus our lives have become absurd.  In the word absurd we find the Latin word surdus, which means “deaf.” …when we learn to listen, our lives become obedient lives.  The word obedient comes from the Latin word audire, which means “listening.” A spiritual discipline is necessary in order to move slowly from an absurd to an obedient life, from a life filled with noisy worries to a life in which there is some free inner space where we can listen to our God and follow his guidance.”

Freeing inner space in order to tune in to God; coming back to ground—that’s the essence of Lent. To get there we may need to take stock of our overscheduled lives, prune back obligations, and slow the rhythm of our days enough that we can move from absurd deafness to obedient listening. This kind of listening doesn’t magically happen all at once.  It’s a practice that must be cultivated; and cultivating anything takes time.

Jesus, says Nouwen, was “all ear.”  Always listening to the Father, always attentive to his voice, always alert for God’s directions. It was this being “tuned in” to God that enabled Jesus to tell his followers:

“Do not worry about your life…do not worry, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear?’ For … your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” (Matthew 6)

The Lenten disciplines of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving are not ends in themselves but are tools which, by holding our attention, help us detach from lesser obligations, freeing up bandwidth for us to pay better attention to our spiritual lives. Claimed by God in baptismal waters we are beloved children!  The daily agenda for our lives has its starting point here.

With anxiety on the rise due to spreading corona virus, volatile financial markets, and the uncertainties of this election year, we do well to exercise care in choosing which voice(s) we will tune our ears to hear.  As we gather at the Table and tune in to the words “this is my body…this is my blood…given for you,” we are assured that Christ will walk with us through thick and thin, up and down, beckoning us to unpack our overstuffed suitcases and exchange our absurd lives for obedient ones.

With you on the Way,

Pastor Erik

“You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”

– Jesus, Matthew 5:14-16

Beloved of God,

Ironic, isn’t it, that the so-called Season of Light we mark this time of year comes at a most dark and dreary time. The thick cloud cover we’ve been experiencing, coupled with the relentless rain, [SIDEBAR: Yes, I am grateful for all the mountain snow…] can give the impression that we’re actually getting less sunlight now than we did during December’s winter solstice.  Cue Jesus, who has the audacity this month to call us “the light of the world.” I don’t know about you, but sometimes it can be hard to shine—even when we know that’s our job.

In a story he tells about candles in a closet, Max Lucado, I think, gets it right. As the story begins an electrical storm has caused a blackout in his home, so Max feels his way to the closet where the candles are kept. Lighting a match, he finds the shelf of candles.  But as he turns to leave with the largest one lit and in hand, a voice tells him to STOP WHERE HE IS, and he finds himself in conversation with the candle.

“Who are you? What are you?”

        I’M A CANDLE… Don’t take me out of here!

“What?”

        I said, don’t take me out of this room.

“What do you mean? I have to take you out. You’re a candle. Your job is to give light. It’s dark out there.

People are stubbing their toes and walking into walls. You have to come out and light up the place!”

        But you can’t take me out. I’m not ready, the candle explained. I need more preparation.

I couldn’t believe my ears. “More preparation?”

Yeah, I’ve decided I need to research this job of light-giving so I won’t go out and make a bunch of mistakes. You’d be surprised how distorted the glow of an untrained candle can be. So I’m doing some studying. I just finished a book on wind resistance.  I’m in the middle of a great series of tapes on wick build-up and conservation – I’m reading the new best seller on flame display.  Have you heard of it?”

“No,” I answered.

You might like it. It’s called Waxing Eloquently.

Having given up on that particular candle, Max chooses a different one, but the same problem follows. Each candle offers a different excuse for why it can’t go public with its light. None is ready to leave the relative safety of their place on the shelf.  Max pleads with them, but to no avail. Finally, the story ends this way:

I put the big candle on the shelf and took a step back and considered the absurdity of it all. Four perfectly healthy candles [willing to talk about light] but refusing to come out [and let it shine.] I had all I could take. One by one I blew them out…I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked back out into the darkness.

“Max,” asked my wife, “Where are the candles?”

“They don’t…they won’t work. Where did you buy those candles anyway?”

“Oh, they’re church candles. Remember the church that’s closing? I bought them there.”

“At last,” says Max, “I understood.” [1]

Of course the story of is more complicated than that, as all who have struggled to keep a congregation alive well know. Many factors contribute to the rise and fall of a congregation’s life cycle.  Right now, Peace happens to be in the midst of a growing phase, with young and growing families.  What a joy it is!  We’re beating the trends of many of our sister churches.  But those trends can shift if we find ourselves only paying attention to what happens between our walls.

Jesus says so clearly: YOU ALL ARE THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD.  Not, YOU HAVE POTENTIAL TO BE LIGHT, but YOU ARE THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD.  We are called as a congregation to visibility!  Sometimes the walls of a church building can become barriers to that visibility.  Sometimes it feels safer inside, with people I know—or am getting to know—and it feels risky to go out purposefully, as community, into the neighborhood, and say WE STAND FOR LIGHT – WE WILL BE LIGHT.  But in order for light to be seen it must come out of the closet.

