IMG_7299Come to the well, my love.

Make a cup of your hands.

Scoop up handfuls of liquid silver

shimmering with the sun’s each ray.

Let the coolness

slide down your weary palms and wrists

drenching your arms in gladness.

Let water touch your lips

like the moist kiss of a lover

quenching your parched and lonely

desert soul

where seeds long to be watered.

Taste the sweetness of hope

blossoming on your tongue

singing songs of wonder

speaking words of praise.

Let this sacred wellspring

fill you to the tips of your wiggling toes

dancing on holy ground.

Know this place as your own

your birthright

a divine grace

freely given.

Protect it as if

your life depends on it.

Keep it as pure

as the driven white snows of winter

sparkling as the fragile faith of spring.

For wells can become bitter waters

steeped in poisonous leaves

of petty concerns.

You will know them by their colors:

green envy

yellow cowardice

blood red hatred

the seductive purple of gossip.

If you taste these

spit them out.

Contaminated waters

erode trust

tarnish the truth

rust what is good

destroy what is life giving.

Come to the well of life, my love.

Living waters move

in your blood

the same self stuff as mine.

A sacred trust

whose guardians are named









Come to the well, my love.

Let us be nourished.



When shall we cease saying peace, peace, when there is no peace? When shall we beat our swords into plowshares? When shall we begin to bind up the broken and set the captives free? When shall we begin to do what is required — to love mercy, do kindness, and walk humbly with our God(s)? When shall we begin to love our neighbors as ourselves? I say now, friends. I say now.

An Ode to the Elephant in the Room

You are big.

You are different.

You scare me.

You take up space.

You have tusks.

You could trample me.

You could take me out with your trunk.

You scare me.

I look away.

I tiptoe around you.

I want to feel safe.

I appease.

I make concessions.

I feed you.

I neglect to name you.

I am afraid.

We occupy the same space.

We dance around each other.

We scare each other, each in our own way.

We do not speak, at least not in words.

We keep our distance.

We normalize our relationship.

We say it’s just the way things are.

We numb ourselves.

We occupy the same space.

We are scared.

We make our worlds smaller.

We want to feel safe.

We don’t know how.

We hurt each other.

We pretend it doesn’t matter.

You have power.

I have power.

We have power.

You are the elephant.

I am the elephant.

We are the elephant.

What shall we name the elephant in the room?

IMG_4736“Disappointment is just the initial meeting with the frontier of an evolving life, an invitation to reality, which we expected to be one way and turns out to be another, often something more difficult, and strangely, in the end, more rewarding.”   David Whyte

I hate when I disappoint people. Yes, hate is a strong word, but there are few things in life I hate more than disappointing people. Okay, I hate war and poverty more. And those who know me well know how much I despise email, but in the small sphere of my personal world, disappointing people tops the list of things I hate.

It’s probably no small accident of fate that ministry, the vocation to which I’ve been called is one where I’m almost guaranteed to disappoint someone — on a regular basis, maybe even every day.

Those who come through the doors of the church are hoping that their deepest needs will be met, needs for comfort, for love, to be affirmed, to be accepted, to find meaning, purpose, a sense of belonging, and a transcendent connection to something divine and holy. Some come looking for material needs: food, shelter, transportation, or a job. Then there are those who don’t quite know what it is they are hoping to find. They only know the painful sting of disappointment when that deep, unspoken need isn’t fulfilled.

There are two ways that I – and by extension, the church – disappoint people.

The first has to do with the reality of human limits and imperfections. The church is a human institution that serves divine purposes. Sometimes I screw up. I make mistakes. Sometimes the church screws up and makes mistakes. We all come up against limits of time and energy. Sometimes we are simply unable to meet a particular person’s need.

This first way of disappointing people is actually the easier of the two. Mistakes can be addressed through apology. They become opportunities for learning, growth, and change. Coming up against limits helps to focus our energies on what is most important. Recognizing our imperfections and limits, we forgive ourselves and each other. We begin again in love.

The second way of disappointing people is infinitely more difficult – failing to meet unspoken and unrealistic expectations. When I find out that I’ve failed to meet an expectation that I didn’t know someone had, it can send me into a tailspin of insecure feelings. I wonder at my own competence. I feel powerless. To pull myself out of the death spiral of negativity, I remind my self that while there may be people who are truly clairvoyant, I’m not one of them.

I learned early in life how to manage my own disappointments. Being the third child of four, I was never the center of attention the way my older brothers and younger sister were. One Christmas, as I poured over the Montgomery Ward catalog, making my Christmas wish list, I found my mother’s Christmas shopping list, written on a scrap of paper tucked neatly at the back.

