Earlier this week I was having a casual conversation with some people who go to my church. One of them told a story about how a cab driver in Denver had driven a man carrying a bunch of shotguns to a gun show, and then called the police that he had just dropped off a terrorist. Or something. It turned out to not be true? That's not the point. The point is that, as a few of us rolled our eyes about the need for any one person to be carrying that many guns around, and began to talk about something else, one person said, "Did he look like a terrorist?" [He was carrying multiple guns. To me, that means yes.] The man telling the story said, "I don't think so, but if you look at these cab drivers, a lot of them look like terrorists."

Because the rest of us had already largely moved on to another topic of conversation, I think I may have been the only one listening when he said that. Nobody even reacted. And I didn't say anything.

I didn't say, "You mean a lot of cab drivers look like what you think a Muslim must look like? And that's a word you equate with terrorism?"

And I don't know why I didn't say anything. That's not true, I know exactly why I didn't say anything. I didn't say anything because I was in a situation where I mistook my role as pastoral intern as someone who needed to appease the people around that table. To call him out in front of that group may have been rude, and so maybe it was okay to skip it then and address it later. But now it's been four days and I've seen him twice so I've sort of lost my chance to just casually mention it.

And is it effective to chip away at Islamophobia by saying things like, "hey, your stereotypes are contributing to the harassment and sometimes death of a group of innocent people," at coffee hour? Or is it better to be sure that my sermons speak of interfaith cooperation and welcoming the stranger and recognizing in all of us a common humanity?

Sometimes I can't tell. Because sometimes I can't tell if it just feels safer to preach about it because people don't get to stand up and say all the things they think right afterward, like I just got to. They have to seek me out after worship to protest -- which, of course, they do -- but I have the upper hand because I got to say mine first, and louder, and to more people. But it's so possible that the people who say the things like "he looked like a terrorist" aren't listening when I say "you are called to love Dzhokar Tsarnaev, whom you believe to be your enemy, yes, but is somehow still your neighbor, and may actually be a terrorist." It's so possible that this man who made this racist and ignorant comment about the dear taxi drivers of the city of Denver, when he thinks of Islamophobia, doesn't include statements such as his. Or, doesn't even think of Islamophobia in such terms, because he thinks that fear of Muslims is reasonable, and that mockery and demonization is the next necessary step.

And then I just get sad, because these are nice people whom I love and trust, and yet they are the people I'm constantly reminding myself I'm "up against."

I've been sitting on this post for a few days because it just felt like it didn't go anywhere and like it just sat with me not knowing what to do or say at the end. But, here we are.

Ah, if you could see us.

If you're not familiar with 3 Quarks Daily, get familiar. Among many other fascinating things, they post a poem every day. This is today's. It recalls, for me, so many memories of my own self and of so many women I know and love. It makes me miss tasting wine in the Napa sunshine with Maria, Gretchen, Amanda, Laura, Abby, and everyone else I've ever made that pilgrimage with on a Saturday afternoon. It makes me miss Jocelyn and six dollar magnums of the grossest wine, but in the best company, at the house party du jour in Thousand Oaks. It makes me miss glass upon glass of two buck Chuck in the kitchen on Channing street, or in the fading sunlight of the Dels courtyard, or on the grass up on campus. It makes miss the carefree warmth of what a lingering glass of wine, outside, represents.  

If You Could See Her After Drinking Wine . . . 

—to Micheál agus Michelle

If you could see her after drinking wine,

Wine from Chile of the berry-red kind

Prancing ahead of me in the middle of the night

Through the business district with her face alight

Having left the pub late and a little tight.

Ah, if you could see her after drinking wine.

Wine called Hoch from Germany’s Rhine

Her hands like birds fluttering in flight

In a sugawn café when the day is high

Her voice louder than the crowd’s by just a mite.

Oh, if you could see her after drinking wine.

.

If you could see her after drinking wine,

Beaujolais Nouveau, strawberries and cream

At a garden party under autumn’s gleam

Her bike by the gate lost in a dream

Of the road home as the sun goes to sleep.

Ah, if you could see her after drinking wine.

.

If you could see her after drinking wine.

Wine from California’s grape-fields fresh and new

Hopping through the Stack-of-Barley a bit askew

In her oh so new blue suede shoes.

If you could see her, as I see her,  after drinking wine . . .

If you could see her after drinking wine.

- Colm Breathnach

"Faithful Heights," Night Beds

This is a 14-minute set from NPR, that includes the song I want you to hear. Listen to the whole thing, if you've got 14 minutes to spare, of course. And then look up Night Beds on your music source of choice and listen to all of the songs that aren't in these 14 minutes. And, I hope, love them as I do.

I know you get lost sometimes, man.

Whenever you get lost, hold my hands.

