“Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified.

He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. 

But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee;

there you will see him, just as he told you.”

– Mark 16:6-7

Beloved of God,

The final steps of our wilderness journey lead us, with a handful of faithful women, to the edge of a rock-hewn tomb.   This is not how it’s supposed to end!   Our leader, dead.  Our hopes and dreams, crushed.

But then—do our eyes deceive us?—the stone has been rolled away! And a messenger announces the news:

“You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here.”

Mark captures this intersection of defeat, surprise, and alarm so powerfully in this “unfinished” ending to his gospel. (Mark 16:1-8)  Resisting the temptation to neatly tie loose ends together, Mark affirms the truth that the reality of Jesus’ empty tomb takes sorting out.  The church has been about that sorting ever since Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome made their journey that morning to anoint his body.  We never cease asking the questions – What does it mean that the tomb is empty? What does it mean that Christ was raised from death?  One thing is certain—it cannot mean business as usual.  It cannot mean that we go about our lives as if his resurrection never happened.

Something fundamental is at stake in how we answer the questions raised by the empty tomb—and answer them not with words alone, but with our lives.  Let’s keep sorting it out together, as we meet the risen One at Table and Font, as we go about embodying Christ’s work of reconciling and healing the whole universe.  Christ is risen indeed!  Alleluia!

Pastor Erik

“Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies,

it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

– John 12:24

Beloved of God,

This journey of Lent is a journey through wilderness territory, and this year we’re hearing about some contemporary experiences of wilderness that are prominent within our culture.  Oh, how deeply our world stands in need of healing!  (If it feels like a bit of a slog, imagine Israel doing this not for 40 days but for 40 YEARS!)

While within the three year lectionary cycle this is the year of Mark, during Lent and Easter we get generous doses of John.  On the 3rd, 4th, and 5th Sundays in Lent when we hear from John, Jesus gives us three different metaphors for talking about what his work is about.  (1)  He is about the deconstruction and reconstruction of access to God; (2) he is God’s love offering to the world who bring the promise of life eternal; (3) he is God’s seed which must die in order to fulfill its true purpose.  By giving us these images, Jesus is inviting us to use our theological imagination to see where God is at work engaging and transforming wilderness into Promised Land.  Whatever our particular experience of wilderness may be, Christ is there working to transform it, bringing new life.  In order to do so, something first has to die.

Ten years ago, on one of the last bits of land ringing the Polar Sea, the Svalbard Global Seed Vault opened for business.  Its mission: to house backup copies of all the world’s food crops – 2 billion seeds in all—and to protect those seeds for thousands of years into the future.  Built on the island of Spitsbergen, the vault lies under hundreds of feet of permafrost and Arctic rock, so that even in the worst-case scenario of global warming, the seeds will remain frozen naturally for up to 200 years. Part of an unprecedented effort to protect our planet’s rapidly diminishing biodiversity, the first deposits into the vault contained 268,000 distinct seed samples–each from a different farm or field in the world.  Together, they represent the most comprehensive and diverse collection of food crop seeds being held anywhere.[1]  If seed crops are lost due to natural disasters, war or simply a lack of resources, the seed collections from Svalbard will be available to reestablish those crops, to help maintain plant diversity and, ultimately, to feed the world.

We human beings do everything we can, using all the technology we can, to extend life, and often with mixed re­sults. But the voice of Jesus in Lent declares: “Unless a grain falls into the earth and dies, it cannot bear fruit.” Jesus says this soon after entering Jerusalem for the final time with his disciples to celebrate Passover.  Enemies both within and beyond his inner circle are scheming for his arrest, and every move he makes is under suspicion.  It’s in this context that Jesus lifts up an image from the fields to tell those with him about the nature and necessity of what’s about to hap­pen, about his own impending death. “Unless I die,” Jesus seems to say, “my life, my way, my testimony, cannot bear fruit.” More simply, “The life I offer the world can only arise from my death.”

