Sojourners all,

Walt Wangerin’s observation about the kinds of mirrors we encounter in life begins in hypothetical mode.  But everything shifts with his next sentence:  “My wife is such a mirror.” Suddenly, those hypothetical “mirrors of veracity” become real, and the consequences of sin in the most intimate relationship shows itself glaringly, truthfully.

Lent is a season of mirrors.  During these 40 days the layers that insulate us from the truth about ourselves, the truth about our human species, are slowly striped away until finally, standing naked before the One who formed us from the clay and breathed life into us, we see the truth.

“Oh, what a coward I am, and what a fool!  Only when I have the courage fully to look, clearly to know myself—even the evil of myself—will I admit my need for healing.  But If I look away from her whom I have hurt, I have also turned away from her who might forgive me.  I reject the very source of my healing.”

In the ancient baptismal rite of the early church, before descending into the waters, candidates turned their faces to the West and proclaimed their rejection of all the forces of evil, the devil and all his empty promises.  Then, turning eastward, they entered into the waters of rebirth and were washed in the name of the Triune God and given new names to match their new identity.  Emerging from the pool, fragrant with oil and wrapped in the white robe of Christ’s righteousness, they were ushered into the community for their first Eucharistic feast.  It was an experience that helped to recast their lives, to form them and to graft them unto Christ the Vine.  These profound symbols and actions helped bind the newly baptized to their new way of being in the world, a way toward which the world was deeply hostile.  These same symbols still call to us, forming the core of our identity as Christians in this 21^st century.

Before we can say YES to God, we must say NO to all that would separate us from God—from within and without. The journey of Lent is, in part, about gazing into that mirror.  But that’s not its only purpose.  If we come away from this Lenten sojourn knowing only what is wrong with us, only beating our breasts in shame and sorrow, then the season will be incomplete and, finally, of little value.  The grace of this season is that this is not the only thing the mirror shows us.  Gazing into the mirror with Christ there beside us, we see the tremendous truth of his grace and forgiveness.  His self-emptying on the cross shows in fullest measure the lengths God is willing to go to embrace this errant race and turn us toward healing.  His resurrection affirms the truth that death and decay will not have the final word; that transformation is God’s ultimate goal.

As we look into the mirror this season provides, we look with an honesty born of the cross and a hope born of the resurrection.  And through this lens we see more than our shortcomings and needs—we see our gifts and our vocation.  We live toward the promise that “when anyone is in Christ there is a new creation…and everything has become new.” (2 Cor. 5:17)  This is our journey.  What a profound privilege that we can make it together.

With you on the way.

Pastor Erik

Beloved in the Lord,

Something strange caught my eye as I approached the water’s edge at Lincoln Park last month.  One hundred yards down the shore I saw what looked like a man walking parallel to the beach in chest deep water.  Was he in distress? Was he coming to the aid of someone or something else—man or beast—that I couldn’t see?  Was he some latter day Moses seeking a way to cross the sound?  Did he require rescue?  My mind raced through a dozen scenarios that might explain why someone would be wading in Puget Sound on a sub-40 degree January day. The polar bear plungers had done their thing on New Year’s Day—most of them dashing into the water and then out again in a matter of seconds.  But this guy (yes, I could see now he was a guy) seemed in no hurry whatsoever as he walked steadily further away from me in no apparent distress. Convinced that no action on my part was required (thank goodness!), my caution turned to curiosity and I simply watched him.

A few minutes later he turned and headed for shore, and then, when he hit land, began jogging on the path in my direction wearing only a t-shirt, shorts and running shoes—and, oh yes, he wore a smile on his face, too.  As he headed for the men’s bathroom, I turned to follow him—I had to find out what made this guy tick!

YOU DO THAT OFTEN? I asked him, trying to sound nonchalant as we stood in the restroom taking care of business. ABOUT ONCE A MONTH, he said; and before I could get out another question, he was out of the restroom and gone.

Since that encounter 10 days ago, I’ve been wondering what could explain how wading in water in the middle of winter brought this man such deep satisfaction.

