Give Us Oil For Our Lamps

Pentecost 24, Year A

Matthew 25:1-13

Today’s gospel makes me think about Hanukkah. You might be wondering, “Why Hanukkah? That’s not our holiday as Christians. What does that have to do with anything?"

You’re right. Hanukkah isn’t our holiday. It’s specifically not our holiday, but the holiday honors the work of the same God we worship. Thus, it’s worth considering for a moment. 

 

The Festival of Lights, or Hanukkah, commemorates a miracle of God’s providence. I’m going to give you an unbelievably abbreviated story of the holiday. Alexander the Great spread, via his militaries, a Greek influence and Greek rule over most of the Mediterranean, until he died in 323 BCE. 

 

After his death, Judea (the area of our concern) was ruled by the Ptolemies- Greek-influenced rules from Egypt until 200. At that point, a Syrian king defeated the Egyptian rule and Judea became part of the Syrian empire. (Still with me?) This went okay for about 25 years until the Syrian ruler- Antiochus IV Epiphanes got into a dispute with the leadership of the Temple in Jerusalem. Long story less long, because of internal political divisions in Jerusalem and the pressures on the distant Syrian rules, Antiochus IV went into Judea, wreaked havoc, killed many people, and desecrated the Temple. In doing so, the Temple was out of commission for worship and daily sacrifice for more than 3 years. This means the Jewish people in the area were cut off from their worship rites and consolations for that amount of time. 

 

(If you’re tempted to dismiss that as inconsequential, I invite you to remember how you felt when we were unable to worship in the sanctuary for some amount of time in 2020.) 

 

Under Antiochus IV’s rule, Judaism was outlawed and a large statue of Zeus was erected in the Temple. This was too much for many of the Jewish people in the community and so a large-scale revolt began in 167 BCE. A man named Matthias, along with his five sons, led the revolt. It was his youngest son, Judah Maccabee (aka Judah the Hammer), who completed the effort in 164 BCE and drove the Syrian leaders out of Jerusalem and Judea. 

 

With that victory, the Temple needed to be cleansed and rededicated so that worship could be again. This not only required the physical clean-up but also the ceremonial aspects of recommitting the space to the service and worship of God. Part of that rededication was the required lighting of certain lamps for 8 days. Within the temple, they only found one day’s worth of pure and still consecrated olive oil- in its original jug, sealed with the wax and mark of the High Priest. 

 

They needed a whole week to press and clarify more olive oil, but they decided to at least light what they had as a demonstration of their intention. The miracle of Hanukkah is that the oil lasted 8 days- long enough for them to obtain and consecrate additional oil so that the people’s work in the Temple could begin again and continue. The provision of the oil for longer than expected during this time of rededication was perceived to be a blessing of God’s providence and favor. Commemoration of the miracle during the rededication became a minor festival in Judaism from that time forward, observed in homes with the lighting of candles 8 days in a row at a given time in the Jewish calendar. 

 

If you’re still with me, thank you. If you left off, come back… I’m about to make my connections! 

 

We know by way of notes from rabbinical schools around the time of Jesus’ birth that Hanukkah was being observed. This means that Jesus knew the story of Hanukkah and so did his disciples. It means all his Jewish followers knew the story. It means Mark, Luke, John, and Matthew knew the story. 

 

Which brings me to my question about today’s gospel: if we say that the gospel of Matthew was written between, say, 73-83 AD/CE, how did people go from believing God would provide enough oil in an emergency to believing it was a personal failure not to have enough? 

 

In slightly over 200 years, we go from believing God provided for the community and sustained their needs, to panicking that if we, personally, were not prepared- then it was all over and we were shut out. The Hanukkah story is not our story, but it is a story about our God. 

 

How does a God of provision, mercy, and hope become the bridegroom who locks out the people who didn’t cover their own behinds by having extra oil? 

 

It happens through the loss of hope. By the time Matthew is writing, at least 40 years after Jesus’s ministry and resurrection, two or three generations of believers have come and gone. People who earnestly believed in Christ’s imminent return started to think the stories might have been exaggerated. Children who had heard the stories from their parents and inherited their hope, buried their parents and grandparents without seeing the fulfillment of the promises. 

 

As hope wanes, complacency sets in. People look to other sources for strength and survival. When hope fades, so does care for the community. After all, why should I be bothered to care about you and your needs, when I’ve got my own and your problems have nothing to do with mine? 