What does LETTING LIGHT SHINE mean for us as this second decade of the 21^st century unfolds?  It’s a question and a challenge we are called to keep ever before us. We say it this way in our vision statement:

“…We are called to discern God’s presence and invitation into unfamiliar places, and to venture beyond ourselves, so all people will experience God’s love.”

“Beyond ourselves…” In other words, we are called to visibility. Called to venture out of the closet. To bring light; to be light.  And to borrow and share light, especially at times when it seems that the world’s light stores are running low.  That’s a message I, for one, need to hear in the midst of gloomy, dreary days.

Thank you for sharing your light with me.

Pastor Erik

[1] Max Lucado, God Came Near – Chronicles Of The Christ. (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1986, 2004). Some edits for brevity.

“Come bow beneath the flowing wave. Christ stands here by your side

and raises you as from the grave God raised the crucified.”

– Thomas Troeger

Beloved of God,

When the crab boat Scandies Rose went down in frigid Alaskan waters last week, rescuers managed to save two of the seven crew members, plucking them from a life raft in the middle of the night in high seas and a -10 wind chill.  As hard as it is for me to imagine crewing on a crab boat it’s even harder for me to imagine being on a Coast Guard rescue crew that would be called to action under conditions such as these.  (The year I tried out for the high school water polo team quickly led me to the conclusion that water was not my medium for athletic success!)  The truth is the Coast Guard’s rescue diver training program is the toughest and most demanding of any branch of the military.  The attrition rate for the training program hovers around 50%.  The base physical fitness requirements are daunting—performance minimums include:  50 push-ups, 60 sit-ups, 5 pull-ups, 5 chin-ups, a 500 yard crawl swim in 12 minutes, a 25 year underwater swim (repeated four times), a buddy tow of 200 yards. Recommended fitness metrics are even higher.  Add to these the need to think clearly and perform challenging tasks while submerged, holding your breath, and getting tossed around my 10-20 ft. waves; then mix in the harsh and frigid conditions that are the norm for boats plying Alaskan waters in the winter, and my awe and admiration for those who feel called to this work grows ever higher.  A high level of discipline is required of those who take on these physically and psychologically demanding roles.

In her book on the Rule of Benedict, Joan Chittister writes about another kind of discipline; the discipline of the spiritual life:

“The spiritual life is not something that is gotten for the wishing or assumed by affectation. The spiritual life takes discipline.  It is something to be learned, to be internalized.  It’s not a set of daily exercises; it’s a way of life, an attitude of mind, an orientation of soul.  And it is gotten by being schooled until no rules are necessary.”[1]

She retells a story from the ancients:

“What action shall I perform to attain God?” the disciple asked the elder.

“If you wish to attain God,” the elder replied, “there are two things you must know.  The first is that all efforts to attain God are of no avail.  The second is that you must act as if you did not know the first.”

Chittister concludes: “The secret of the spiritual life is to live it until it becomes real.”

If you’re experience is like mine, the challenges that were present in 2019 are still present in 2020.  As in years past, events both within and beyond our control will demand a response from us.  How will we respond?  For my part, I believe the best strategy for attending to these challenges is to follow the path of Jesus within the context of community.  This Way has its origins in the waters of baptism—waters that both drown and save us; waters that claim and name us; waters that follow us, wherever we go, our whole life long.  When two of our young people, Austin and Kimberly, come forward to be baptized on January 12, let’s “bow beneath the flowing wave” with them and join the refrain of all the baptized through the centuries:

Water, River, Spirit, Grace, sweep over me, sweep over me!

Recarve the depths your fingers traced in sculpting me.[2]

With you, on the Way, Pastor Erik

[1] Joan Chittister, The Rule of Benedict: A Spirituality for the 21st Century. (New York: Crossroads, 2010) p. 21

[2] Thomas Troeger.

“Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.  Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly.  But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream…”

– Matthew 1:18-20a

Beloved of God,

This month we enter the Year of Matthew. Not that we won’t also hear from Luke at Christmas—and a good deal from John, too, especially during Easter. But Matthew is our gospel of reference as Advent and the story of Jesus’ birth begin to unfold.  And Matthew’s take on the story is decidedly different than Luke’s.  In Luke’s story—with which we’re most familiar, the one we hear told every Christmas Eve—Mary holds center stage and the narrative follows her encounter with God’s messenger Gabriel, her visit to her pregnant elder cousin Elizabeth, her journey with Joseph to Bethlehem and the circumstances which attend Jesus’ birth there.  But in Matthew’s story Joseph has a much more prominent role in the drama:  it is he rather than Mary who has the encounter with God’s messenger (in a dream…like his ancestor and namesake Joseph, the son of Jacob); it is he who takes in and trusts the news that the Holy Spirit—and not some other guy—is responsible for his fiancée being pregnant.  Matthew takes us inside Joseph’s process of discerning what he should do when Mary tells him she’s expecting.  He’s described as a “righteous man,” one willing to go the extra mile and unwilling to expose Mary to public disgrace.  In a Middle Eastern culture highly focused on honor and shame, that’s saying something.