As we begin the season of Lent this month, we hear God’s summons to Wade in the Water of baptism.  Each year, with ashes on our forehead, we respond to God’s call to return again to the basics of our spiritual lives:  to the covenant God made with us in baptism; to an acknowledgment of our earthbound existence; to the practices of prayer and fasting and acts of love and generosity which lead us back to the core of who we are and why we’re here.  The loss of four Peace elders in the first month of this year drives the truth home: dust you are, and to dust you shall return.  How, then, shall we live?  I didn’t talk long enough with the man who waded in the water of Puget Sound to find out if he was a Christian or not, but the scene of him wading there has become a new and powerful image of the baptized life—complete with smile.

Preaching to new converts preparing for baptism, 4th century Bishop Maximus tells them:

“In the baptism of the Savior the blessing which flowed down like a spiritual stream touched the outpouring of every flood and the course of every stream.  We must be baptized by the same stream as the Savior was. But in order to be dipped in the same water, we do not require the regions of the East nor the river in Jewish lands, for now Christ is everywhere and the Jordan is everywhere. The same consecration that blessed the rivers of the East sanctifies the waters of the West. Thus even if perchance a river should have some other name in this world, there is in it nonetheless the mystery of the Jordan.”

Waters threaten death and bring life. They protect us in our mothers’ wombs and then bear us out into the world. They are full of danger and full of promise.

We in the Northwest are fortunate to have plentiful water resources. When I look west on clear days and see the snow pack on the Olympics I breathe a sigh of relief.  The Earth Summit event I attended recently affirmed again that in years to come, as water resources become more and more precious, the bountiful waters of this region will draw people here as never before.  But the quantity of water isn’t the only issue. The quality of these waters, and how they support life that’s also at stake.  What St. Maximus knew in the 4th century we are coming to see now in a new way, that the waters of the Jordan—full of danger, full of promise—make all waters holy, all streams sacred, and protecting the water that fills our font and the fonts of every Christian community around the world is the vocation of every Christian congregation and community wherever they may be.

Like the man I saw in the waters of the Sound, we too are drawn, by the Spirit’s call, to wade in the waters and find our lives reinvigorated and renewed.  Our baptism isn’t something that just happened to happen to us at one time in our lives; it’s the core of who we are and whose we are now.  When Jesus was baptized, the Holy Spirit affirmed his identity as a beloved son of God and then sent him on his mission to the world.  That mission took him first through the wilderness, a 40 days sojourn that shaped his public ministry in profound ways.  Now, once again, it’s our turn. 

The water that touched us—and touches us still—is that same water, and every day, every moment it blesses our lives by calling us back to remind us who we are. Once we pass through these waters, our lives cannot remain the same, for to wade in baptismal water is to answer God’s invitation to go deep with Jesus Christ.  And when we wade in those baptismal waters, we never wade alone. Christ wades in the water with us, and gives us a name and a destiny and a community to surround us and to buoy us up when we get in above our heads.  Trusting this promise, we journey together once more.

Pastor Erik

Beloved in the Lord,

We were in Leavenworth with Chris’s family, marking Naomi’s birthday on New Year’s Eve and the dawning of the New Year with a parcel of visiting cousins we were meeting for the very first time.  Soon after arriving at their home along Icicle Creek, I was called to help my brother in law Doug remove the Tree that had stood at the center of Christmas celebrations the week before.  He was determined that there would be no lingering Tree this year; no waiting until February before disposing of it.  This year a new tradition would be inaugurated: the burning of the Christmas Tree as one year ended and another began.  It was the kind of tradition I could definitely get behind!  We carried the Tree out away from the house and planted it in the adjacent field in the two+ feet of snow that covered the ground. There it stood, upright and firm.

The plan was simple.  When fireworks were set off later that night the biggest one would be placed beneath the outstretched branches of the Tree, thus igniting its needles and creating an amazing pyrotechnic display.   As a guy who can sit around for hours watching fires, let me say that I was all over this idea.  With the Tree now in place, Doug used the snow blower to clear a space a safe distance away where we would bring the portable fire pit and chairs, while Kai and I went to work gathering wood for the bonfire.

