Jeremiah, Ministry, Narrative Lectionary, The Inner Landscape, Writing

Drink coffee where you’re planted

Feeling a little sorry for myself, I drove to the Starbucks in Camp Hill this morning to work where I wouldn’t be underfoot for the cleaning lady.

A mother and son sat down next to me, the mom an elegant, Middle Eastern woman with dark skin and long hair, an expensive though casual outfit, and a pair of unlikely and inelegant shoes – desert boots – which, along with her face, said sixty. The son was nice-looking, maybe 30ish, dressed in jeans and a windowpane-checked shirt with a lightweight quilted vest, and loafers without socks. They talked about a family business, a restaurant. He complained, mildly, that his mother compared his new girlfriend to his old girlfriend, “practically every day.” Her smart phone (cracked screen, fuschia case) sat on the table while she ate food she brought in with her, but they both drank coffee from those red holiday cups.

Wherever they came from, they’re here now. Their family owns a restaurant. They meet and drink coffee.

He goes back for a second cup, an Americano.

They are living fully where they are planted.

At Starbucks.
At Starbucks.

Part of my pity party revolves around my grown-up children. I miss them. They are living their lives in Brooklyn and Boulder and Northampton. I am living mine in South Central Pennsylvania. They are doing what I hoped, pursuing their interests and working hard to make the most of the gifts God gave them. The actor (Brooklyn) and the musician (Boulder), both craftsmen, audition and perform and take class and rehearse. The student (Northampton) shows us with each passing week that she is truly a scholar as the grades come in and all the things she feared weren’t good enough get an A-.

But what am I doing with myself?

I’m continuing to grieve the end of my work in the local church. Most of the time it’s okay. I understand the reasons it isn’t happening and may not again. There are other things I’m doing, but they don’t pay anything right now and they may not, ever. I find that hard. There is, after all, a daughter in college, and a younger child who will get there eventually. I sort of thought if God really wanted me to be doing particular work, it would end up paying, which would be great for practical reasons even though it’s not the ultimate mark of value.

In the midst of my pity party (Classic Coffee Cake and a Tall Mocha), I opened the text for this week and proceeded to be worked over by it.

Honestly, I expect this from the Revised Common Lectionary. We’ve been in relationship since the late 1980s. Inevitably, some portion of the various texts takes me by the shoulders and gives me a good shake. But it’s all new with the Narrative Lectionary. How can it know me so well?

Still there he is, Jeremiah, ready to take me for a ride around the block. Not only is he exhorting the Israelites to make a life in Babylon, he assures them that God has a plan for their future.


I am such a proficient mourner! By the waters of the Yellow Breeches I lay down and weep for Back Cove. I pine a little, anyway. Mostly I pine for a sense of identity and a place to go.

When Google Maps asked if Kathryn’s church was my “Work,” I admit to feeling a sense of despair. Instead, I typed in this Starbucks. (12 minutes from home, under average circumstances. Clearly, this is a first world pity party.)

Immigrant or exile, I admit I am struggling to carve out a new identity for myself and to get somewhere in the work I am doing.

“I know the plans I have in mind for you, declares the Lord; they are plans for peace, not disaster, to give you a future filled with hope. When you call me and come and pray to me, I will listen to you. When you search for me, yes, search for me with all your heart, you will find me.” (Jeremiah 29:11-13, Common English Bible)

I’m calling.

“Write your stories. Craft your prayers. Listen. Read. Turn the farm share into a nutritious and interesting dinner. Love your family. What’s next is next. For now, drink coffee where you’re planted.”

Jeremiah, Jeremiah 31:31-34, Lent 5B

By Heart

Dear Everyone Who Thinks God Never Changes,

I present to you Jeremiah 31:31-34.

The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. It will not be like the covenant that I made with their ancestors when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt–a covenant that they broke, though I was their husband, says the LORD. But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the LORD: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, “Know the LORD,” for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the LORD; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.

Oh, I suppose you could make the argument that God plans it that way all along, so God is unchanging.

But that’s tiresomely stubborn.

This God we worship is so clearly relational. And relationships work on us. Good relationships exalt us and inspire us and give us hope.

Even bad relationships work on us, teaching us to be more careful next time or to amend our ways or even to seek other seas.

And regular relationships, which is to say, the ones we work on because the love is mutual, have moments of both good and bad. And I would like to make the case that our relationship with God is the best kind of regular relationship, one that goes bad on both sides, sometimes, but that always has enough good to keep us coming back and to open us to be fuller, deeper, more loving, more forgiving and more conscious of where we tend to go wrong.