In countries throughout the Middle East and South Asia even today one hears of fathers who undertake to preserve their family honor by putting their daughters to death for real, assumed, or rumored transgressions.  If a woman or girl in these places is accused or suspected of engaging in behavior that could taint her family’s status, she can face brutal retaliation from her relatives that often results in violent death.  The United Nations estimates that around 5,000 women and girls are murdered each year in so-called “honor killings” by members of their families.  According to Amnesty International these so-called “honor” crimes are rooted in a global culture of discrimination against women, and the deeply rooted belief that women are objects and commodities, not human beings entitled to dignity and rights equal to those of men.  Women’s bodies, particularly, are considered the repositories of family honor, and under the control and responsibility of her family (especially her male relatives).  Large sections of these societies share traditional conceptions of family honor and approve of “honor” killings to preserve that honor.  Neither is America immune. This narrative found its way to our shores ten years ago in the case of Noor Almaleki, a 20 year old woman of Iraqi heritage who was run over and killed in Phoenix, Arizona, by a car driven by her father, Faleh Hassan Almaleki. (He was later convicted of manslaughter and is serving a 34 year sentence for her death.)

In the culture in which Joseph was raised the penalty for adultery was death by stoning. This leads me to ask: How difficult was it REALLY for Joseph to choose not to expose Mary to public disgrace and scorn and potential violence, but instead to let their betrothal go away quietly?  This high stakes tightrope of a story, told so sparingly by Matthew, beckons us to reflect more deeply on how it is that the Creator of the Universe would tread so closely to the edge of chaos in order become Emmanuel—God with us. As the Year of Matthew unfolds, we’ll return to that question—and many others, again and again.

“O Come, O, Come, Immanuel!”

“As you therefore have received Christ Jesus the Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving.”

– Colossians 2:6-7

Beloved of God,

My first Call brought me and my young family to the Redwood Coast of Northwestern California where I remember the excitement of exploring those ancient forests.  Driving south on Highway 101 along the Eel River we entered Humboldt Redwoods State Park, one of the last remaining refuges for the great trees, and took the exit for FOUNDER’S GROVE.  Stepping out of the car in that majestic grove was like stepping into a cathedral.  The sheer scale of the trees left us slack jawed and tongue-tied.  Within a ten mile radius of where we stood were some of the largest and most accessible Redwood giants on the planet—trees that towered over 350 feet, with trunks measuring 15 feet or more in diameter, some of which were seedlings when Jesus was a boy. Redwoods were turning soil, air, and water into leaf, branch, and trunk eons before human beings made their appearance on planet Earth.   So ancient is the trees’ lineage that the footfalls of dinosaurs once echoed between their trunks. And now here we were standing in their shadows, craning our necks in awe, hushed and humbled by these greatest of living beings.

What allows these majestic trees to achieve a longevity that other tree species cannot? In a word: their root system. But it isn’t the depth of the root system that makes the critical difference—even the greatest giants have roots extending only 6-12 feet deep. It’s the breadth of the root system that’s key. Redwoods create the strength to withstand powerful winds and floods through the centuries by extending their roots more than 50 feet from the trunk and by living in groves where those roots can intertwine. Recent research into forest ecology has shown that interlocking root systems like these provide not only physical support; the healthier trees actually share nutrient resources with the younger and more vulner­able trees with which they are connected. Trees, it turns out, know something about living in a supportive community.

When measured against the lifespan of an ancient Redwood, the 75 years the Peace Lutheran has been around is a brief moment in time. Yet in human terms, it’s not insignificant. The same principle that contributes to the health and longevity of Redwood trees contributes to the health and longevity of human communities—namely our ability to extend our roots outward, to cultivate shared commitments and shoulder shared burdens, to grow strong and interdependent from the name we receive at the Font and the nourishment we receive at the Table. The congregation we know as PEACE grows stronger when we promote a healthy interdependence and attentiveness to needs and opportunities which exist within our community and this neighborhood at 39th and Thistle where God has planted us.

During the run-up to our 75th Celebration all sorts of new gifts and givers have surfaced—one of the great outcomes of this whole process!  Our yearlong celebration of God’s steadfast accompaniment with us over three quarters of a century has brought renewed energy.  A good deal of that energy has been focused on updating our physical structure so that it better reflects the vibrant nature of our community.  But the energy must not stop there.  It must spill out beyond these doors and walls and windows into our neighborhood; the roots must continue to grow outward, seeking new connections.  This is always the journey which we’re about.  A joy filled and thanksful 75th dear Peacefolk!  I can’t wait to see what God will be up to next.