The millions of seeds cached in the Svalbard Global Seed Vault will never fulfill their purpose or potential while they’re sequestered away there in sealed, moisture-proof pouches.  It’s only when catastrophe comes, and those seeds are brought out from the permafrost and buried in the earth that they will fulfill their true purpose—because only then will they germinate, only then will they sprout, only then will they grow to produce new fruit, new seed, a new harvest, to keep humanity alive.  As we journey with Jesus to the cross and empty tomb, our calling is to put our trust in God’s logic, God’s way, which in this case is akin to nature’s way.  By journeying together, we can support each other in that process.  That gift of community, of consolation, of companionship, is a gift that keeps us going in the hardest of times.

With you on the Way,

Pastor Erik

[1] For more about the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, visit their official website: http://www.nordgen.org/sgsv/

“Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves.

And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white.”

– Mark 9:2-3

“And immediately [after his baptism] the Spirit drove him out into the wilderness.”

– Mark 1:12-13

Beloved of God,

From the mountaintop to the wilderness. That’s our trajectory this month.  The season of Epiphany culminates with brilliant light on the Mount of Transfiguration as Jesus holds council with Moses and Elijah while Peter, James and John try to make sense of what they’re experiencing.

Some things are more challenging than others to put into words—and this seems especially true when numinous moments break into ordinary time and we find ourselves awestruck, disoriented, or overwhelmed.  These experiences are often fleeting, leaving us wondering whether what we experienced really did happen, or if it was that extra glass of wine or something else that lay behind the otherworldly encounter.

In his book, Convictions, in the chapter entitled God is Real and is a Mystery, New Testament scholar Marcus Borg—perhaps best known for theological approaches to the Christian faith that challenge traditional ways of understanding God and Jesus—shares a mystical experience he had later in life while flying on a plane from Tel Aviv to New York.  The experience, he recounts, lasted about 40 minutes, the longest and most intense experience of this kind in his life.  Suddenly, he recounts, the light in the plane changed and became golden, and everything was filled with exquisite beauty.  Under the influence of this spiritual moment Borg saw that everyone looked wondrous—even the man pacing the aisle who was perhaps the ugliest man Borg had ever seen—even he was transformed in that golden light.

Last night our family went to hear the St. Olaf Choir at Benaroya Hall.  Entwined throughout the program were texts and music—ancient and modern—which wove the same golden thread and sublime conviction into a seamless whole.  There was a setting of St. Francis of Assisi’s Canticle of the Sun, powerfully embroidered by violist Charles Gray; and a song based on the words of Bahá’u’lláh, founder of the Bahá’í faith, testifying to God’s “most mighty grace…infused into all created things,” and calling us to reconcile differences and “with perfect unity and peace, to abide beneath the shadow of the Tree of His care and loving-kindness.”  I experienced what I can only name a deep resonance and solace throughout the evening, and particularly so with the setting of William Blake’s poem, Can I see Another’s Woe? [1]

Can I see another’s woe, and not be in sorrow too?

Can I see another’s grief, and not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear, and not feel my sorrow’s share?

Can a father see his child weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?

Can a mother sit and hear an infant groan an infant fear?

No, No! never can it be! Never, never can it be!

And can he who smiles on all hear the wren with sorrows small,

Hear the small bird’s grief and care, hear the woes that infants bear,

And not sit beside the nest, pouring pity in their breast;

And not sit the cradle near, weeping tear on infant’s tear;

And not sit both night and day, wiping all our tears away?

O, no! never can it Be! Never, never can it be!

He doth give his joy to all; he becomes an infant small;

He becomes a man of woe; he doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not though canst sigh a sigh and thy maker is not by;

Think not thou cast weep a tear and thy maker is not near.

O! he gives to us his joy that our grief he may destroy;

Till our grief is fled and gone he doth sit by us and moan.

The God to whom the choir testified is a compassionate companion to the suffering; a LOVE-infused Lord who blesses us and all creation with unfathomable grace; a beautiful Savior. This God not only rightly evokes our songs of GLORY and PRAISE; this God invites us to take up the song in our own lives.  This God beckons us beyond petty arguments and turf mongering to a place where forgiveness reigns; a place of mysterious, wondrous light which illumines the Other whom we encounter across the table, across the street, and within our own selves, revealing all to be Beloved.