This God of Jeremiah 31 learned that laying down the law was not enough. The law must be learned by heart, become so much a part of us that we don’t have to use our heads to apprehend it.
It sounds so simple, but we have such highly developed shell casings around our hearts, we people. We don’t want to trust love. We are ambitious or anxious. We want to feel powerful. We convince ourselves that safety lies in weapons. We use them on other people, regardless of the law’s opinion.

I’m sick at heart about Trayvon Martin. I am thinking of his parents tonight, and of a better world in which the hard hearts of the fearful and the hateful and the plain ignorant are softened and opened and written on by God. I believe God is willing, has been willing to have that relationship with us. But we are still putting up barriers.

I have barriers of my own. They may not look like an SUV and a 9 millimeter weapon, but I have them. I’m praying they will drop, too, that I will be among those who know God, by heart.

I hope you will be, too.


Jeremiah, The Inner Landscape

Do not decrease

These are the words of the letter that the prophet Jeremiah sent from Jerusalem to the remaining elders among the exiles, and to the priests, the prophets, and all the people, whom Nebuchadnezzar had taken into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon.
Thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon:
Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce.
Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease.
But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. (Jeremiah 29:1, 4-7, NRSV)

I preached last Sunday about how coming to Maine to live felt like going into exile, so far away from my accustomed flora and seasons that it might as well have been Antarctica or Timbuktu or Caprica. 23 years later, the way the seasons change here is simply the way they change. I've given up grieving for the lovely early springs of my Virginia childhood and reconciled myself to mud season. I don't think there's any question I managed to bloom where God transplanted me. 

That's not to say everything has gone smoothly. At the moment, my personal life is rough and unsettled, at the same time I am experiencing the natural bumps and joggles of learning a new church family, its ways and its history and its needs and its expectations. It's not the first time in my life I've had a lot to handle, and I look back on those times and I am trying to remember what helped and what I lacked to remain upright, to keep breathing, to hold onto hope.  I remember how after the end of my first marriage I could not seem to organize myself to fix dinner, and how hard that made life with three children. Right now every meal I prepare, even one reheated and originally cooked by someone else, feels like an accomplishment.

7wonders-hanging_gardens_of_babylon Babylon, the city whose welfare God asked the exiled Israelites to seek, contained one of the seven wonders of the world, the Hanging Gardens. And it occurs to me that wonder matters because it reminds us that not everything is easily achieved or explained, and that's okay. Why are we here? What is our purpose? Maybe some days it's okay that our purpose simply be to gaze in awe at a beautiful sight in nature, or to ponder the effort put in by a master gardener. The act of wonder makes us right-sized, gives us perspective on our own place in the world and perhaps inspires us to create beauty at our own level.

I'm not that successful at planting gardens. A few years ago I put a lot of effort, with help from stronger arms and backs, into a bulb garden and a few perennials and shrubs in front of my house. I waited eagerly for spring and was rewarded, but the next two years, instead of naturalizing, the daffodils grew thinner and sadder. Earlier in the year, when I thought I might relocate, I put those flower beds on my mental list of failures. No point trying to fix it now, I thought. I'm just a failure at gardening.

But I'm staying, and when spring comes next year, I want to see more flowers. So today I asked a certified Master Gardener in my new congregation what he would suggest to a person who had a major Daffodil Fail in a place where yews and rhododendrons used to thrive?

Lime, he said. You need lots of lime. 

The soil retained too much acid. I suppose it burned the bulbs.

A Google search tells me that fall is the appropriate time to lime the soil. I can find instructions about what sort of lime to use and how to apply it. I'm sure the Israelites figured out the way to plant their gardens in the foreign land, to feed themselves and the families they not only brought with them but continued to make anew. I'll be doing the same, in a sense, seeking the way back to center, to balance, despite the burn I feel today, seeking the increase and not the decrease of love and faith and hope.

Jeremiah, Preaching, Writing

Back to It

This morning I meet with my preacher group again after a break of a few weeks. Although I preached only once a month at Y1P, we kept the group together. But now I need it! I'm way off a weekly preaching rhythm. I'm off a daily writing rhythm, too, which was the whole purpose of this blog. It's earliest posts are "365" posts, little writing exercises that go back to early 2007. Now I'm doing the online equivalent of Morning Pages at 750 Words. I've been at it for two weeks, and I have a streak going. It's a different sort of writing practice, not the the formulation of well-crafted thoughts and images but a dump of what's first in my mind. I know I'm better in touch with God and myself when I'm writing. I also know I've fallen into the world of Facebook and Twitter over the past year, writing tiny thoughts and not building them into bigger, fuller or deeper expression. 