 

It is worth noting that in today’s parable, all the waiting bridesmaids fell asleep. Not just the foolish ones, they all (wise and foolish together) became exhausted with the waiting and dozed off. When they were awakened by the shout, the lamps were out, having burned out while they slept. Some of the women had brought extra supplies and relit their lamps. Some didn’t have extra supplies and they panicked, “We’re not ready!” Their friends sent them running to the oil dealers and while they went, the bridegroom came. 

 

Here's the problem with that: maybe you can’t share oil, but you can share light. 

 

Maybe you can’t share oil, but you can share light.

 

People who remembered the miracle of Hanukkah and God’s provision, it seems to me, would have been likely to say, “Let’s walk together. It might not be quite as bright, but we have enough lamps to welcome the groom.” 

 

Instead, there was panic, hoarding of resources, loss of hope, and then the hyperbolic end to the parable where some people were left in the dark. Left in the dark by the one we allegorize to be the same one who made one day of oil last for 8 days. 

 

I cannot rescue this parable from its terrifying conclusion, but I can give it context. This parable is coming right in a chapter of warning before the story of Christ’s passion. It’s coming right behind many warnings about being prepared for the struggle that will come to believers in the world- mainly to Jewish and Gentile followers of Christ in a territory occupied by Rome. 

 

It is a story about keeping faith and keeping the faith. The early hearers of this story knew they were called into discipleship community- a way of sharing hope together, lest any fall away in despair because Jesus tarried. 

 

We are called into the same type of life- living together, sharing light, waiting in the same dark, refusing to hoard power or resources, and trusting in God’s provision. That trust is not a blind refusal to do anything for ourselves, but an active way of watching for divine provision and sharing it with others. 

 

The Hanukkah story is not our story, but it is a story about our God. 

 

Our hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness. That blood, that righteousness, that redemptive love is of the same substance and being as the provision of oil for the Temple lamps, as the keeping of promises to Abram and Sarah, as to forgiveness to David for his sins, as the annunciation to Mary of Nazareth and the inspiration for her canticle of turning. 

 

When we say that God is the same- yesterday, today, and forever- then it means we have hope, confidence in things unseen, that God provided, provides, and will provide. This provision may occasionally be evidenced by individual blessings, but the overarching story of God is blessing and supply for the community. In this way, hope is shared. Light is shared. Mercy is shared. 

 

God grants all we need. God pours forth more than enough. Our cups runneth over. Surely the goodness and mercy that follows us all our days stirs up enough hope that we could share with our neighbor- in word and deed, in church and in the world- so that everyone has enough light to walk together to meet the future. 

 

The Hanukkah story is not our story, but it is a story about our God. 

 

A God who provides. More than enough. For everyone. 

 

Amen. 

I am not afraid. I am heartbroken.

I live in Montana, a state with a very low number of diagnosed COVID-19 cases. Even more specifically, my county has not as yet had any cases. This passover is both a blessing and a curse because it divides the community, with some of our citizens feeling as though we have been spared because we have been careful and others suspecting that our precautions were "sound and fury, signifying nothing". (Macbeth)

Now we have the ever-present questions about what we can do, what we should do, and from what should we abstain. In the conversations around masks, distance, and open v. close, the word "fear" gets bandied about. It is murmured that people who are cautious are "fearful" or being led by fear, as opposed to faithfulness or freedom.

I cannot speak for everyone, but I can speak for myself. As a mother, as a wife, as a sister, as a friend, as a pastor, as a neighbor, as a daughter, as a citizen, I am not afraid. I am heartbroken.

My heart broke when I posted a sign in March, closing the church to the public and to in-person worship. Praying for those who depended on the building for 12-step help, a source of community, and actual sanctuary, I ached and I grieve.

Another fissure came through weeks of preaching without seeing faces, feeling the energy in the room, or hearing singing other than my own. Learning that singing may be off the table for awhile brought tears and sorrow too deep even for sighs. Remembering our harmonies between the Yellowstone and the Boulder, I hung up my harp. I ached and I grieve.

The experience of Holy Communion brings heart wholeness through Christ's presence in the elements and in the community as we eat, drink, and breathe together. In our present fast from the physical sacrament, the pieces of my heart vibrate with longing. Making the decision for the fast was right for our community, but I ached and I grieve.

This past week, I denied a person a hug because I had permitted a person outside my family to hug me the day before. In embracing one another, I also embraced a waiting period to be sure I neither caught nor transmitted anything but love and compassion. To be physically present to one meant denying another. For the same reason, I am continuing to only eat takeout from local restaurant and not to sit inside. In the waiting, I ached and I grieve.