The artistry of the choir allowed this union of text and melody to touch us in the audience in profound ways.  At the end of the concert, after a long ovation, the choir’s conductor Anton Armstrong spoke heart to heart with us about the universal language of music and its power to unite people of every race, tongue, political affiliation, and creed.  His message, and the gift we received last night, is that music breaks down barriers; it grounds us in unity and civility. “If we could go to Washington DC and teach those politicians how to sing together,” he said, “the world would change.”

I heartily agree. In the words of Henry Van Dyke,

“Music, in thee we float, and lose the lonely note

Of self in thy celestial ordered strain,

Until at last we find

The life to love resigned

In harmony of joy restored again;

And songs that cheered our mortal days

Break on the coast of light in endless hymns of praise.”[2]

Experiences such as these remind us that beneath all the surface issues which dominate our days, our agendas, and our conflicts is an abiding light, and pulsing heart that names us BELOVED and calls us into community with all living things.

Lent begins on February 14th this year—Valentine’s Day.  I like the pairing.  It calls us to carry this heartfelt conviction with us as we move with Jesus from that Mount of Transfiguration into the Wilderness of Lent.  Lent is a season for returning to our basic covenant with God of baptism, and entering into disciplined patterns that lead us, by the Spirit’s guidance, back to the one who is the ground of our being.  This year our Green Team is offering a new approach to the old rhythm of fasting during Lent—a CARBON FAST.  We human beings have begun to awaken to the deeply negative and consequential impacts our patterns of consumption are having on creation, and our responsibility to address those impacts with faithful actions.  Perhaps LENT this year can be a time when the LOVE associated with Valentine’s Day is expanded beyond human relationships to encompass more of God’s beloved creation.

With you on the Way,

Pastor Erik

[1] The piece mingles melodies written by J. S. Bach and Martin Luther, in a setting by John Muehleisen.

[2] To Music. Choral setting by David Conte.

In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth,

the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep,

while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.

Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light.”

– Genesis 1:1-3

John came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him.

He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.

The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.

– John 1:7-9

New Year’s Greetings!

The calendar turns and once more we’re at a place of new beginning. It’s true, the challenges, concerns, and crises we faced in 2017 within our families, communities, and world are not magically wiped away as the New Year begins. Yet HOPE is dawning for the Word-Become-Flesh has pitched his tent among us.  The “true light,” has come into the world, and promises to companion us come hell or high water (or “bomb cyclone” for that matter!), of this we can be confident.

Our first worship service in this New Year marks the Baptism of our Lord by John in the Jordan, and this year, we’ll welcome a new brother—Mark Gilbert—into the Body of Christ during worship. Water—the most essential and lifegiving element on this planet home—serves as a reminder of the ever-present blessing of the one whose Wind/Spirit/Breathe brooded over the face of primordial waters, calling light and life into being.  In baptism God’s promise moves IN, WITH, and UNDER the water—infusing it with grace and spirit, calling us to a new life oriented around our Lord and his way of being in the world.  As we begin the year recalling Christ’s baptism and remembering our own, we ground ourselves in our identity and purpose as sisters and brothers in Christ.  Let’s make this baptismal identity the lens through which we look at our families, communities and world.

And speaking of our baptismal vocation, on page two below you’ll read about a proposal for Peace to become an Advocating Congregation affiliated with Faith Action Network (FAN).  Plenty of energy and conversation has gone into the process that gave birth to this proposal.  Please read the proposal carefully and feel free to approach council members with any questions you may have.  The proposal will be on the agenda for our January 28 annual meeting.

January always begins with a flurry as annual reports are assembled and preparations are made for the unfolding year.  The NOMINATING COMMITTEE is hard at work looking for people among us who are willing to serve as Council leaders. A shortage of candidates last year compounds the need for even more council members to be elected this year.  For congregations to remain strong and healthy, good leaders are required.  If approached, I hope you’ll consider donning the mantle. If you want a preview of the council’s proposal for FUNDING OUR MISSION in 2018, plan to attend the budget forum on January 14th, and to participate in the Annual Meeting on January 28th.

With you on the Way,

Pastor Erik

“Comfort Ye! Comfort ye my people! Says your God.

Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her

that her warfare is ended, and her iniquity is pardoned.”