When I looked ahead to this week's passages in the Revised Common Lectionary, I must admit I was not excited. It's mostly pretty tough stuff. But I'm going to try writing about it. In the old days, I wrote about the passages I wasn't preaching, one at a time, then wrote the sermon. Or something like that. I'll be trying to get into a practice again here. But when I read Jeremiah this morning, I knew it wouldn't be easy. 

It starts well enough:

The word that came to Jeremiah from the LORD: "Come, go down to the potter's house, and there I will let you hear my words."

So I went down to the potter's house, and there he was working at his wheel. The vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter's hand, and he reworked it into another vessel, as seemed good to him.

Then the word of the LORD came to me: Can I not do with you, O house of Israel, just as this potter has done? says the LORD. Just like the clay in the potter's hand, so are you in my hand, O house of Israel. (Jeremiah 18:1-6, NRSV)

Nice. I like it. Even when we're messed up, God can still fix us. Full of preaching goodness, right?

But wait. God's just getting started.

At one moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom, that I will pluck up and break down and destroy it, but if that nation, concerning which I have spoken, turns from its evil, I will change my mind about the disaster that I intended to bring on it. (Jeremiah 18:7-8)

That part sounds good, sort of. I mean, even though our badness may make God angry, we still stand a chance, right? God can change God's mind.

But hang on:

And at another moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom that I will build and plant it, but if it does evil in my sight, not listening to my voice, then I will change my mind about the good that I had intended to do to it. (Jeremiah 18:9-10)

Oh. So it cuts both ways.

Qumram pottery  
Now, therefore, say to the people of Judah and the inhabitants of Jerusalem: Thus says the LORD: Look, I am a potter shaping evil against you and devising a plan against you. Turn now, all of you from your evil way, and amend your ways and your doings.
(Jeremiah 18:11)

I have to tell you, I am not going to stand up in my new pulpit on the first Sunday and say, people of North Yarmouth and inhabitants of the general neighborhood, God is a potter shaping evil against you and devising a plan against you. 

There's been enough of people telling other people they are going to smash. We're so quick to condemn each other and use scripture to support it. We see it in the way people attack Islam, and particularly in the outcry about a Muslim congregation already worshiping in the neighborhood of Ground Zero and wanting to be in a space that feels more permanent than a shuttered Burlington Coat Factory.  We see it in the way people attack other Americans when they disagree politically, using charged words such as "honor" to suggest that those who disagree have none.

This dear church has been challenged by people with a different theological stance who think that the UCC's openness is really a signal of the departure of the Spirit from the people's lives. I disagree, heartily. 

And I despise the way such texts are taken out of context. Take verse 11 and preach it to upset people. Go on ahead. Maybe you think you serve a church full of evil, crafty sinners. 

(Be sure you include yourself in the indictment, if so.)

But remember that people are using the same text to condemn you because you think differently, twisting the words of the prophet intended for a particular people in a particular time and place, putting the decline of the mainline down to the ordination of women or gay marriage or the feminization of church or the wrong interpretation of scripture, ignoring that it's happening everywhere and probably has as much to do with soccer on Sunday mornings as anything else.

Remember that people will believe what you say if you describe a God acting so directly, people who will take the words personally and maybe even literally, who will hear them and remember the things in their lives that have seemed misshapen and wonder why God wouldn't take the time to work with them and help them find their shape again. 

It's a beautiful metaphor, but it is incomplete. We are not simply clay. And God is more than a potter. We can't stop there. God creates us and we have freedom and agency and vibrancy and yes, we make the most awful choices sometimes, don't we?

All of us? 

Well, I do. Sometimes. 

But I don't believe that God is taking the time to destroy us, one by one, for failing. The Good News is a more complete picture than just the potter.

And so, I move on! More tomorrow.


You can find the image here; many thanks to Vanderbilt's Lectionary site for art resources!

I also want to commend to you Carmen Andres' post about God's wrath, at In the Open Space.


Jeremiah, or Why Did I Miss That Lecture?

Jeremiah Jeremiah, who was not a bullfrog, is also not a good friend of mine. In Greg Mobley's wonderful survey of the Latter Prophets at Andover Newton, Jeremiah was the week I missed. The reason for missing the Jeremiah lecture is outside my memory now. With three children at home, it's amazing I got to as many classes as I did in seminary. 

It's still true, even though I have only one, not-so-young child at home, that my life revolves around other people. Though on a day-to-day basis it may not feel that way to them. 

As I try to get back into writing about the lectionary in this New Year, after a break for vacation and the usual difficulty re-establishing a routine, I find myself confronted with the unknown Bullfrog himself.