With you on the Way,

Pastor Erik

When the poor ones, who have nothing, still are giving;

when the thirsty pass the cup, water to share;

when the wounded offer others strength and healing:

We see God, here by our side, walking our way;

we see God, here by our side, walking our way.

– José Antonio Oliver, ELW #725

Beloved of God,

In spite of serving as a pastor in the Lutheran Church for 33 years, I had never heard the name Jehu Jones, Jr., until last month.  His story, as the first African American to be ordained a Lutheran pastor, is at once an inspiring example of determination against all odds, and “a melancholy and indeed shameful aspect of Lutheran History.”[1]

His father, Jehu Jones, Sr., who had purchased his own freedom from slavery, was a pew owning member of St. Philip’s Protestant Episcopal Church and proprietor of one of the finest hotels in Charleston, South Carolina.  A tailor by trade, Jehu Jr. had inherited his father’s name and business.  He brought his own children to St. Philip’s for baptism in 1815.  But shortly after the Lutheran Church of German Protestants (St. John’s Church) opened its doors to blacks in 1816, Jones and his wife Elizabeth became members.  Their subsequent children were baptized there by Pastor John Bachman.  In October of 1832, Jones felt a call to be a missionary in Liberia.  But he knew that, because of his race, southern Lutherans would not ordain him, so he sought an avenue of service in the North.  He arrived in New York City with letter from Pastor Bachman in hand and made contact with Pastor William Strobel, a former member of St. John’s, and after examination was ordained by the Ministerium of New York on October 24, 1832 at the age of 46.

But when Jones returned to his native South Carolina to prepare for the trip to Liberia, he was arrested and jailed under the Negro Seamen’s Act, which forbade any free Negro from reentering South Carolina and directed that free blacks could be jailed or put on the auction block.  Appearing before a judge, Jones was told he must spend time in jail or leave immediately.  He chose to leave, and after stopping home long enough to say goodbye to his wife and children, the youngest of whom was 3 days old, he departed Charleston for New York.  Exiled from his native city and unable to join the group from Charleston about to embark for Liberia, Jones sought another way to reach the colony, but his efforts and those of his supporters were rebuffed and the dream of ministering in Liberia was set aside.

In the spring of 1833, joined by his wife Elizabeth and nine children, he chose Philadelphia as his new home.  Arriving there with letters of recommendation, he was discouraged by leading Lutheran clergy from establishing a Lutheran church.  “The people will hate you because of your color,” he was told; why not join another communion—such as United Methodists, Presbyterians, or Baptists—who already count pastors of color among their ranks?  That, Jones insisted, was not an option; he was Lutheran through and through.  And so the establishment of a Lutheran mission to the black citizens of Philadelphia began to take root.

Using his own resources and those acquired through a fundraising tour, he bought land and began building St. Paul’s Church, the first independent African American Lutheran congregation.  But when the church encountered financial difficulties, rather than lend them aid, the Ministerium of Pennsylvania took title of the church building and failed to assist its pastor.  The New York Ministerium also rejected his appeal for funds, and eventually the building was sold to pay off acquired debts.  His subsequent appeal to the Synod of New York for permission and support to establish a Lutheran mission for the black community in New York was not only rejected by the synod, the validity of his ministry itself was called into question and he was unrightfully censored.

The institutional church failed Pastor Jones abysmally.  Even after all this, Pastor Jones continued to be faithful in keeping his Philadelphia congregation together without a building and he continued to preach. As late as 1851, at age 65, he could proudly assert, “I continue to preach to the colored congregation of St. Paul Lutheran Church.”  In the face of the Lutheran Church’s unfaithfulness to him, Pastor Jehu Jones remained faithful to the gospel.  He died September 28, 1852, the victim of prejudice, rejection, and institutional abuse.

In his book, DEAR CHURCH: A LOVE LETTER FROM A BLACK PREACHER TO THE WHITEST DENOMINATION IN THE U.S., ELCA Pastor Lenny Duncan makes an impassioned plea for our church and society at large to acknowledge our captivity to white supremacy. The community Duncan serves in the heart of Brooklyn takes its name from Pastor Jehu Jones; it’s called Jehu’s Table.  Duncan’s book, the subject of our Adult Sunday class through this month, is provocative and challenging.  And it belongs at the center of discussions about the prevalence of white racism in church and society and in congregational life.

This month, as we celebrate the various ways our congregation has engaged and is engaging in ministries of social outreach, assistance, and advocacy, we remain mindful of the reality that systemic oppressions of all kinds bedevil our culture at every level. The church’s responsibility in the midst of this reality is not only to feed the hungry and bind up the wounded, but to consciously engage and defeat white supremacy and the other demonic forces within us and without that call into question the image of God that resides in every human being.