– Isaiah 40:1-2

Beloved of God,

Daylight is precious these days, and growing more so. By 4:20pm on December 1st the sun has gone over the horizon, and each morning on its low arc through the sky it rises later as it moves relentlessly toward the winter solstice—the northern hemisphere’s shortest day and longest night.

As a kid, I loved venturing out this season of the year in the wildest blizzards Mother Nature could conjure.  Bundled against the elements with nothing but a slit for my eyes, I would trek through the neighborhood, tromping through swirling snow drifts, awed and exhilarated as the storm propelled me into the experience its dark fury.  After such a foray into wild darkness, returning to the light and warmth of home and hearth was a revelation:  Ah! What grace!  What wonder!  What gratitude!

We mark this holiday time with displays of glitz and glitter and erect strings of lights on our homes and businesses that will shine through these December nights.  But behind these displays is, I think, a primitive urge to do what we can, in whatever way we can, to fight against the encroaching dark.  And that darkness comes in many forms: headlines that scream crisis after relentless crisis; project deadlines at school or work that sap declining energy; struggles in family life and health issues that keep us awake at night; anniversaries of loss.  These somber realities leave their mark even more deeply during this season of sun-challenged days.

The ancient Greeks didn’t know about light displays in December, but they knew the nightmare scenarios that populate the human story. It began with their old myth about Pandora, who opened a beautiful box only to discover it was packed with all the ills and evils the gods had trapped inside.  Amid the ensuing racket of pain, anger, and quarreling, Pandora heard another small voice inside the container. When she lifted the lid again, HOPE came forth and began to soothe humankind’s new wounds and heartaches.[1]

The Bible’s oldest word for hope, Fred Niedner points out, is “tikvah,” which also means cord or thread.  It was once standard practice for Midwest farmers to fix a line between farmhouse and barn during the winter months.  When properly secured, the fixed rope could be a lifesaver, providing guidance and a safe traveling route through the most debilitating blizzards.  The meaning of the Biblical cord, like that fixed line, is obvious. “In the darkness, beset by fears, threats and enemies known and unknown, we sometimes find ourselves clinging to a single thread [or rope] that keeps us going from one moment to the next. Without hope, some solitary cord from which to suspend our lives, the darkness would have us.”[2]

The words from Isaiah 40 served as that cord, that TIKVAH, for a whole community of people who had come to know the darkness of exile. This exiled community, notes Walter Brueggemann “came within a whisker of being able to imagine its future only in the terms permitted and sanctioned by Babylon, a sure program for despair and diminishment.”[3]

But then, onto this scene bursts a new voice: “Comfort Ye! Comfort ye my people! Says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem…” God’s exiled people couldn’t imagine this language, much less invent it.  It had to come from OUTSIDE them, and it did.  And what was so radical about it and radically new, is that it pointed them toward a future that the prophet said God was creating for them!  For some folks, this word of hope must have sounded like so much commercial hype about how life will improve if only you purchase this item or invest in this product, and they wanted nothing of it.  In fact, Brueggemann points out, most exiles stayed with the empire, which seemed to have all the goodies.  But some few took a chance on the poetry.

How are we to imagine our futures?  Where is God beckoning us to go?  Where does the TIKVAH lead?  These are Advent questions, and crucial ones for this time in which we live.  When we light the candles of the Advent wreaths at home, we repeat one simple phrase that grounds us in this season of dark nights: “Jesus Christ, you are the light of the world, the light no darkness can overcome.” The cord to which we fasten our grip must be anchored in something beyond ourselves—and it is. The line leads us to Jesus.  It is, in the end, the one line which will endure even when we do not.

Ever with Hope,

Pastor Erik

[1] The image comes from Fred Niedner’s article in the Indiana Post Tribune: http://posttrib.suntimes.com/news/niedner/9156003-452/fred-niedner-amidst-the-dark-and-fear-hope-still-appears.html

[2] Ibid.

[3] Brueggemann, Deep Memory, Exuberant Hope. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000). Pages 65, 66.

“Lord, thou hast been a refuge, from one generation to another.

Before the mountains were brought forth or ever the earth and the world were made,

 Thou art God from everlasting and world without end.”