A friend of mine, another pastor, talked with her community about the fact that continuing to worship virtually permitted the pastors of the church to be present- with masks and other precautions- to the sick and dying of the church. When a pastor hasn't been exposed to 50, 60, 90, 150 people on a Sunday, he can more easily go to a bedside or home because it is a more calculated risk for himself and the person he is visiting. This isn't the case in all places right now, but it is for this church and the pastors in question. In choosing the needs of the few for the sake of spiritual care, I am hoping not to drive away the many. For the whole church, I ached and I grieve.

I have offered commendation of the dying over the phone. Heartbreak. I have watched divisions and harsh words in online spaces and in-person conversations. Heartbreak. I have stood on steps and talked across the porch to people who are bored, lonely, and worried. Heartbreak. I have wept over whether I am currently an effective pastor to the 13 people with no internet connection at all. Heartbreak. I have seen an increase in our church's attendance online and wondered how we may be true community to those who are experiencing church in a helpful way for the first time. Heartache.

Recommendations about how to space people in pews, skipping coffee hour, and how to encourage masks in church are difficult to decipher and painful to consider.

Worry about people whose marriages were struggling, children and teens who need structure for their mental well-being, seniors who live alone and receive little information or communication- these things fill my mind.

Navigating tense political, emotional, and social conversations is a tightrope that I balance across, Bible in hand, not because I want to be liked, but because I want the relationship to remain open for the sake of Christ in both of us.

This is the truth, but not all of it. All of it would be too much to write and too much to read.

One final truth, though, I am not afraid of re-opening because of COVID-19 or because I am "cowed" by rules and regulations.

I am afraid my heart and my spirit cannot take it if someone or several someones became sick at church.

I am afraid my heart and my spirit cannot take it if we resume in-person worship, which means I am unable to visit the most vulnerable, even on their porch.

I am afraid my heart and my spirit cannot take resuming worship only to refrain from Holy Communion, sharing the peace, corporate speaking, and group singing.

I am afraid my heart and my spirit cannot taken it if I have to do more funerals, by interment only, and mourn apart from the consolation of being physically together.

So, yes, I am afraid. I am afraid not of the virus, but of more unending, bone-deep wearying heartbreak.

Some of these things will not be avoidable. They will likely come because this will be a long journey. But you can carry the baton for your pastor (and your neighbor) a little way if you understand and respect that they are not afraid. They are heartbroken.

Resurrection of the Body

Luke 6:27-38
1 Corinthians 15:35-50
Seventh Sunday after Epiphany, Year C

Memories can be faulty, but yet this one feels clear to me. There we were, a group of students from
Yale Divinity School, gathered for the smaller section portion of our New Testament class. One student, after permission from the section leader, asked us all, "Do you actually believe in the resurrection of the body?"

The room, long and narrow, was very quiet as we all looked around at each other. Slowly, I raised my hand and said, "I do." There was incredulity all around, with some people unsure of how to put their own beliefs into words. Clarification was sought- did the questioner mean the body of Jesus or our own bodies? He meant both, but more the latter.

Wherever the conversation went, I maintained my affirmation, my credo. Of all the things in the Apostle's Creed that might be difficult for me, belief in the resurrection of the body as a real, not metaphorical, promise of God is not one of them. I can believe it for two reasons: first, I believe God loves bodies and, second, I believe Divine love is more expansive (and mysterious) than we can comprehend.

In Paul's letter to the Corinthians, which we have been examining for six weeks, this is the climax of his argument. He has brought them through some of their disagreements to remind them to be a community, functioning together the way that a body does. He reminds them that love is the hallmark of a community that finds identity in Christ. He teaches them that Jesus appears to all kinds of people and the Spirit gives each person their own gifts and their own vocation for the sake of the community.

He builds, then, to explain the great power of the Incarnation- God taking on flesh. Since Jesus had a real body, then the realities of salvation are tangible and true for this life- not just for someday when we "fly away". Now, in these last verses, Paul is pressing his ultimate point to the Corinthians who are trying to live in the Way of Jesus.

Granted, Paul's not terribly gentle as he roars up to his point. Fools, he calls, the Corinthians as he repeats the kinds of questions he has been asked about life after death. He is dismissive not because he doesn't have compassion, but because their questions miss the point.