Jesus’ ministry among those who were marginalized, his model of bringing them into the circle and challenging the forces—both social and spiritual—that supported them, must be our model. The impulse to reach out and serve, as you’ll see in the article by Boots Winterstein below, is embedded in our congregation’s DNA.  That’s something to celebrate, even while we remain alert to the continuing work to which God, and siblings in Christ like Pastor Duncan, call us.

[1] Philip Pfatteicher, New Book of Festivals and Commemorations.  2008.  Much of what I share here is taken from Pfatteicher’s article on Rev. Jones, an essay in The Lutheran Quarterly, Volume X, 1996 by Karl E. Johnson, Jr. and Joseph E. Romeo, as well as from Lenny Duncan’s book, Dear Church….(Augsburg Fortress, 2019)

Luther & Lilian Anderson, December 1946

I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.

So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.

– 1 Corinthians 3:6-7

Beloved of God,

The Letter of Call from the Lutheran Board of Home Missions was dated January 14, 1944, and it was directed to a seminarian in his senior year at Augustana Theological Seminary in Rock Island, Illinois.  Though it would be six months before the candidate was approved for ordination, he’d already been identified by the Board as a good fit for a new mission start that was to be established in the “southwest section of the city of Seattle.” Starting annual salary:  $2,100; with a housing allowance “not to exceed $60 a month for rent.”  The seminarian’s name? Luther Anderson.

Luther said YES to the Call, and on September 10, 1944, he conducted his first worship service as the mission’s founding pastor.  There was no building—that would come two years later.  Worship was held in an E. C. Hughes School portable classroom.  Years later, on the occasion of the congregation’s 50th anniversary, Pastor Anderson shared this remembrance:

“The first service was memorable. It was my first service as a young ordained pastor. Eighteen attended that first worship; there were only 15 when I pronounced the benediction. One lady left early to fulfill a promise to her husband, another fainted and was taken home! I wondered what my ministry was to become.”

It was while serving Peace that Luther met and then married his wife Lilian in July 1946.  (Lilian, like Luther, was a child of a Lutheran pastor.  She was born in China and lived there for many of her early years.)  A new Call in 1949 took Luther and Lilian from Peace Lutheran to First Lutheran Church in East Orange, New Jersey, where he served until 1960.  In 1960, he accepted a Call from First Lutheran Church in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where he remained until retirement in 1985.  Retirement, however, didn’t last long.  In 1986 he accepted a call to serve as Assistant Pastor at All Saints Lutheran Church in Tamarac, Florida; a position he served for the rest of his life. Pastor Anderson died in April of 2002, and two months ago we received word from their son Eric Anderson that Lilian passed away on June 12th of this year. We also received another communication from Eric.  It came while I was on vacation—and it came as a total surprise: Luther and Lilian Anderson had left a bequest to Peace in their will.   Eric sent paperwork for us to fill out, but we still didn’t know the amount of this legacy gift.  On August 20, I sent Eric the following email correspondence to Eric:

We are both surprised and grateful that your parents Luther and Lilian felt such affection for Peace that they would choose to include the congregation in their final tithe.  What a tremendous gesture!

We are in the midst of our 75^th capital campaign right now, building on the momentum of the congregation’s 75^th anniversary.  This all comes to a culmination on Sunday, November 24th.  A major project we’re engaged in at present is the updating and refurbishment of the narthex.   We want the building, both inside and out, to reflect the vibrant nature of our growing community.  Our narthex redesign effort is aimed toward that goal.  I think that utilizing your parents’ legacy gift to support this effort would be very fitting and would further serve to inspire others.  Can you tell us the scope of your parents’ gift?    Depending on the size of their gift, there may be additional areas where their gift could be applied.  Thank you again.  Yours in Christ,

Erik Kindem

That evening, after a council meeting in which the question of capital project funding figured prominently, I checked my email.  Eric Anderson had responded.  The amount of Luther and Lilian’s final tithe gift to Peace would be $27,083 (!!!)   Immediately, I wrote back:

WOW!  What astounding generosity!  I’m overcome.  After finishing our monthly church council meeting I found your email in my inbox.  What a tremendous gift!

The God-timing of Luther and Lilian’s gift is amazing.  September 10th will be the 75th anniversary of Luther’s first worship service at Peace.  I wish I could tell both him and Lilian that Peace, after ups and downs, is a joyous and vibrant community with a keen since of faith-centered welcome and a strong community outreach beyond its doors.  Your parents’ final act of generosity will be such a powerful witness and testimony to the current people of Peace.  We look forward eagerly to receiving the gift.  Our desire will be to put the gift to work right away in the remodeling effort I described previously, which builds on the very physical structure that your father was instrumental in establishing…  Soli Deo Gloria!  – Erik Kindem

In his first letter to the Corinthians Paul reminds that community who gets the credit when good things happen in ministry:   “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.”

