When I was first approached about participating in #Lentunedited, I wasn’t sure what to think. Like many clergy, it was the week before Ash Wednesday and I was fully aware of how underprepared I was for Lent. The thought of adding one more thing to my plate, or giving up something, sounded like a terrible idea. Because when in my life has giving up chocolate brought me closer to God?
Monday, March 16, 2015
Pack Sunscreen
Today's reflection is from The Rev. Emily Schwartz Crouch, Associate Rector at St. Matthew's Episcopal Church, Louisville, KY.
When I was first approached about participating in #Lentunedited, I wasn’t sure what to think. Like many clergy, it was the week before Ash Wednesday and I was fully aware of how underprepared I was for Lent. The thought of adding one more thing to my plate, or giving up something, sounded like a terrible idea. Because when in my life has giving up chocolate brought me closer to God?
Since giving up meat, desserts and wine sounded like a terrible idea during Lent, I decided to take the challenge and post about my what my life really looks like; imperfections and all. Like many of us, I edit the parts I want people to see. I say it’s because I’m a private person (which is partly true), but beneath this is a fear of being exposed. As a recovering perfectionist, letting people see the messy, ugly, lazy, crazy and passionate parts of my life help me to take myself less seriously. My belief (or what I want to believe) is that God meets us in the messiness of life.
So far I’ve posted something everyday. Some days it’s a picture of what our house looks like (think lots of dog hair, cracker crumbs and a ridiculous number of dirty coffee mugs), other days I post about my fears and anxieties. I posted about my brother’s death and the sadness that emerges when I read my daughter his books. And I can’t forget joy—I have lots of this too.
As I preached this morning I found myself led to the image in John 3 where Jesus calls us to become children of light. Do we stay in the dark because we feel we have something to hide? I think we stay hidden because we are afraid and feel nobody else can possibly understand what we are going through. When we stay in the dark with our secrets, our fears and our perfection we miss out on connection. We miss out on the chance to be fully alive. Jesus became vulnerable by becoming human. For us to become vulnerable, we must also be willing to risk being exposed.
During this Lent, I have felt exposed. This has been a good thing. I have been amazed by the grace and courage of those who have responded to my posts. How becoming vulnerable has connected me more deeply to those I care about and to those I didn’t know before. I am grateful. But I am also more emotional and more tender. Sometimes I need to squint in the light, even though the sun feels good.
May you have a blessed and Holy Lent; a Lent that calls you into the wilderness of vulnerability. Pack sunscreen, for it’s hard to know exactly when the sun will shine.
When I was first approached about participating in #Lentunedited, I wasn’t sure what to think. Like many clergy, it was the week before Ash Wednesday and I was fully aware of how underprepared I was for Lent. The thought of adding one more thing to my plate, or giving up something, sounded like a terrible idea. Because when in my life has giving up chocolate brought me closer to God?
Friday, March 6, 2015
Facebook Remembers
The day my brother, Ted, died about four months ago, I created a Facebook group to remember him. I asked friends and family to join the group and share their remembrances . The response was huge and turned out to be one of the my biggest sources of comfort in those tender early days.
The group is still active, and now I find myself posting on it when I find a video, a photo, or an article that Ted would have loved. I share it with the group. He can't enjoy it now, but the group can love it for him. The group, over 1000 strong, stands in for my big brother. They remember him for me. They re-member him. The put him back together. The group has become my brother in his absence and while he can never be brought back, this community stands in and makes him feel alive. All because of Facebook.
As Christians, we're supposed to do the same thing with Christ. We are to remember Christ and re-member him. We are to show the face of Christ to one another and to act as his body in the world. When we worship, when we pray, when we serve, when we reach out in compassion, we are becoming Christ's body--we are making him come alive again and again.
Acts of grace and compassion abound on Facebook. Between the photos of meals and snarky articles and top 10 celebrity fashion disasters, there are people showing the face of Christ on Facebook. It looks like comments of support and hugs sent from around the world. It is the offering of prayers for friends and strangers. It is support groups. It is people being real and making themselves vulnerable. It is event invites for volunteer opportunities. It is long lost friends reconnecting.
I never thought I would find myself making the argument that the face of Christ can be seen on Facebook. But under the layers of time consuming Buzzfeed articles and arguments about dress color, there is something real and beautiful going on here. I hope you see it too, and that you too will become the Facebook face of Christ for others to see.
The group is still active, and now I find myself posting on it when I find a video, a photo, or an article that Ted would have loved. I share it with the group. He can't enjoy it now, but the group can love it for him. The group, over 1000 strong, stands in for my big brother. They remember him for me. They re-member him. The put him back together. The group has become my brother in his absence and while he can never be brought back, this community stands in and makes him feel alive. All because of Facebook.