All the elements were present to make it a truly memorable night: the snow-covered field…calm weather…a crackling fire.  As night descended, the adults gathered around the bonfire while the younger ones went searching for icicles to add to their collections.  Finally, the moment arrived.  After some preliminary rocket displays, nephew Aiden placed the Big Bertha of fireworks at the base of the Tree, tilting it so the trajectory of its flares would stream right through the branches.  Then, lighting the fuse he stood back.  All eyes were glued to the Tree as the fireworks began to fly!

You remember how susceptible Christmas trees are to burning, right?  It’s one of those axioms of modern domestic life—“Never attempt to burn a Christmas tree in your fireplace at home; there could be dire consequences.” (I know a man who actually tried this once…an L.A. firefighter no less!  You should have seen the look on his face when his neighbors, seeing the billows of smoke erupting from his chimney, called 911 and the clarion call of fire engine sirens came hurtling down the block!  But that’s another story…) Well, it turns out this Tree was not.  Not one branch or even needle of the tree actually burned.  Some were scorched, yes, but that was about it.  I guess it wasn’t dry enough yet.  The kids went into the house while those of us who remained turned our attention to the crackling fire in the pit once more.  It seemed that this was one tradition that would have to be tweaked a bit in order to match the vision of blazing glory our minds had so readily imagined.

As we turn the page each January, it is our nature to hope that the failures, flare-outs, and ill-conceived ideas of the year past will not make it with us into the New Year.  Oh! that it would be so!  We fervently long for a new order, within us and between us, where fear, violence, and dread no longer hold sway.  As people whose destiny is shaped by hope, we are learning to put our trust not in our own plans but in God’s purposes.

Isaiah captured that purpose when he spoke of God’s salvation as a “burning torch” that would light the way for God’s people.  A torch of such magnitude that it would dispel the bleak darkness of exile and usher in a new way of being and living that would bring the community into alignment with what our Creator has intended from the beginning. That light has come in Jesus.  The feast of Epiphany with which this New Year begins invites us to embrace his light, to have our eyes—like those of the Magi—opened to see just what God is up to in this one who turns plain water into the wine of community.  As 2013 unfolds, let us strive to keep our eyes focused—even glued—on him.  For he is truly the light no darkness can overcome.

New Year’s Blessings,

Pastor Erik

Beloved of God,

The story of how God’s love takes on flesh in the world and in our lives can be spoken in many different voices.  It can be expressed in the language of theology and through the words of philosophical inquiry.  It can be told through the lens of history, with specificity and detail.  But I find the story to be most powerful when it is most intimate. This Advent, as we begin year three of the common lectionary cycle—the year of LUKE—we get a full dose of Luke’s masterful telling of God coming into the flesh and acquiring an address on earth.

The story of Jesus’ origins and birth, which unfold bit-by-bit and song-by-song in Luke’s gospel, offers us an insider’s perspective.  We become privileged eavesdroppers and witnesses to scenes which are highly personal and even private.  Luke does not leave us standing outside of the locations or the minds of the story’s chief characters as detached observers, but rather brings us inside in his intimate portrayal.  The vast literature of music and poetry that Luke’s story of Jesus has inspired speaks powerfully to our need and desire to take hold of the radical truth that God is not aloof or remote, but has come to be with us. This year, on the Fourth Sunday of Advent, December 23, (“Little Christmas” in the parlance of some) we will follow Luke’s unfolding story in all its marvelous detail.  I hope you’ll be with us as we lean toward Christmas that day, taking in the message: DO NOT FEAR.

One beautiful example of an intimate moment portrayed by Luke comes to us from the pen of Rainer Maria Rilke.

There is much, as always, that begs for our attention during this full season.  The to-do lists grow impossibly long; the obligation to fashion a meaningful experience that meets the expectations of ourselves and others—and all with good cheer—weighs on us.  Alongside all of this comes the Spirit’s invitation, as the curtain parts, to come inside to behold and marvel at the audacity of the One who emptied heaven to be with us.