Running Shoes

Some weeks ago in a sermon, Margot asked us to consider choosing an everyday object as a reminder of the presence of God in our daily lives. People choose things like clouds, certain kinds of trees, a specific bird, a certain color, etc., that they see often.

I chose running shoes.

I chose running shoes because when I am contemplating getting out of bed to put mine on, I often need a little encouragement. And once I have them on, and am at the gym or out on the paths in my neighborhood, I need a little encouragement.

When I saw on twitter last Monday that there had been explosions at the Boston Marathon, I (unsurprisingly) began to weep. I turned on my television, saw footage of the two blasts, and then, gasped -- running shoes.

This morning, the cover of Boston Magazine rendered me useless at my desk:

Hear these words from Louis B. Smith, Jr., whom I do not know, but who knows my running shoes.

This is my running prayer, O God.

I run in praise of you.

I praise you with my motion.

You sustain my breath, that I may sustain your praise.

All creation joining in
.

Nothing in creation is still.


My world revolves as I run across it.


The heavens move as I run below them.


Everything moves in praise.


I move as I run.


I run a trail of blessings,
 giving and receiving both.




As I run I am blessed

with moisture in the air
 to cool my straining body,


plants and trees nourish my breath,
 that I may run further,

with birdsong to cheer me on, joining in unending praise
,

with the supportive murmur of the flowing creek,

with passion in my arms and legs,

with burning in my chest, that I may know that I am alive.


I leave blessings in my turn,

water for plants,


breath for the trees.


This run may end, the prayer will not.


I may slow.


I shall praise you still.


Your praise carries me to the limits of my body and beyond.


Hands outstretched in praise, 
I run and collect bounteous blessings.


The rhythm of the pavement sings


            a percussive song of power,


not of my might,

not of my strength,

but of the persistence of your spirit.


A regular rhythm of irregular melody
,

breath in windy counterpoint
.

Still I run.


Still I praise


Ever the prayer runs on.

Bold Women, Bold Sheep

Acts 9:36-43

Psalm 23

Revelation 7:9-17

John 10:22-30

The Women of the ELCA designate one Sunday of the church year as Bold Women’s Day. At Bible exploration on Tuesday, Bev Jaksoniak informed me that, technically, it was supposed to be last Sunday, but as we were busy celebrating one of the bold women among us, we postponed it to this week. This did not burst my bubble in any way, because in my not-so-humble opinion, every day is Bold Women’s Day! But I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you.

So, in Judea, there was a coastal town called Joppa, and in Joppa there was a disciple whose name was Tabitha. She was devoted to good works and to acts of charity. She became ill and died. Peter was nearby, in Lydda, so they sent for him right away. All the widows stood beside him, weeping and showing tunics and other clothing that Tabitha had made while she was with them.

This would be a lovely story of one of the first followers of Jesus, even if it ended here. Tabitha was devoted to good works and to acts of charity. Her fellow widows and dearest friends were devastated at her death. They celebrated her life among them by sharing with Peter the tangible proof of all that that she had given to them when she was alive. This is all that we know for certain about Tabitha. She was well-loved and a devoted disciple. But her story is not in our scripture because she was a nice lady. Her story is in our scripture because Peter was called out to Joppa to resurrect her.

In this season of Easter, we’ve heard a pretty big resurrection story. And we often hear of another, the raising of Lazarus, which is important, too. But here, tucked away into the 9^th chapter of the Acts of the Apostles is the quick, quiet story of the time Peter raised Tabitha from the dead. Did you know this story before today? Did you know there was a woman so devoted to the Christian life that St. Peter himself drew upon the power of God to bring her back to life? In all likelihood, Tabitha was a bold woman.

Now, in El Salvador, there is a bold woman named Sandra Carolina. She is devoted to good works and to acts of justice. Her people are suffering because their farmland has been stripped of its fertility as it is mined for precious metals. Her people are without food, clean water, or means to provide for their families. This is a humanitarian crisis, an environmental crisis, and a political crisis. Sandra Carolina advocates on their behalf, testifying in court and standing up to the government of El Salvador and these mining giants, at great personal risk.

Now, in Portland, Maine, there is a bold woman named ­­­­Leslie. She is devoted to good works and to acts of justice. She’s the president of the Maine Council of Churches, and she’s a leader in the Society of Friends, or Quaker tradition. In the last several months, she and her people have led the charge to end hunger for their school children, reduce violence against prison inmates, and eradicate gun violence from their community. They held prayer vigils in the capitol rotunda that went on for days, with legislators and the press spending time in prayer alongside them.

Now, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, there is a bold woman named Venus. She is devoted to good works and to acts of justice. She runs a community farm and helps low-income women make connections to each other and to their health and to the earth. She believes that there is a major intersection of food-related injustice and gender-related injustice—because women are disproportionately forced to make hard decisions about the health of their families. Venus leads this farming community and advocates on their behalf for a better system that does not leave them hungry.