The seeds of what would become Peace Lutheran Church were sown before Luther Anderson arrived on the scene.  (See my Pastor’s Pen article from September 2018 as well as the History of Peace Series available on our website.) And after his time of watering those seeds, the continuing formation of Peace was passed on to other leaders, each of whom in the ensuing decades brought their own gifts to bear.  And God gave the growth.  No one could have predicted that Peace would hold such a strong place in the Andersons’ hearts 75 years after Luther’s ministry here began…no one but God.

Luther and Lilian Anderson knew something about the generosity of God.  No doubt they experienced it growing up in the household of faith.  But I wonder if, as they witnessed Peace families offering time, resources, and sweat equity to establish this congregation, a new layer of understanding about God’s generosity didn’t cement itself within them.

Through their years in ministry after leaving Peace, their knowledge of what God could accomplish with and through them and the congregations they served continued to grow.  During the 25 years they served in Fort Lauderdale many changes were afoot in the larger world, as millions of people from across the US and around the world came to call Florida home.  As Fort Lauderdale grew and changed during this period, so did Pastor Anderson’s vision of the ministry. He expanded the influence of the church outside its walls, starting one of the first Cooperative Feeding Programs in the area, and became an integral player in refugee relocation programs—particularly those dealing with Asian refugees. Over his lifetime Pastor Anderson was instrumental in the resettlement and sponsorship of well over 250 refugees from around the world.  And he participated in numerous organizations as part of his social ministry.

Luther and Lilian knew that the gifts they’d received and the assets they’d saved through lifelong, faithful stewardship were meant to be passed on.  Their tremendous legacy gift supporting the mission of Peace affirms that truth.  75 years later, their affection for this congregation and its mission rings out loud and clear… “And God gave the growth.”  

As we enter the final three months of this 75th anniversary year, culminating in our celebration on November 24, there are many opportunities for giving.  I hope the Andersons’ example will inspire you—as it has me—to reach more deeply and participate more fully in the efforts to equip our facilities for faithful ministry in the next 75 years.

The LORD appeared to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre, as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. He looked up and saw three men standing near him.  When he saw then, he ran from the tent entrance to meet them, and bowed down to the ground.  He said, “My lord, if I find favor with you, do not pass by your servant.  Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree.  Let me bring a little bread, that you may refresh yourselves, and after that you may pass on—since you have come to your servant.”  And they said, “Do as you said.”

– Genesis 18:1-5

Beloved of God,

This story from Genesis shows Abraham to be the consummate host of three unexpected guests who show up of the blue.  Abraham offers them food and refreshment, and when they give him the green light, he sends his servants scurrying to make it so.  Only later is it revealed that these unexpected guests bring crucial news about the promise Abraham and Sarah had received from God— that they would be the progenitors of a whole new people.  These guests, later tradition suggests, are none other than the Holy Three.

We all have stories of hospitality—received or given—and how they have changed us.  As I write, I’ve just returned with Chris from our 20th anniversary get-away to an Italian Villa bed and breakfast (in Tacoma of all places!), where we experienced the marvelous hospitality of our hosts Toni and Martin.  While visiting with other guests during a sumptuous breakfast the morning of our anniversary, we received a recommendation for a small, intimate restaurant where we could celebrate in style.  We took the recommendation and ran with it and, boy, are we glad we did, for it added a wonderfully rich layer to our celebration and to our appreciation of excellent hospitality.[1]

Twenty-two years ago this month, while driving back from the Midwest after dropping my son Nathan off at college, I was the recipient of another unforgettable experience of hospitality—one totally unexpected.  After putting my “pedal to the metal” on a marathon leg of driving with the goal of getting home to Portland as soon as possible, I arrived at Coeur de Alene, Idaho, thoroughly tuckered out.  Unable to keep my eyes open any longer, but not wanting to shell out for motel room, I pulled off I-90 at a rest stop just east of town.  Finding a payphone (no cell phone back then!) I made a call to my still-newish girlfriend Chris Hauger.  All I got was her voicemail.  So I let her know that was taking a break at a rest stop outside of Coeur de Alene, too tired to drive any further.

Earlier that summer, Chris had occasion to introduce me to dear family friends Jeanne and John.  Chris had met Jeanne and her children in Ethiopia when she was a girl and their families had stayed in close touch ever since.  Jeanne and John, it turns out, lived in Coeur de Alene, and when Chris received my phone message she —unbeknownst to me—went into high gear.  While I was taping newspapers over the windows of my van and preparing to lie down for a few hours, Chris was reaching out to Jeanne and John by phone.  She told John how concerned she was for me; that I was at a rest stop somewhere outside of Coeur de Alene; that I needed a safe place to get some rest before continuing on.  John assured Chris: “There is only one rest stop it could be and I know just where it is.”  Before they hung up, they’d hatched a plan that John would search me out using Chris’ description of my van, and offer me lodging at their home for the night.