 ~ Psalm 90:1 KJV

Beloved of God,

The moving choral setting of Psalm 90 by Ralph Vaughn Williams echoes through my mind as I write to you.  It’s a piece I learned while singing in the Choir of the West at Pacific Lutheran University (with Jon Lackey!); a song that, after countless rehearsals and numerous performances, has etched itself in my soul.  Vaughn Williams wrote it as a double choir piece, which means that half of the choir sings one part while the other half sings a different but complimentary line.  Choir One sings of humanity: “In the morning it is green and groweth up, but in the evening it is cut down, dries up and withers.” While Choir Two sings the familiar chorale: “O God our help in ages past.” (Isaac Watts, based on Ps 90).  The effect is stunning: one choir gives voice to the human cry for meaning in the face of the brevity of life and in recognition of the God who is beyond all knowing; the other choir gives voice to the human plea for God’s accompaniment as a “shelter from the stormy blast and our eternal home.” The music and texts combine to create a powerful portrait in song of the human condition and our longing for redemption.

November is a season of remembering and yearning; of endings and beginnings. As we mark All Saints Sunday this year I’ve been acutely aware of endings, having attended the dying processes of members of our community, including four in the last two months.  Death is never generic; it’s particular.  Each person’s final days have their own character.  Through the years it’s been my experience that when a person approaching death is able to talk with loved ones about this “final journey,” they significantly impact the experience and memory of those they leave behind.

On November 5th we will intentionally mark endings as we lift up All the Saints, especially those who we have known and loved. But we will also mark new beginnings, for All Saints Sunday is also a Baptism Sunday this year, and we’ll be welcoming three boys into the body of Christ—Milo (age 9), Lawrence and Harmon (twins age 3 ½ months).  There’s something powerfully resonant about having both death and new life lifted up in one worship service.  Of course we do this every week when we celebrate the Lord’s Supper—recalling the night Jesus was handed over to death, and remembering how his willing death and surprising resurrection brought (and brings!) new life to all who lean on the hope of his promises.  While memorial services are scheduled for each of the first three weeks of November, we’ll also be welcoming 16 new people into our fellowship through the Rite of Welcome on the last Sunday of the month.  And so the cycle of death and new life continues.

How will we hold these days? Are we living fully into the image which God has formed in us?  Are our lives dominated by fears and anxiety about what the future holds?  Do bleak weather forecasts and the growing darkness undercut our ability to hope?  In her book My Grandfather’s Blessings, Rachel Naomi Remen writes:

“Sometimes we live in ways that are too small, and in places that focus and develop only a part of who we are. When we do, the life in us may become squeezed into a shape that is not our own.  We may not even realize that this is so.  Despite this, something deep in us that holds our integrity inviolate will find ways to remind us of the breadth and depth of the life in us and assert its wholeness.” [p. 53]

Remen’s words invite me to take stock. Am I living too small?  Stuck in a squeeze play?  Am I brave enough to sit with the questions and wait for the answers?  The “something deep in us that holds our integrity inviolate” has a name in our tradition:  Holy Spirit.  There is a difference between being carried along in the current by to-do lists and family and work obligations, and being carried and accompanied by the Spirit.  In the calling and claiming and naming of baptism, that Spirit, which “reminds us of the breadth and depth of the life” in ourselves, was planted firmly within us.   As life surprises, challenges, thrills, and at times alarms us, we cry, Lord—you have been our refuge—don’t stop now! And when we take time to listen deeply, another Voice responds, I was there to hear your borning cry, I’ll be there when you are old, I rejoiced the day you were baptized to see your life unfold.  What a privilege it is to sing and to live that promise together!

With you on the Way,

Pastor Erik

Broken lines, broken strings, Broken threads, broken springs,

Broken idols, broken heads, People sleeping in broken beds

Ain’t no use jiving, Ain’t no use joking, Everything is broken

– Bob Dylan, Everything Is Broken[1]

Dearly Beloved,

The lyrics of Bob Dylan’s song, Everything is Broken, describe the human condition about as concisely as anyone has.  Things don’t work out like they’re supposed to; everything is broken.  Islands in the Caribbean and states along the Gulf— along with countries half a world away—have experienced this reality viscerally the past month in the wake of devastating hurricanes and floods.  As recovery efforts continue, questions about the storms’ relationships to our changing climate are close behind.  Climatologists began making links to this possibility decades ago, but instead of following the science, many of our nation’s elected leaders and the constituencies they serve still have their heads stuck in the sand. Their intransigence on this issue is one more sign of our collective brokenness. As the gut-check we call Corporate Confession puts it: “We are captive to sin and cannot free ourselves.”