My illusions of Santa had been dispelled a couple years before. I knew the gifts came from mom and dad. I even knew the family budget was tight, so I made my Christmas wish list keeping that reality in mind. What I really wanted was the Barbie Dream house, which I knew was out of reach. I limited my list to a few new outfits for Barbie.

Tears stung my eyes as I read my mother’s list. My brothers were to get a train set to share. My sister was to get a new tricycle. I was to get a slip. Yes, that’s right. A slip — that undergarment that goes under your dress so your legs don’t show through. Most girls my age got them along with their back-to-school clothes. I was to get mine for Christmas. Great.

When Christmas morning arrived, I knew exactly what to expect. There would be no Christmas surprise. In a strange way, it was a relief. Upon waking, I made up my mind that I was going to have a happy Christmas. I focused on the sparkly tree, the pretty packages, and the yummy Norwegian sweetbread that we always ate for Christmas breakfast. I grew up a little bit that day.

My young self learned that the way to avoid disappointment is to manage my own expectations – a spiritual gift that has served me well. To the best of my ability, I let other people know what my expectations of them are. When I embark on a new adventure or enter into a new situation, I try to release expectations and simply be present to whatever unfolds. Releasing expectations involves letting go of a certain amount of control.

I can’t say that my life is completely free of disappointment. When it arises, it’s a message that alerts me to some deep, inner longing that is unspoken and unmet. Usually it turns out to be the very things people come to church seeking: to be understood, to be respected, to be seen, to be heard, to be accepted, to be loved.

The poet David Whyte wrote a book titled Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words. He has this to say about disappointment:

“Disappointment is a friend to transformation, a call to both accuracy and generosity in the assessment of our self and others, a test of sincerity and a catalyst of resilience. Disappointment is just the initial meeting with the frontier of an evolving life, an invitation to reality, which we expected to be one way and turns out to be another, often something more difficult, and strangely, in the end, more rewarding.”

Maybe disappointment can be a spiritual guide, leading us into life’s deep yearnings, the universal longings that ultimately connect us to each other in our common humanity. Maybe it’s nothing more and nothing less than a message of the spirit, a necessary disillusionment — an invitation to the reality of imperfection and limitation.

I’m sure I will continue to disappoint people. Maybe I can hate it less knowing it is truly a gateway to transformation.


Knowing can be a curse on a person’s life”

Sue Monk Kidd from The Secret Life of Bees.

My profession and vocation requires that I spend more than the usual amount of time inside the church. While most church goers spend maybe a couple to a few hours a week actually in the church, let’s just say I log a lot more hours than that. There’s so much to the life of a congregation that goes on behind the scenes. I often fantasize about a reality TV show revealing the secret life of churches. It’s not quite what the Vicar of Dibley would have you all believe.

When I was in seminary, no one told me how much I would need to know about the mechanical systems that keep a church building cool or warm, lighted, internet connected — not to mention what it takes to keep the water running and the toilets flushing. Then there’s all the city codes, permits, and inspections. In old buildings, when something breaks, the fix is never quick, cheap, or easy.

I offer to you, dear readers, a look behind the scenes, a chance to see what your minister, church staff, and a handful of brave volunteers get to see on a regular basis.

I’ll start with what it takes to troubleshoot internet and telephone connectivity.

The first step is to find this . . . .


because it’s where you’ll find this . . .


and this.


One weekday morning we all arrived at church only to discover that the phone system was completely dead. After some diligent detective work, the problem was found. Someone had flipped this . . .


which couldn’t have been done accidentally. Let’s just say that it’s not in plain sight.

When it comes time to turn on heat or air conditioning, the first step is to gather all the keys you’ll need to unlock this . . .


and everything else that’s under lock and key.

This is what’s known as “the chiller.” It’s a dinosaur. They don’t make these anymore. It’s like a gigantic evaporative cooler. The good news is that it’s more energy efficient than a fancy new air conditioner would be.


The bad news is that the other side looks like this . . .


and this.


Yes, that’s rust and hard-water buildup.  But,wait, there’s more!  If you unlock the door to the “furnace” room, you’ll see this . . .


and this — the instructions for turning things on and off.


And, you’re not done yet! Now you have to lock everything back up, go back into the sanctuary, and flip this . . .


and then adjust this.


I think I saw a picture of this circulating on Facebook with the caption, “Re-post if you remember what this is.”

This week we got some bad news from the backflow inspector. I bet you didn’t even know there was such a thing as a backflow inspector. His email said, and I quote, “The minimum you can do to make the existing assembly work, is replace the shut off valves. You would probably want to hire a plumber to perform that
task. The existing galvanized piping looks suspiciously rotten.”