As I lay in the back of my Dodge Caravan behind papered windows—just on the edge of sleep—with nasty visions whirling about in my exhausted brain of what might happen if somebody tried to break into my van while I slept, I was startled by a loud knocking on my front window.  Bolting up quickly as adrenaline flowed, I prepared myself for whatever I might encounter on the other side of that window.  Finally, opening my door cautiously, I looked out and there was a big burly man with a mischievous smile on his face.   Holding out a phone, he said, “IT’S FOR YOU.”

It was John.  And the voice of the other end of the phone?  It belonged to Chris.  “John and Jeanne are ready to put you up for the night, Erik.  Is that alright?”  Alright?!  YES—AND THEN SOME!  So I pulled the papers from my windows, followed John to their house in town, and was welcomed into the safety and comfort of their home for the first time, treated like a long lost son.  The next morning, after a hardy breakfast, I took my leave, deeply appreciative of Jeanne and John’s hospitality and mindful once more of the way grace can show itself in our lives when we least expect it.

From that time on, John and Jeanne’s home has been a regular way-station for us as we’ve journeyed—first as a couple and then with our children—to Kindem Family Reunions in Whitefish, Montana.  This year, on our way back from Whitefish at the end of July, we’ll be stopping in Coeur de Alene once more.  This time so we can attend Jeanne’s memorial service; where sadness at her passing will be mingled with gratitude for the deep friendship and hospitality which has been such an incalculable gift through the years.

Wherever your summer takes you, I pray for experiences of hospitality—received and given; for sacred encounters in which grace becomes known.

[1] The restaurant, in case you’re interested, was Over the Moon Café, located in Tacoma’s Opera Alley.

“We sing the glories of this pillar of fire, the brightness of which is not diminished even when its light is divided and borrowed. For it is fed by the melting wax which the bees, your servants, have made for the substance of this candle.”

– From The Exsultet, sung each year at the Great Vigil of Easter

“Go to the fields and gardens, and you shall learn it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower. But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.  For to the bee a flower is the fountain of life.  And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love.”

– Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Beloved of God,

“The bees, your servants…”  I love that line—and listen for it each time the Exsultet is sung during the Easter Vigil.  Truer words were never spoken, as I’ve been learning of late while reading two books that trace the natural history of bees: BUZZ: The Nature and Necessity of Bees, by Thor Hanson, and Bee Time: Lessons from the Hive, by Mark Wilson.

The first bees evolved from wasps about 125 million years ago—soon (in geologic time anyway) after flowering plants begin to appear.  These primordial bees made the transition from being predators to being gatherers of nectar and pollen from flowers—an innovation that initiated an explosion in the diversity and abundance of flowering plants and bee species, enhancing the survival of both.  This exchange between bees and flowers, as Wilson points out, is pretty basic:  Flowers provide sugar in nectar and protein in pollen; and bees transfer pollen from flower to flower as they collect the nectar, thereby fertilizing the flower. (Gibran, in the quote above, gives this utilitarian arrangement an eloquent touch.)

One delicious byproduct of this encounter—honey—has served as an important food source for human beings ever since our pre-human ancestors began walking upright on African soil.  In fact, recent studies of early human diets suggest that a significant source of calories, trace vitamins and minerals upon which our forebears depended for survival came from “hunting” honey—a practice that continues in many parts of the world today.  Over the eons, human beings have been fascinated by the complex cooperation that allows honey bee colonies to thrive.   Along the way we’ve discovered many uses for the byproducts of bees, including the beeswax from which the candles we use in worship are made.  Our Scriptures turn to bees to capture holy things and sacred promises: The psalmist enlists honey to help describe the treasure which is God’s word: “The ordinances of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey, and drippings of the honeycomb.” (Ps 19:8-10) And to extol the virtues of the Promised Land—“a land flowing with milk and honey.”

But the more than 20,000 species of bees in our world, with their wildly diverse patterns of living, have a role which goes far beyond satisfying the sweet tooth, extending the daylight, and embroidering literature. They are vitally important to human survival because of their pollinating role in agricultural and natural ecosystems.  Approximately one-third of all crops benefit from or are dependent on insect pollination—mostly by bees, a reality to which the vast majority of us, unless we’re farmers or orchardists, are oblivious.  When we bite into an apple or crunch down on a handful of almonds, the image of the humble bee likely doesn’t come to mind, nor a sigh of “thanks” escape our lips—but they should!

The collapse of honeybee colonies in recent decades (dubbed “colony collapse disorder” or CCD) along with the accelerating disappearance of less common bee species and the endangerment of others, has caught the world’s attention.  And that of our worship planning team.  This decline is not caused by a single factor but by a complex mix of factors, including the widespread use of insecticides and pesticides, disease outbreaks, and the reduction in the diversity and abundance of nectar- and pollen-producing flowers.   A crisis is afoot that portends massive implications for our world.  As we mark this month’s Season of Creation at Peace we’ll be learning more about bees and pollinators, and the role they play in our fields, gardens, and orchards.  All this in the service of revitalizing our God-given vocation as Earthkeepers.  Come learn with us from the bee how to be more faithful servants!