The Corinthians don't have long life expectancies. There's high infant mortality and maternal mortality as well. There are wars, plagues, illnesses, and issues that come from the type of hygiene that existed and was embraced. Bodies felt frail and limited. Surely, eternal life would bring a sweet release from the aches and pangs of the bodies that they had known in this life. Certainly, God wouldn't make them shuffle on forever with the scars, wounds, defects, and deformities that they had struggled with in this existence.

For the Corinthians, like us, being rid of the body wasn't necessarily a rejection of Jesus's resurrection or God's promises. It was both hope for something better and a failure of imagination. Paul is trying to break into that failure pointing out that God does not give us something that we are not meant to have. This is not the same as saying whatever happens to us is God's will. That is not true, because free will means that we may make choices or be affected by the choices of others that are not what God wanted for us.

However, if we look at what we have- materially and spiritually, we have received grace upon grace. In that outpouring of grace, Paul is saying, we have real, genuine, tangible, bodies. Yes, they may hurt or fall short or not be the shape of our dreams, but our bodies are gifts from God. And if God gives us a gift, it is meant to be loved, spoken well of, and not discarded. Paul argues that if God gives us a body, it's probably a forever gift- just like grace, mercy, and love.

The sustaining of the forever gift of the body is a mystery, not to be solved in this life. It is meant to be enjoyed and, furthermore, put to good use for all the things that Paul has mentioned in the other 14 chapters of the book. It means nothing to form a community, to care for others, to show love, to live into vocation if it is just done metaphorically or mentally. The only way we can truly form a community of love is by actually caring for other people by doing for them. And doing things requires a body. Even prayer requires our brains, all the systems that feed and care for the brain, and the rest of our body to carry out the actions of the prayer. There is no purely spiritual activity. Anything that we do for God, compelled by the Spirit, will require our body if we are actually going to live into it.

And if our body is what God gifts us for this world, then we will have a body of some kind- a real, tangible, useful body- for the work of the life to come.

In a side note to this point, related more to the Luke reading than 1 Corinthians, when the gospel writer says, “Bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you”- it is notan indication that God expects us to endure abuse- to our bodies, our minds, or our spirits- as a regular occurrence. In the context of the whole reading, the sermon on the plain, it is to be noted that abuse may occur while one is living out the realities of being Christian. One may be called names for standing up for the marginalized or have rocks thrown at them (literally) while working on behalf of the poor. This is where Jesus’ words apply, we don’t fight back in those circumstances because it would take energy away from the good we were doing. Daily abuse, however, in a family, work, or romantic context- the kind that wears away at our bodies and our will, not to mention our ability to do good- this is not something that God causes as a test for us or means for us to endure. On-going trauma to our bodies is not God’s plan or will. Why? Because it is not in line with the reality that God has gifted us our bodies and loves them. 

That is why I believe in the resurrection of the body. God must love bodies because God made them. Through generation after generation, eon after eon, God has sustained the bodies of animals, the corporeal form of plants, the solidity of rocks, and the fragile flesh of humanity. After speaking through fire, whirlwind, flood, and even stillness, God finally chose to take on the human form- embracing the body as the most beloved part of creation. Bodies bring other bodies into the world, show compassion, reveal passion, and devote care at the end of all things. God loves bodies. And, I believe, God does not destroy what God loves.

My second reason for believing in the resurrection of the body is this: Divine love is more expansive (and mysterious) than we can comprehend. Western Christians, especially Americans, often try to make the world into neat categories. We want black or white, cat or dog, apple or orange, male or female, Grizzlies or Bobcats, John Deere or International Harvester, downhill or cross-country, regular or decaf.

And, yes, sometimes there are only two choices. But more often than not, there's a third way. And a fourth way, a fifth, a sixth, and so much more. We have salt water and fresh water, but there are also marshes and estuaries when both kinds of water mix. Life in estuaries exists in that place for the health of both the fresh and saltwater systems. The things that live in estuaries exist in a third way, with their bodies.

Mountains and plains are both amazing and necessary, but mesas, canyons, dry riverbeds, deserts, and jungles also serve purposes for creation. We cannot simply limit the landscape to our favorite, because there are life forms beyond our knowing that live in all kinds of terrain- and their existence may make ours possible in an inter-relational way. We need their bodies and they may need our care.

God who made otters, beavers, and ducks- all who have their own purposes- also made the platypus- a venomous duck-billed, beaver-tailed, otter-bodied egg-laying mammal that intrigues, terrifies, and delights. Apparently, God even likes to mix categories.