This is all to say that we need a plumber who will have to deal with this.


And that, my friends, is the first installment of The Secret Life of Churches.

I may need to head back to seminary now. I think I need a course or two in prayer.

“There is nothing perfect . . . only life” Sue Monk Kidd from The Secret Life of Bees

The old woman in my dream holds a threaded bobbin in her hand. Reaching out to me, she asks, “Do you have a device like this?” Before her hand reaches mine, I awaken with a start, hyper-aware that the day ahead holds change.

One of my spiritual practices is to write a daily haiku. Truth is that I’m not as faithful to the practice as I aspire to be. This day, however, the seventeen- syllable poem virtually jumps from my pen and onto the page.

a patchwork day ahead

scraps of life pieced together

stitched to make a whole


The stacks, piles, and collections on my desk must be cleared in order to receive an unexpected gift of a larger, more functional desk. (Thank you, Pamela Powers-Hannley!) I could easily clear the old desk by putting everything into boxes. Instead, I seize the opportunity to master the clutter and reclaim my space.

Between meetings, phone calls, and emails, I sort through papers: minutes, agendas, reports, letters, and cards. It’s like a labyrinth journey through the shared life of the congregation I’ve grown to love more deeply than I ever imagined possible. Hopes, dreams, ambitious plans, successes, failures, frustrations, disappointments – it’s all there – a colorful patchwork of light and dark, sunshine and shadow. Together, it all makes for a real life, a whole life that is woven fine with both joy and sorrow.

I arrive back at home after a long, full day to a front hallway filled with boxes that had come in the mail. They’re from my 87-year old mother who recently moved into an assisted living facility. Though tired to the bone, curiosity gets the better of me and I open one of the boxes.

My heart sinks a little. More of the same, I think, more stuff to be sorted. I work my way through my hospital birth certificate, a page from my baby book, my baptismal certificate, two Bibles, ration books from World War II, an assortment of hand-embellished linens, a Shirley Temple dress, a blue and white plate from Norway dated 1970, more linens, and finally, the item that brings me to tears: the flower garden quilt made by my great-grandmother, the patchwork quilt I slept under as a child.

At the church, we’ve begun a conversation about our vision for the future. The future exists in relationship to the past. The past is always with us. It has a strong allure and its artifacts are always tinted with nostalgia. We can choose to repeat its familiar patterns if our intent is to replicate the past: the good, the bad, and the ugly. Or we can choose to build on the past with the intent to transcend its limitations.


My day finally ends. I lay down to sleep with the image of the old woman of my dream in mind. The device she holds is the one that stitches the thread of past, present, and future together into one whole piece. Isn’t this what we do in religious community?

O God of our beautiful and too often troubled world:

We come in this season of Advent, a season when winter’s darkness deepens over us, a season of waiting for the light to returnIMG_2209, a season of preparing our hearts for a new birth.

We come in this season with the memory of a Thanksgiving just past, a memory marred by the news from Ferguson, Missouri, news that our human family is broken and divided along lines of race and class, power and privilege.

Our prayers go out to the family of Mike Brown as they grieve their profound loss under the glare of the public eye.

Our prayers go out to the community of Ferguson as they struggle to express their deep rage, the riotous rage of a few that could not be contained by the peaceful protests of the masses. Our prayers are with them as they do the hard work of rebuilding.

Our prayers go out to Darren Wilson, a man whose life has been changed forever, living with the burden of knowing that he ended the life of another human being.

Our prayers go out to law enforcement officers whose work is often hard and lonely. Our prayers go out to them knowing they are caught in systems designed to uphold the status quo, even when the status quo is unjust, systems that rely too heavily on military tactics and the use of deadly force, systems that use incarceration and deadly force disproportionately against people of color. Our prayer is that law enforcement agencies heed the call to reform and transform their practices and policies.

May these dark days be an invitation to examine our own souls. We know that we are conditioned by nature and nurture to seek out the company of those who look like us and to turn away from those who are different. Help us to understand that the roots of racism run through human hearts, including our own.

May we find the courage to speak the truth of our own fear that it may not harden into hate. May we be given the humility to name whatever privilege we may possess, now matter how small or great our privilege may be. May we be granted the wisdom to claim whatever power we may possess and use it not to harm but to heal.

O God of our growing and changing world, may this season of darkness be a fruitful time of gestation, waiting and preparing for the birth of a new way of life, a life filled with peace and justice for everyone.

In the name of all that is holy, we pray.



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