Now the word of the LORD came to me saying, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations."

Then I said, "Ah, Lord GOD! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy."

But the LORD said to me, "Do not say, 'I am only a boy'; for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you, Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you, says the LORD."

Then the LORD put out his hand and touched my mouth; and the LORD said to me, "Now I have put my words in your mouth. See, today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant." (Jeremiah 1:4-10, NRSV)

I just moved all the files from the collective household desktop to my laptop, because the day is coming, and soon, when we need to replace said desktop, the centerpoint of our network, the computer actually plugged into the printer, which sometimes acknowledges our wireless and sometimes does not. I opened the folder for that class on the Latter Prophets. Surely someone in the class loaned me the notes for that day; I remember someone did. But a thorough search reminds me that they were photocopied, not electronic, and they are long gone, I'm sure. 

That's how much my life has changed, our lives have changed, since my last semester at Andover Newton, 8 years ago. 

So I don't know what Greg Mobley said about Jeremiah. I have to get to know him again all by myself. He's on my mind because the planning group for our Conference Annual Meeting chose a theme passage from Jeremiah, the one about God knowing the plans God has for Israel, and of course that is the same theme as the one here. God has things in mind; God has a sense of what lies ahead.

I, for one, wish there were a way to be surer just what those plans and things are.

Jeremiah, Knit Without Ceasing


Thinking about Proper 25B

My neighbor is having a baby. Last night I thought she might be quite literally having it, and when Sam woke me in the middle of the night to go outside I checked to see if there were updates on Facebook. That's the world in which we live. (No baby as of this moment.)

The other day I saw her driving her car and I remembered that due to my general shortness, I reached a point in each pregnancy where I had to put the seat back so far that I could no longer reach the gas pedal or the brake. I became a foot-only traveler, awkward and over-filled. The first time I remember being driven to work–I think I worked until two days before–and moving carefully, as if I were carrying an unexploded bomb. The second time I couldn't go anywhere without setting off Braxton-Hicks contractions and my blood pressure, normally 90 over 60, rose to some other ridiculously low level, but I felt like the top of my head was going to come off, and the doctor suggested I cut my half-time work hours to quarter-time. The third time, as a first-year seminarian, I had heartburn right up to my ears and a growing dependence on cherry-vanilla Maalox, and I felt fortunate that the non-driving portion of the pregnancy came after the end of the school year.

I couldn't get around much.

For thus says the LORD: Sing aloud with gladness for Jacob, and
raise shouts for the chief of the nations; proclaim, give praise, and
say, "Save, O LORD, your people, the remnant of Israel." See, I am
going to bring them from the land of the north, and gather them from
the farthest parts of the earth, among them the blind and the lame,
those with child and those in labor, together; a great company, they
shall return here. With weeping they shall come, and with consolations
I will lead them back, I will let them walk by brooks of water, in a
straight path in which they shall not stumble; for I have become a
father to Israel, and Ephraim is my firstborn.
(Jeremiah 31:7-9, NRSV)

I remember feeling vaguely abashed after the unnecessary trip to the hospital with Snowman. A week later he arrived, convincingly, the rush of water coming just as we entered the birthing room, the contractions hard and sharp, like being thrown through the giant window across from the bed, then snapped back to reality.

Really, I couldn't have gone anywhere.

There are so many ways we may feel lame or blind or in labor or with child, uninspired or without a vision or working through things and not able to act just yet, not finished producing what feels so important, waiting for one more conclusion or one more affirmation. 

Are you in the middle of something, wondering how to get to the next stop on the journey, wondering if you can even sling your pack on your back to go?

Now Facebook tells me that my neighbor has gone to playgroup with her daughter and will try to have a normal day.

Yesterday I gave her a present, the Log Cabin style blanket that was my happy knitting project for much of the summer. In a brown paper shopping bag I have all the leftovers of the yarn. At the time I had some plans for them, but I didn't know until I finished how much would remain. These remnants of washable cotton will not make a blanket, but taken together, they will make something; they will create a whole. I can't see what yet–a doll blanket? a washcloth?

In my twenties and thirties, when my children were little, I felt like those ends, like the majority of me had gone into making those children and nurturing them, and I wondered what could be made of what was left of me. Every time I moved out into the world, children yanked me back again. (Perhaps this is sacrilegious talk for a mother.) It may sound funny to group expectant mothers with the disabled, but only the most Amazonian among us would not understand how it feels to carry the weight of another person, to carry the hopes and the fears, to carry the love and the questions.  

And at 48, I am still hopeful of seeing what sort of whole can be made with my remnants.