My point is that God's majesty and mystery, God's power and might, God's love and mercy are so much higher, deeper, and broader than we can imagine. We attempt to limit God's expanse to what we understand, but instead, God's call beckons us to let go of the illusion of control and instead say, "Isn't this amazing."

When we do that with the concept of the resurrection of the body, we come to the same place as Paul. We have a body now that may end and there we will someday have a concrete form that will not end. We have spiritual gifts from God and the gift of our bodies for the sake of the world. We have brokenness now and we will have restoration, in this life and in the life to come. We have knowledge and strength and we have confusion and questions.

We ourselves are marshes, mixing salt and fresh, trust and doubt, physical and spiritual gifts and blessing. We are marshes, combining the real presence and the felt absence of living in the imitation of Christ. We are marshes, working for healing, renewing, and refreshing the world with our God-given gifts.

Yes, I believe in the resurrection of the body.

I believe in it because Jesus' body was resurrected as a demonstration of God's power and God's love.

I believe it because the Spirit helps me and the Bible tells me so.

I believe it because God's revelation since the beginning of all things shows a love for the real and the concrete, particularly bodies.

I believe it because God is bigger than what I know and what I can imagine.

I believe in the resurrection of the body, from the tomb, from the pains of this life, and in the life of the world to come.

Amen.

Revelation Read-Along: Day 13

Reading: Revelation 11:1-14

Advent Theme: Witness

I grew up in a Christian denomination that was focused on the conversion experience. The re-orientation of one’s heart toward Christ was the perceived moment of salvation. I serve, as a pastor, in a denomination that teaches that salvation is complete through God’s own work and that our responsiveness to that work is the life of faith. The “moment of decision” happens every day, multiple times, when we make the choices that indicate a life lived in imitation of Christ, serving others and the world that God made.

That being said, Western Christianity has shifted in the past centuries to make faith an intellectual pursuit, an issue of correct thinking and understanding. If there is anything that John the Revelator is trying to make clear, it is that the life of faith is not about mental comprehension, but about physical and spiritual witness to the Lamb (Christ) and against the beast (Rome).

Those whose words and deeds bear witness to Christ’s power and might may be martyred. They may die an ignominious death at the hands of rebellious and oppressive people, who are angry, envious, or simply depraved. Be that as it may, the ones who believe cannot allow their witness to falter.

As the imagery becomes complicated, pull back from the details. Look at the whole forest, not the individual trees. John has planted a grove of images that are meant to bear the fruit of faithful behavior in Christian community- mutual love, care for the outcasts, and worship of the one true God. Do you feel like you already read these points before? You did. Apocalyptic texts are repetitive because they are trying to send a clear message. John does not deviate from the form.

Potential takeaways: Even when things are confusing or busy, faithful living happens in all of our daily choices. What would Jesus have me do- in the store, at work, with my family, relaxing, or as a citizen? We all have work to do for God’s kingdom. Are we doing it? 

Dear God, what is the work that You would have me do? Guide me in stillness, that I may perceive Your voice, understand Your directions, and work toward Your perfect will. Amen. 

Sharper Image (Thoughts on Sanctification)

I've had this image floating around in my head and in my social media feeds for more than a week.

I even wrote a prayer around it here.

Lutherans famously are "weak on sanctification". I even have one colleague who had a t-shirt to that effect in seminary. I cringe.

The most significant theological aspect of Lutheran theology is justification. This "being made right with God by God's own work and not our own" is the whole basement of our belief system, built with the cornerstone of Jesus the Christ.

Lutheran theologian Gerhard Forde said here (in a really good article that I recommend!),

Sanctification, if it is to be spoken of as something other than justification is perhaps best defined as the art of getting used to the unconditional justification wrought by the grace of God for Jesus’ sake. It is what happens when we are grasped by the fact that God alone justifies. It is being made holy, and as such, it is not our work. It is the work of the Spirit who is called Holy. The fact that it is not our work puts the old Adam/Eve (our old self) to death and calls forth a new being in Christ. It is being saved from the sickness unto death and being called to new life…Sanctification is thus simply the art of getting used to justification. It is not something added to justification. It is not the final defense against a justification too liberally granted. It is the justified life. It is what happens when the old being comes up against the end of its self-justifying and self-gratifying ways, however pious. It is life lived in anticipation of the resurrection.

It takes nerves of steel to want to contradict or add to what Forde says because his pen was certainly often, if not always, guided by the Holy Spirit. Yet, I do think there is something not fully formed in this thought. Justification can be complete, through Jesus Christ, and we can be fully saved AND simul justus and peccator (simultaneously saint and sinner) AND still have growth in our life of faith and in our discipleship.