Over the eons, Earth has developed finely tuned feedback systems.  For decades now those systems have been relaying messages to us loud and clear, but for a variety of reasons we have failed to heed them.  In their book “Big World/Small Planet,” Johan Rockström and Mattias Klum describe how the Holocene Epoch—a period of tremendous stability and natural harmony for Earth that began roughly 11,700 years ago—is ending, and how we’re entering the Anthropocene Epoch—an era of massive human impacts on Earth.   This shift, which began with the mid-18^th century industrial revolution, accelerated in the mid-20th century.  “Our way of life,” they write, “is threatening to trigger catastrophic tipping points that could knock the planet out of its stable state…The world as we know it has become an increasingly complex, turbulent, and globalized place, not only socially and economically but also ecologically.”

Seem like every time you stop and turn around Something else just hit the ground

Broken cutters, broken saws, Broken buckles, broken laws,

Broken bodies, broken bones, Broken voices on broken phones

Take a deep breath, feel like you’re chokin’, Everything is broken

Michael Truog and Deb Hagen-Lukens of our congregation recently attended a climate training event led by Al Gore and his Climate Reality organization.  They will be sharing what they learned on two different occasions this month—the first, during Adult Sunday class on October 1st and the second on Wednesday, October 18th at 7pm.  I hope you’ll take advantage of one of these opportunities to hear more on this issue.

The themes we’re exploring this month as we commemorate the 500th Anniversary of the Reformation movement are: Liberated by God’s Grace (10/8); Humans are Not for Sale (10/15); Creation is Not For Sale (10/22); Salvation is Not for Sale (10/29).  At first glance these themes may not seem related to the discussion above, but they are.  The liberation God offers us in Christ includes liberation from fantasies about our right to exploit this good Earth without regard to limits and without respect to the natural systems which make this planet hospitable to life. Hope for the future God is working to bring to fruition can only spring from truth telling; never fantasies or falsehoods.

If mending this broken world is what God is up to in Jesus—and I believe it is—then our part begins with a fearless inventory of all things broken—personal, social, ecological. Metanoia is the New Testament word for this process by which we, through the gift of grace and the power of the Spirit, turn away from the path which would have us place ourselves at the center of the universe, and turn toward the path that leads toward love of God, love of neighbor, and love of Earth.  As we make this “about face” we find ourselves restored to the vocation God gave us in the very beginning—that of Earthkeeper.

In the midst of all the  challenges we face, we stake our hope in the Word who became flesh, whose love is “deeper than all that is wrong”; who uses us, fragile clay jars that we are, to bear good news in this broken world. – Pastor Erik

[1] © BOB DYLAN MUSIC OBO SPECIAL RIDER MUSIC “Everything is Broken” was released on his 1989 album, Oh Mercy.

“If you don’t know the kind of person I am

and I don’t know the kind of person you are

a pattern that others made may prevail in the world

and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.”

– William Stafford ^[1]

Beloved of God,

The turn of the calendar to September initiates a series of shifts in our life together as a congregation, most notably in our worship life and Christian Education programming.  Add to these the start of fall school terms, sports practices and games, music lessons, and the like, and it makes for schedules that can feel overwhelming at times.  How do we find our way through the thicket of appointments and obligations?  When do we breathe?

I invite you to see your involvement in our congregational life not as one more in a series of obligations but as an opportunity to connect more deeply with others who share the journey of faith, and with the Source of faith and life itself.  At a time when our culture is fragmenting and increasingly virulent rhetoric threatens to undermine the search for common ground, Christ’s presence in Word and Sacrament gives us solid ground on which to stand.  In the company of Jesus we experience an acceptance that touches the marrow of our souls.  In the company of Jesus we learn to see each other through compassionate eyes.  In the company of Jesus we can risk sharing the hopes and longings that animate our hearts.