In joyful anticipation,

Pastor Erik

Beloved of God,

Gratitude and thanksgiving are hallmarks of this month of November.  On All Saints Sunday we lift up the lives of all the faithful people of God who have gone before us, who have sown seeds of faith in our lives, lighting the way toward a future in which hope reigns.  Hope reigns for us and all creation because God reigns, and where God reigns there is always hope—hope both for this life and for the next, thanks to Christ’s triumph over sin and death.  Six Peace and former St. James members will be remembered on November 4th: Lyla, Elmer, K, Gena, Elma, & Grace.  Each of their stories have interacted in different ways with our own and are now enfolded into God’s story like strands of thread in a tapestry God has been creating from the beginning of time.

Celebrating the lives of those who have gone before naturally raises questions for us about the legacy of faith we leave to those who come after us. During the coming months, you’ll be hearing about one such legacy that comes to us through St. Paul’s interaction with the church in Macedonia.  Acts 16 records that as Paul and his companions went about their work of planting churches, one night Paul had a vision: there stood a man from Macedonia pleading with him and saying, “Come over to Macedonia and help us.” As soon as Paul had the vision the group set out to “cross over to Macedonia, being convinced that God had called us to proclaim the good news to them.” (Acts 16:9-10) Later, in his second letter to the Christians of Corinth, Paul writes about what he experienced with the Macedonia people.

“We want you to know, brothers and sisters, about the grace of God that has been granted to the churches of Macedonia; for during a severe ordeal of affliction, their abundant joy and their extreme poverty have overflowed in a wealth of generosity on their part.”

The church communities in Macedonia, Paul goes on to say, “voluntarily gave according to their means, even beyond their means, begging us earnestly for the privilege of sharing in this ministry to the saints” in Jerusalem who were suffering from a famine. (2 Cor. 8:3-4)  How did the people of Macedonia become motivated to give to their sisters and brothers in Jerusalem?  “They gave themselves first to the Lord,” then they also gave themselves “by the will of God, to us.” (2 Cor. 8:5)  These were acts of commitment and spiritual maturity that began with their baptism and flowing from their foundational relationship with the Christ Jesus.  When people give themselves to the Lord, the Lord makes things happen—and did it happen!  Their “overflowing joy and extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity,” writes Paul.  Practicing generosity in the face of tough times is not easy.  Not for the Macedonians.  Not for us.  But it is possible—even surprisingly so—when we follow their ancient example by first giving ourselves, our lives, fully to the Lord.

In coming months the Stewardship Team will be lifting the Macedonian Challenge before us, inviting us to reflect on what we can learn and adopt for our own practices, individually, as households, and as a congregation.[1] Stay tuned!

This month we’ll be given several opportunities for generous giving to ministry needs beyond our doors. We’ve all seen images of the devastation wrought by Hurricane Sandy this past week.  From the Caribbean to the North Atlantic Coast, millions of lives have been affected by this “super storm.”  Our ELCA is known nationwide as a leader in disaster response.  It’s one of things we, as church, do together when we participate in synodical and churchwide sponsored ministries.  You’ll find a LINK on our website homepage that provides more information about how you might respond.

In addition, our THANKSGIVING OFFERING this year will help in two directions: (1) subsidizing our Agape Fund, which serves those in desperate need of help, and (2) participating in the White Center Food Bank’s new “Team Henrietta” and “Milk Banks” programs.

This All Saints Sunday we’ll hear these words from Revelation 21:

“See, the home of God is among mortals.  God will dwell with them as their God; they will be God’s peoples, and God himself will be with them; God will wipe every tear from their eyes.  Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.” (Rev. 21:3-4)

We live in the hope that this vision of renewal for the future of creation includes renewal for us even now today.  We participate in that renewal whenever we gather around the Font and Table.  It’s what we do; it’s who we are.

With you on the way,

Pastor Erik

[1]For an example of a modern day Macedonian tale, follow this LINK (http://www.lutheransnw.org/content.cfm?id=213&content_id=8) to the story of Kent Lutheran Church and the transformation they have undergone through connecting with Sudanese refugees in their community and half a world away.