There in God’s garden stands the Tree of Wisdom, whose leaves hold forth the healing of the nations:

Tree of all knowledge, Tree of all compassion, Tree of all beauty.

Thorns not its own are tangled in its foliage; our greed has starved it, our despite has choked it.

Yet, look! It lives!  Its grief has not destroyed it nor fire consumed it.

See how its branches reach to us in welcome; hear what the Voice says, “Come to me, ye weary!

Give me your sickness, give me all your sorrow, I will give blessing.”

– There in God’s Garden, #342 in Evangelical Lutheran Worship

Words by Pécselyi Király Imre (Hungary, c. 1590—c. 1641)

Beloved of God,

Toward the end of the film masterpiece, Return of the King, the last of three films based on The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien, as the dark minions of Mordor mass for battle and the end of all that is good seems inevitable, the story takes us to the White City of Gondor—Minas Tirith.  Minas Tirith represents the nations’ last, best hope, but the steward of its throne has tipped the scale toward madness, and now the fate of the whole inhabited world lies on a knife’s edge.  At the pinnacle of the alabaster city’s mountain bulkhead, in the plaza high above the plain where the decisive battle will be joined, stands the White Tree of Gondor.  It is a symbol of the nation’s long kingly heritage, its dignity, wisdom, endurance and fruitfulness.  But this once great tree has lost all its leaves, and the bare limbs that remain seem to portend that the noble tree, like the nation itself, is destined for oblivion.  But as the siege of Gondor begins and casualties mount, we watch as, inexplicably, a single white blossom on the tree—unheralded and unnoticed—opens; a sign that, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, all is not lost, and a future with hope is still a possibility. It’s a stirring moment but one that is easily missed.

This month the Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES) of the United Nations issued a summary about the state of species on our planet home that was hard to miss.  It was shocking.  Elements of the natural world—both plants and animals—are declining globally at rates unprecedented in human history.  As many as one million species are under threat.  In addition, the rate of species extinctions is accelerating, with grave impacts on people around the world now likely.  “The health of ecosystems on which we and all other species depend is deteriorating more rapidly than ever,” says IPBES Chair, Sir Robert Watson.  “We are eroding the very foundations of our economies, livelihoods, food security, health and quality of life worldwide.”[1]  What are we to do with this information?

From earliest days, Easter has been celebrated as the “8th day of creation” because in raising Christ from death God has ushered in a whole new world.  Baptismal fonts through the ages have often taken on octagonal shapes because of this very recognition. Questions that God’s people keep alive during this Easter season include:

• How do we as a community which gathers around the Risen Christ live the resurrection life?
• How can we live in such a way that our choices and commitments mirror the risen life to which our Lord calls us?
• How can new patterns of living support the renewal that his rising presages?

These questions pertain to the choices we make each day and are firmly rooted in our care for the neighbor—which includes the many species with whom we share planet Earth and on which our own survival as a species depends.

One of my new(er) favorite hymns is the one quoted above, by Hungarian hymnwriter Pécselyi Király Imre. Imre, a Lutheran pastor, lived during the Reformation era, a time of tumultuous change when every strata of society was undergoing sea change. Originally fashioned as a meditation on Jesus’ seven last words from the cross with fifteen stanzas,   contemporary hymnwriter Erik Routley provides a paraphrase of six of those stanzas in the form we have in our hymnal. Using the great image of the Tree as both Cross and Christ, the hymn lifts up the healing and saving role of the crucified and risen One while at the same time demarking the “thorns” that threaten the Tree. What I find particularly moving about this hymn is how it speaks truthfully about the threats we face without allowing those threats to undercut the testimony of hope. Like that single bloom on the White Tree of Gondor, this hymn testifies to hope at a time when hopelessness threatens to overwhelm.

The IPBES report from a group of global scientists includes a call to action. It tells us it’s not too late to make a difference, but only if we start now at every level from local to global. “Through ‘transformative change’, nature can still be conserved, restored and used sustainably – this is also key to meeting most other global goals. By transformative change, we mean a fundamental, system-wide reorganization across technological, economic and social factors, including paradigms, goals and values.” The report omits the term “spiritual” from the list of factors, but for us who follow in Jesus’ footsteps it is essential, and in fact grounds, informs, and abets all the others. As the stories from the book of Acts make clear throughout this Easter season, Christians are people primed for transformative change! The incarnation and the resurrection of Christ affirm the sacredness of this Earthly realm, and the pouring out of the Holy Spirit on God’s fledgling people exemplifies God’s commitment in Christ to “make all things new.” For followers of Christ, despair is never an option; hope gives shape to every dream and endeavor we set our hearts to. With crisis in the natural world looming, we have the opportunity and obligation to get out in front and lead by example.

[1] You can find the summary here: https://www.un.org/sustainabledevelopment/blog/2019/05/nature-decline-unprecedented-report/