As Christians, we're supposed to do the same thing with Christ. We are to remember Christ and re-member him. We are to show the face of Christ to one another and to act as his body in the world. When we worship, when we pray, when we serve, when we reach out in compassion, we are becoming Christ's body--we are making him come alive again and again.
Acts of grace and compassion abound on Facebook. Between the photos of meals and snarky articles and top 10 celebrity fashion disasters, there are people showing the face of Christ on Facebook. It looks like comments of support and hugs sent from around the world. It is the offering of prayers for friends and strangers. It is support groups. It is people being real and making themselves vulnerable. It is event invites for volunteer opportunities. It is long lost friends reconnecting.
I never thought I would find myself making the argument that the face of Christ can be seen on Facebook. But under the layers of time consuming Buzzfeed articles and arguments about dress color, there is something real and beautiful going on here. I hope you see it too, and that you too will become the Facebook face of Christ for others to see.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Please Pray
Three years ago this week, while I was serving as Head Chaplain at Episcopal School of Jacksonville, a teacher who had been fired came on campus with an AK-47 style gun while classes were in session. He murdered our Head of School and then turned the gun on himself. It was unspeakably terrible.
Within an hour, multiple news vans were parked at the entrance of the school and everyone was demanding to know what had happened. A board member, the Rev. Kate Moorehead, soon became the spokesperson for our tragedy. "We are shocked and saddened. Please pray for us." She must have said this refrain into microphones over 100 times in the first 24 hours.
"We are very sad. Please pray for us."
The journalists weren't satisfied with her remarks. They wanted to get the full scoop. They wanted all the details. One journalist sent a blanket email to all faculty and staff, asking how well we knew the shooter and if there were any signs. Others walked into the middle of teacher gatherings and teary assemblies. It was upsetting and angering, but they were doing their jobs. They wanted to report the big story.
But "We are very sad. Please pray for us," was the story. Of course there were many more details, but those belonged with us, not the world.
Lent United is an experiment in discerning what belongs to us and what belongs to the world. Some stories are ours alone. Some details are meant to be private. And some are meant to be shared and hopefully much good comes of it. But to be clear: we do not owe the public our stories. They are ours to share, not theirs to be demanded. We can choose when and how to share our traumas, our joys, our frustrations.
The most important part of the story that Kate told the press was this, "please pray." It was an invitation for the whole world to become a part of our healing. No, every last detail did not belong to the public. But our healing did.
This is where Lent Unedited can be powerful for those of us willing to share some or all of our stories. We can choose what to say and how to say it, but I offer for you to end your story with, "please pray for me." Knowing that you are being held up in prayer is extremely powerful, and, I believe, does actually heal.
Soliciting prayers is an act of bravery and vulnerability. It's the real thing. It's admitting that we can't endure the ups and downs of life without the support of others and without the grace of God. It's telling the story of the way we belong to each other. What a terrifying, beautiful story to tell.
Within an hour, multiple news vans were parked at the entrance of the school and everyone was demanding to know what had happened. A board member, the Rev. Kate Moorehead, soon became the spokesperson for our tragedy. "We are shocked and saddened. Please pray for us." She must have said this refrain into microphones over 100 times in the first 24 hours.
"We are very sad. Please pray for us."
The journalists weren't satisfied with her remarks. They wanted to get the full scoop. They wanted all the details. One journalist sent a blanket email to all faculty and staff, asking how well we knew the shooter and if there were any signs. Others walked into the middle of teacher gatherings and teary assemblies. It was upsetting and angering, but they were doing their jobs. They wanted to report the big story.
But "We are very sad. Please pray for us," was the story. Of course there were many more details, but those belonged with us, not the world.
Lent United is an experiment in discerning what belongs to us and what belongs to the world. Some stories are ours alone. Some details are meant to be private. And some are meant to be shared and hopefully much good comes of it. But to be clear: we do not owe the public our stories. They are ours to share, not theirs to be demanded. We can choose when and how to share our traumas, our joys, our frustrations.
The most important part of the story that Kate told the press was this, "please pray." It was an invitation for the whole world to become a part of our healing. No, every last detail did not belong to the public. But our healing did.
This is where Lent Unedited can be powerful for those of us willing to share some or all of our stories. We can choose what to say and how to say it, but I offer for you to end your story with, "please pray for me." Knowing that you are being held up in prayer is extremely powerful, and, I believe, does actually heal.
Soliciting prayers is an act of bravery and vulnerability. It's the real thing. It's admitting that we can't endure the ups and downs of life without the support of others and without the grace of God. It's telling the story of the way we belong to each other. What a terrifying, beautiful story to tell.
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