Sanctification does not have to be seen a completion of anything God has done, but instead the Spirit's on-going ordering of our internal chaos (as in the beginning of creation), so that we may more fully become the people God has made us to be.

Martin Luther himself understood that even when justification was complete (as it has been since the day of resurrection), we are still on a journey. He wrote in the snappily titled "An Argument- In Defense of All the Articles By Dr. Martin Luther Wrongly Condemned by the Roman Bull..."

This life, therefore, is not righteousness but growth in righteousness,
not health but healing,
not being but becoming,
not rest but exercise;
we are not yet what we shall be,
but we are growing toward it;
the process is not yet finished, but it is going on;
this is not the end, but it is the road;
all does not yet gleam with glory, but all is being purified. 
 

That sounds like sanctification to me- gleaming with the grace and power of Christ and yet becoming stronger in faith and discipleship, through the Spirit's power, day by day. Additionally, an enormous aspect of understanding the purpose of justification is that, through Christ's work, we have been freed so that we might more fully and purposefully love and serve our neighbors. It seems to me, then, that sanctification is, in part, coming to understand that our neighbors too have been justified by Christ.

It is one thing to believe that I have been made right with God. It is quite another to trust that the person whose motives I question, whose actions I despise, whose being I slander, has also been made right with God by the very same Jesus who has saved me! Surely we are all being moved along in our understanding of this.

Lastly, I think of Paul's words to the Philippians- his happy letter- wherein he is offering encouragement and words of promise to people whom he loved in Jesus.

I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, because of your sharing in the gospel from the first day until now. I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ. -Philippians 1:3-6

Now, it is possible to say that this is a comment to a group of Christians, not about individual growth in righteousness, but I believe that kind of theological hair-splitting isn't necessary. Clearly, God's work in and among Christians is never completed, aside from their salvation, and we are constantly being shaped, molded, reformed, restored, stretched, compelled, halted, and burnished for the sake of Christ in the world. We must take this work on God's part seriously and take our own selves less seriously. None of us is presently so good that God's work in us is done.

What's the TL:DR (too long: didn't read)here? Sanctification is a real thing. It matters for our faith and it is apart from justification. Sanctification remains God's work in us, yet we are called and empowered by the Holy Spirit to take part in it, to perceive it, to celebrate it, and to know that God remains at work in us- from the beginning to the end.

Both Sides Now

For over ten years, I unlocked this door to go to work. Not always the first person in the building, but usually. Not always the last person in the building, but usually. I unlocked this door to run in and grab my communion kit, a Bible, or an address. I unlocked the door to get ready for a funeral, for a wedding, for the 18th Sunday after Pentecost. I unlocked the door to come into God's House and I locked it behind me to go out into God's World. 

I accepted a call to serve a new congregation, which meant leaving my keys for the maroon and glass door behind. From what I learned on both sides of that door, I have come to a new place to serve new people, but the same God. For the first time the other day, I unlocked a new door. Eventually, I will unlock it for all the same reasons and then some new ones. 

Mostly, I think about how God remains the same. I do believe that God's character is immutable, but I also believe that God's actions, throughout history, happen in spite of and despite the actions of people. I think that the Divine Three in One has, on occasion, had to change course due to the reality of human self-centeredness, stubbornness, and desire for control. Even in the course change, God's own heart remains merciful, loving, and compassionate- even in correction. 

So, there are new doors, new faces, and new lessons. And I still love what we've left behind. 

But life is made in the little motions of daily living. The habits. The paths. The words. The keys, the doors, what we unlocked and hold open. What we lock and hold closed. 

And, in all of this, God remains on both sides of all doors. 

When Sad Feels Like Mad

I am in the middle of a big life transition. There are many, many, many feelings associated with any
kind transition. Change is hard. The change- a big move- also affects my children and my spouse (and the dog, though he doesn't know it yet). It also affects many other people- adults and children.

Most people experience a variety of feelings in the midst of change. While a change can have many positive aspects, it is also a kind of death. What was is passing away and what will be is being birthed.

In reflecting on Western, white culture, my experience is that we do not give either much space or much credence to feelings. Since they cannot be seen or proven, they are treated as suspect. Additionally, as our cultural language has tried to make space for people to identify their experiences and associated feelings, we have perpetuated a value system wherein the validity of one's feelings are ranked depending on one's level of cultural power.