Now, in Boston, Massachusetts, there is a bold woman named Carrie. She is devoted to good works and acts of deep love. She was on the sidelines at the 25.5 mile marker of the Marathon on Monday, to support and photograph a friend who was running. Before her friend had crossed the 25.5 mile marker, Carrie heard and felt the twin blasts, just under a mile away at the finish line. Alongside the Boston Police Department and other first responders and spectators, Carrie ran toward the chaos. Carrie loaned her cell phone to dozens of people, desperate to reunite with their loved ones. Carrie gave her coat to a shivering stranger, never intending to get it back. Carrie held the hand of a weeping mother who had yet to find her daughter in the aftermath. Carrie, like all bold women, did what she could, with what she had, where she was.

In North Minneapolis, MN, there is a bold woman named Maria. In the Bronx, NY, there is a bold woman named Gretchen. In Boston, MA, there is a bold woman named Jocelyn. In Washington, DC, there is a bold woman named Bianca. In Austin, TX, there is a bold woman named Jodi. In Basalt, CO, there is a bold woman named Kelsey. In San Jose, CA, there is a bold woman named Laura. In Seattle, WA, there is a bold woman named Jill. And in Littleton, CO, there are countless bold women.

Here in this place, each and every day, there are women making a difference in the life of this congregation and in the life of this community. To name any of you would lead to naming all of you, because there is not one woman among us who is not worthy of praise. Bold women, from Mary, the mother of Jesus, to Mary Magdalene, to Tabitha, to Sandra Carolina, Leslie, Venus, Carrie, and all of the bold women you and I know and love—all these women have responded to the call of Jesus to care for our neighbors and our communities and our planet by whatever means we have available—doing what we can, with what we have, where we are.

In the Gospel reading for this morning, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice—I know them, and they follow me.” These bold women have heard the voice of Jesus.

And so in addition to celebrating Bold Women’s Day, the lectionary designates this as Good Shepherd Sunday. Our readings included the 23^rd Psalm, some of the most familiar words in the Christian tradition, as well as a little metaphor from Jesus about sheep. Good Shepherd Sunday is always a really fun learning experience about sheep. Since I don’t know any sheep, personally, each year, these texts remind me of our dear woolly friends and their contributions to our story.  

I learned this year that sheep have very poor eyesight—they struggle to see more than a few feet in front of them. Very easily, sheep can get separated from the herd and from the shepherd, just by wandering a short distance. We may not want to compare ourselves to the decidedly unglamorous sheep, but the truth is that we have more in common than we think.

How often do we struggle to see what’s right in front of our faces? How often do we wander off on a path we think is safe, only to find we’ve completely lost our way? How often, when we think we’re lost for good, do we just need a little nudge from a metaphorical sheepdog to find ourselves back where we belong? Jesus, our Good Shepherd, knows that we mean well. Knows that we do not intend to get lost.

And our Good Shepherd is so invested in each and every one of us, that when we do falter, he leaves the 99 to go in search of us, the missing one. I’m about as far from a sheep expert as it is possible to be, but it sounds to me like Jesus is an exceptional shepherd.

So, knowing this, we must take the hint. We must take this page out of Jesus’ book, quite literally, and be sure that we, as the body of Christ, are not forgetting about the one who is outside the fold. We, who hear the voice of Jesus, are called to pull all those who have fallen by the wayside, all those who our culture has forced to the margins, all those who our systems fail to support, all those who our own hearts often keep us from including—to not quietly nudge them back into the herd, but to lift them up onto our shoulders and celebrate them, that that which has been lost has been found again! That never again can they be snatched from the Father’s grasp.

We cannot be content to be safely among the herd, with no regard for those who have faded from our field of vision. We cannot be content to let those who are at great risk become lost. We cannot be content to feed only those who have made their way to our table—for God has set us a table in the presence of our enemies.

And we have spent much of this week in the presence of our enemies. The bombing of the Boston Marathon and the ensuing chaos and eventual manhunt do not call to mind the green pastures and cool water of the 23^rd psalm. There were explosions and gunfire and weaponry beyond our wildest imaginations. And yet in the midst of all of this darkness, there were human heroes—the first responders, law enforcement, and resilient residents of Boston have proven that terrorism does not have the final say.

The American people have been bloodied by the brutality of a few, but we as the people of God know that death, while very real, is not ultimate. The courage displayed by those who ran toward the explosions and into the firefights reminds us that the human spirit will not be crushed by fear. These heroes, in service to their neighbor, have inspired in all of us a boldness we did not know was lying dormant.

We are bold women, and we are bold sheep, and we are bold to proclaim that, like Tabitha, the power of the holy spirit has given us new life, and new life abundantly. Thanks be to God! Amen.