Beloved of God,

Fall is a favorite season of mine. I love the colors, the crispness in the air, the golden light of late afternoon, the harvest moon.  And I am awed by the transformation that occurs as leaves let go of their homes in the sky and begin their new project of nourishing the soil.  In autumn the earth teaches us what it means to let go, to relinquish, to shed, to become empty and ready to be filled, a lesson we practice year after year, time and again.  As I watch the leaves turn and fall I’m reminded of a poem by Macrina Wiederkehr entitled, The Sacrament of Letting Go.[1]  Here are the opening lines:

Slowly she celebrated the sacrament of letting go.
First she surrendered her green,
then the orange, yellow, and red
finally she let go of her brown.
Shedding her last leaf…she began her vigil of trust.

We celebrate two sacraments in the Lutheran Christian tradition:  the sacraments of font and of table—Holy Baptism and Holy Communion.  But if we ever added a third, I would cast my vote for the Sacrament of Letting Go.  The earthly sign for this sacrament would be a red or golden leaf plucked up from the ground where it fell.  And the texts? There are many. We’ll be hearing two of them later this month, from Isaiah 53 and Mark 10. Isaiah 53 includes the fourth and final Servant Song from Isaiah’s corpus.  You’ll recognize the verses as coming from the section of Isaiah we hear particularly in Holy Week as we contemplate the passion of Jesus:

This Suffering Servant of whom Isaiah speaks knew the Sacrament of Letting Go.  The first Christians came to recognize in these verses the one they had come to call the Christ; the one of whom St. Paul spoke when he wrote: “Though he was in the form of God he did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave…and being found in human form, he humbled himself, becoming obedient to the point of death.” (Phil. 2) 

In the 10^th chapter of Mark, after all the time they’ve spent with Jesus, all the teaching they’ve taken in, after all the miracles they’ve witnessed and experienced, we find James and John asking Jesus for special favors.  “Teacher,” they say as they sidle up to him, “we have something we want you to do for us. We’d like the places of highest honor beside you in glory—to sit on your right and on your left.”  While the gospels don’t contain stage directions, I readily imagine Jesus, after hearing their request, bowing his head, shaking it slowing, and sighing.  After all this time, they still didn’t get it!  So he tells all of them once more: 

Jesus asks them (us!) to learn the sacrament of letting go.  “You know how the world operates,” he tells them.  “But that’s not how we’re going to operate.”  Jesus takes the power-grabbing, top-down approach to authority and turns it on its head.  After 2000 years, the church still struggles mightily to embody the way of being that Jesus made so clear.

The hymn of Richard Gillard quoted above celebrates this call to servanthood which belongs to each one of us by virtue of our baptism.  The God who emptied himself to become one with us invites us to loosen our grip on our own agendas and yearning for power and to embrace the yoke of service each and every day of our lives. Like baptism, this letting go is a life-long sacrament.  We’re never done with it.  We are called to practice this sacrament as we send our children off into the world.  We are called to practice this sacrament as we begin a new job, or as we retire, or as we leave a home we’ve known for years and move to some place new.  We are called to practice this sacrament when, in various circumstances, for differing reasons, significant relationships in our lives can no longer be sustained.  We are called to practice this sacrament when death approaches, separating us from those we love.  No, we are never done with it, never done with letting go.  But neither are we alone.  For every step along the way, with every leaf that falls, every trembling fear, every ounce of pain and suffering, every gesture of relinquishment, we are companioned by the One who claims us in baptism, and whose promises are so secure death itself cannot put them asunder.

This month, as servants of the Servant, we’ll hit the pavement on the annual CROP Walk and write letters to congress advocating a Circle of Protection around the vulnerable poor.  We’ll hear from our youth how trips to the Yakima Reservation and other places have transformed their understanding of what it means to be a servant.  We’ll hear also how a congregation at the end of its life cycle dared to dream that by dying well it could become the seedbed for a transformed model of ministry—Luther’s Table.  (NOTE: Pastor/Developer Gretchen Mertes will be guest preacher here Oct. 21)

In autumn the trees teach us what it means to let go and become empty so we are ready to be filled.  And in doing so, perhaps they also teach us how we might embody servanthood in such a way that Jesus will smile instead of sigh.

With you on the way,

Pastor Erik

 [1] Macrina Wiederkehr, Seasons of Your Heart.  (New York: HarperCollins, 1991).