The opening lines of William Stafford’s poem, “A Ritual to Read to Each Other” (a new favorite) aptly describe the dangers we face living in a fragmented, disconnected world.  Absent a caring community where we can know others and be known, “a pattern that others made may prevail in the world and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.” There are many entities active in the world which seek to bend our minds toward their “truth”; toward how they would have us see the world and act in it.  Being a person of faith means remaining awake and vigilant about which voices we listen to and whose steps we follow.  Incorporating Christian Education—whether it be adult forums, Sunday School, Bible study, confirmation class—into the pattern of our lives keeps us awake to ways of practicing our faith day in and day out.  Stafford’s poem continues:

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,

a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break

sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood

storming out to play through the broken dike.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,

but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,

I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty

to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,

a remote important region in all who talk:

though we could fool each other, we should consider—

lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,

or a breaking line may discourage them back to

sleep;

the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe —

should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

When it comes to the “mutual life” we share as citizens, as human beings, as Earthlings, Stafford’s warning strikes deep.  So much seems to be up for grabs; so many routes into the future look like beelines into dark places.

But the hope which is ours through our crucified and risen Lord is that no matter how deep or endless the dark may seem, it cannot and will not thwart God’s plan to redeem and heal all things.  As Easter reveals: even the deepest darkness—death—could not eclipse the Light which shone in the manger at Bethlehem and burst out from the empty tomb.  Each of us will make choices this fall.  I invite you to invest yourself in our congregational life.  To choose from among the many doorways and opportunities that have been set out for connecting to Christ Jesus and to others.

With you on the way,

Pastor Erik

[1] “A Ritual to Read to Each Other” from The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 1998 by William Stafford.

Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm;

for love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave.

– Song of Solomon 8:6

Beloved of God,

Our family will be heading on an extended road trip this month; one that’ll take us from Seattle to Whitefish, MT, for the Kindem family reunion; then on to Havre, my boyhood home; across North Dakota to a Minnesota family camp where we’ll connect with Chris’ former music ministry colleagues; then on to the Twin Cities to see my parents and other family and friends. The territory we’ll traverse going and coming will evoke memories of years gone by, and we look forward to sharing those memories and places with Kai and Naomi—as well as adding new ones. I relish the chance to point out specific landmarks that stand behind the boyhood stories I’ve told, and to tell of other experiences I had “when I was your age.”

On the way back west, we’ll stop at places in South Dakota and Montana that have a place in Kindem and Hauger family lore. Along with the planned adventures, there will be, no doubt, some unplanned, spontaneous ones because that’s how it goes on road trips. Even when traversing familiar ground, we’ll keep our eyes peeled for new discoveries.

Throughout July and August our Sunday readings from the Hebrew Scriptures will trace the story of our Biblical patriarchs and matriarchs as they live out their destinies within the frame of God’s covenant with Abraham and Sarah.  In many ways, the drama that Genesis portrays unfolds like an extended road trip. Abraham and Sarah receive a call from God out of the blue, and they leave the settled life they’ve known for a life on the road. That decades-long road trip—chock full of highs and lows (more of the latter than the former)—finds them trekking all over the geography of the Middle East. But it’s the geography of faith that Genesis is most interested in telling about.

What makes these stories so compelling is the fact that the characters in these stories are delivered to us warts and all. Abraham, Sarah, Hagar, Ishmael, Isaac, Rebekah, Esau, Jacob, Rachel, Leah, Dinah, Joseph—not one among them is unblemished. No, they all have their faults, their weaknesses; shadow sides that remain hidden even from themselves. And because of this honesty, we’re encouraged to let down our guards a little, to see ourselves in their stories—and the whole human tribe, with its full spectrum of light and darkness—between the lines of these ancient tales.

Entertaining as they sometimes are, these stories haven’t been passed down from generation to generation for their entertainment value (though they can be that!), but rather because there is something in them that speaks of how God deals with the most enigmatic creature in creation.  As frustrated as the Lord becomes, God never throws in the towel with the human family.  If there’s any better news than this I don’t know what it could be. God is in this relationship “for better or for worse”; God’s passionate love “as fierce as the grave,” will not be denied; it abides. Wherever the summer takes us, let’s hold fast to that truth. For when we do, we’ll be poised to notice the many times and many ways which God companions us, all the way through the alley.