While it is possible to prove the exceptions to the rule, it still holds. For example, resources for addiction and for families of addicts are significantly on the rise in the past three years in concert with the growing opioid epidemic. The present crisis is real and horrifying. Nevertheless, it is also true that there have been other addiction crises in the past thirty years. For the most part, however, Americans were happily willing to criminalize addiction when it affected black communities or other people of color. It has only been when the pain (feelings are) is acute and broad in white America that we have chosen to view the problem of addiction as a crisis, not (only) a crime.

Since we tend not have the vocabulary or the willingness to talk about our feelings, we often cannot identify them. In a hyper-individualized society, with very few community spaces, we don't talk openly about grief, about physical pain, about mental health, about familial hurt, and a whole host of other issues. In some circles, the five stages of death from Elisabeth Kübler-Ross have been made into grief totems- denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. We rarely note, however, that there is no guaranteed order of the stages, no universal experience, and some of the stages may never come.

All of this is to say that we don't always know or have the skill to express what SAD feels like. Sadness, in its myriad colors and shapes, gets shoved into space we have made for other feelings and emotions. We try to force happiness or a muted acceptance. We reach for ignoring (denial) or go straight to future-tripping, pretending the present messiness does not exist.

Then there is one expression of sadness that I am beginning to realize has a broad cultural shape and effect. Sometimes sad looks and feels like mad. If we are ill-equipped to deal with the griefs of change and the little deaths that happen culturally and communally, we will resist them. The shape of resistance often looks like anger. Anger is activating, assertive, and makes change feel possible. In the midst of mad, we often don't care about who or what we hurt.

In pain, we howl, lash out, seek to reorder the status quo (which likely benefitted us), and deny the feelings of others. Anger expands and takes up space where patience, gentleness, and self-control might live. The wake of anger, additional pain, loss, and sadness are created. Anger, if it is not broken down into its component fellow travelers, self-perpetuates and wounds without end.

We can only come to grips with our feelings when we give them their true identities. We have to have the maturity, the will, and the social vocabulary to say, "I am sad", "This hurts", "I don't like this", "I don't know what to do or think", "I feel uncertain", and "I am tired" (among other realities).

In Western, white America, we are dealing with significant cultural shifting. There is much anger as power dynamics have moved. Societally, because we are ill-equipped for a life of grief, we are not able to understand and process when sad feels like mad. Thus, we see many activated people- moving out of a place of anger and denying what their anger masks.

You cannot tell an angry person, in the midst of their rage, that they are sad or afraid or frustrated. Most of us have seen a person, in the midst of anger, continue to seek ideas and encounters that will feed the rage. The complete exhaustion, and real sadness, that is present when the tide of anger has left is too much to bear for some. Therefore, the furnace of anger must be continually stoked to avoid an internal hearth of spent coals and cool stillness in which everything is clearly outlined and defined.

What we need, societally, in an understanding that grief and sadness are not bad. Furthermore, it is possible to live with pain. It is even more possible to live with pain if we carry it together. A shared grief brings some release to all involved. Most griefs do not go away, but they become less acute and then they are our scars, with flare-ups and reminders.

It would be easy for me to type this out as a way of intellectualizing my own grief at a time of change. I can't. I feel it deeply and it hurts. My spouse has received my two blow-ups of mad that were really about sad. They likely will not be the only two, no matter how I wish otherwise.

That being said, I believe we are at a social moment where we have to really reflect. We will only regress as long as our sad is displayed as mad. Those who choose that path will only continue to act more and more infantile until their tantrums destroy all that we hold dear. And what will happen to those who remain, standing in the middle of a broken society?

I am not totally clear on how we can change this. I only know that I have been using the vocabulary of "sometimes sad feels like mad" with my children and with others around me. Until we move to a large scale understanding of this, I don't know if anything will change.

And that makes me sad.

Fair to the Flag

Flags outside the sanctuary doors of Lutheran Church of Hope, Anchorage Alaska

More than once recently, I've been asked my opinion regarding flags in the sanctuary. I've written about my respect for the flag here, but I'd like to address the specific question directly.

Regarding flags (national or otherwise) in the sanctuary of a Christian church: I do not believe this is fair to the flag. 

The United States Code (the US Flag Code) states the following:

• (175) (k) When used on a speaker's platform, the flag, if displayed flat, should be displayed above and behind the speaker. When displayed from a staff in a church or public auditorium, the flag of the United States of America should hold the position of superior prominence, in advance of the audience, and in the position of honor at the clergyman's or speaker's right as he faces the audience. Any other flag so displayed should be placed on the left of the clergyman or speaker or to the right of the audience.