With you on the journey,

Pastor Erik

Faith takes the doer and makes him into a tree, and his deeds become fruit.

First there must be a tree, then the fruit.

For apples do not make a tree, but a tree makes apples.

So faith first makes the person, who afterwards performs works.

– Martin Luther, commentary on Galatians 3:10

Beloved of God,

If you’ve ever ventured to the town of Lahaina, Hawaii, on the west side of Maui, it’s impossible to miss: outside the old courthouse is a banyan tree that stands 50 feet tall, is nearly a quarter of a mile around and has over than 10 trunks that anchor it into the ground.  Brought from India as an 8 foot sapling in 1873, it was planted there by William Owen Smith, the sheriff of Old Lahaina Town to commemorate the 50th anniversary of Lahaina’s first Christian Mission.  When our family visited Maui in 2008, we all took turns climbing on those mighty branches, while an art show unfolded beneath its prodigious shade.  The banyan’s properties are unique, for the tree grows by the roots which hang from its branches. These roots, which begin above ground, are like soil-seeking drills, and when enough of them reach the soil, they thicken and provide another trunk to support the tree’s mass.[1]

The world’s greatest banyan tree, located in a botanical garden near Kolkata, India, is over 250 years old and looks more like a forest than an individual tree: the foliage encompasses nearly 5 acres of land!  It has 3772 aerial roots reaching down to the ground as a prop root.[2]

When Luther used a tree as an illustration in his commentary on Galatians, he was thinking of an apple tree, not a banyan tree.  Had he been familiar with the properties of the banyan tree, I wonder what use he would make of it? The communal and interdependent nature of our vocation comes to mind.

Theologian Anne Burghardt points out that “When Luther spoke out in the 16th century on God’s redeeming love, he was not thinking about the environment. Ecological challenges were not in the forefront at that time. However, today many parts of the world face critical environmental challenges.”  Were Luther alive today, would he address our collective failure to adequately care for God’s good creation?  There’s no doubt in my mind.  Again, Burghardt:

“Luther’s intervention at the time of the Reformation reminds us that there are aspects of life on this planet which, for the sake of both earthly and eternal life, should not be commodities and should never be for sale. That includes the good creation God has given us to watch over.”[3]

This month we will once again observe a three-week Season of Creation.  Our goal is to  lift up God’s good creation in ways that help us see it in all its beauty, intricacy, and connectedness; as well as to affirm that this creation is not a commodity for sale but a unique web of relationships upon which all life—including ours—depends.  Like the Great Banyan Tree, God’s good creation maintains its strength and resilience through deeply rooted principles which both anchor and hold up its branches. When we acquire the attributes of a tree, as Luther suggested, we become well equipped to bear fruit.  The kind of fruit, or good works, which the world needs from us at this time in history is fruit that opens our eyes to the devastating effects human choices are having on Earth, our planet home, and fuels a deeper love and devotion to understanding and nurturing community which is sustainable over the long haul.

The decision of President Trump to withdraw from the Paris Climate Accords is a decision which may well bear fruit—but that fruit will be of the diseased and rotten kind. Addressing climate breakdown—and the myriad substantive environmental issues which flow from it and are already making deep impacts around the world—requires a cooperative and international approach. Gaining the ears of our leaders requires a long and sustained effort.  But alongside that effort we begin with our own lives, taking inventory, making personal and communal choices each day which will bear the kind of fruit which allows life to grow and flourish, as God our Creator intended. Our first vocation, according to Genesis, is Earthkeeper.  Never has that vocation been more important and needful than now.

Pastor Erik

[1] For more about this tree, follow this link: http://www.lahaina.com/content/banyan_tree.html

[2] For more about this tree, follow this link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Banyan  You can also read about it in Cynthia Barnett’s book: Rain—A Natural and Cultural History.  (New York: Broadway Books, 2015)

[3] From materials published for the Lutheran World Federation’s 2017 Assembly in Windhoek, Namibia, under the theme: Creation is not for Sale.