It can be inferred from the document that "superior prominence" means to other flags. Where the flag of the United States is present, it is meant to be the unifying symbol for those who behold it. The proper display of the flag is meant not only to stir feelings of patriotism but also a sense of pride and shared community history and goals. That is the job of the flag.

The flag cannot do that job in a Christian sanctuary. The specifically unifying symbol of a Christian sanctuary is the cross of Christ. It is the symbol of his resurrection- thus drawing our hearts and minds to his birth, life, teaching, miracles, ignominious death, and God's power above all. The death of Jesus came at the hands of government officials and the wishes of religious people- all of whom sought control over the power and mercy of God as revealed in Jesus the Christ. The cross is the most powerful symbol wherever it is present.

Thus, the flag would be, at best, second to the cross.

In a sanctuary or chapel, however, the cross is rarely the only symbol of Christ's faithfulness and God's demand on the lives of the faithful. The presence of a baptismal font and/or an altar on which Holy Communion is served are also symbols of God's promise, God's presence, and the power of the Holy Spirit. The events of baptism and communion drive us back again and again to the Christ who feeds us and unites us as children of God. We are made into a community with the saints on earth and the saints who have gone before through the font and the altar.

With their presence, the flag slides to fourth.

Then there is the written Word, the Holy Bible, which people died to have translated into the vernacular. Scripture in the language of the common people represents the lives and works of men and women who believed that God speaks directly to everyone through the Spirit. The power of the narrative of Scripture belongs where it can be read, discussed, wept over, wrestled with, and treasured. Martin Luther wrote that we cannot begin to value the Bible enough until we have studied it for 100 years.

Now, the flag is fifth.

Jesus says,  “No one can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth.” Matthew 6:24

I am not arguing that the flag of the United States represents wealth. Jesus isn't discussing flags here, but the first part of the verse remains decidedly true regardless of the topic of discussion. When we are in a Christian sanctuary, we are Christ's first. (That's actually true everywhere.) In the church, we are children of God- not our denomination, not our city, not our country, not even our own family. We belong to God and it is God's demands on our lives that must and do take precedence. 

You can have more than one vocation at a time and the vocation of responsible citizen is one that I value and take quite seriously. All vocations, however, are subsumed into the primary one of being a baptized child of God, which is always our primary identity.

When I examine those vocations in their proper order, I am stirred by the Spirit to be sure that I am treating the flag of my country respectfully. Thus, I do not wish to display it in a place where it is of fourth or fifth prominence. I wish it to be displayed where it can rightfully do its job and that place, in my mind, is not in the sanctuary of a Christian church.

Generosity

Be careful that you don’t practice your religion in front of people to draw their attention. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven. Whenever you give to the poor, don’t blow your trumpet as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets so that they may get praise from people. I assure you, that’s the only reward they’ll get.  But when you give to the poor, don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing so that you may give to the poor in secret. God who sees what you do in secret will reward you. – Matthew 6:1-4

            There are a lot of things happening in this passage. First, financial generosity is equated with religion. So, in some capacity, Jesus expected that the doing of faith would involve the giving of money, in addition to time and talent. 

           Second, one’s own giving should be generous enough that one might be tempted to tell others but instead must keep it secret. If you were ashamed of what you were giving, Jesus wouldn’t need to warn about secrecy since we don’t often shout about our embarrassing bits. 

           Thirdly, financial giving is for the sake of the poor. While Jesus says elsewhere that the “poor will always be with you”, his meaning is that giving to the poor is not a convenient reason to avoid other justice work. One can work to feed people and also work to convey dignity and opportunity on a larger scale. Whether or not people take advantage of that work is not our business. 

            Lastly, Jesus indicates that there is a reward for appropriate generosity. What kind of reward? Who can say, but it will come from God. This is both incentive and reminder. We cannot use our generosity in fiscal stewardship to manipulate God (if I give this, then You do this…). We are managing what has always (and still) belonged to God’s own self. 

            We are given the gift of caring for others and God’s whole creation through our baptism. Our financial stewardship is of a piece with that gift and call. Let us be diligent together, even in private, about our generosity with what God has given us. 

Come Sit By Me (Sermon)

Pentecost 12B

12 August 2018

Ephesians 4:25-5:2

              There is a phrase: If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all. What does this mean? (If you can’t say something that’s helpful or kind, then stay quiet.) There is an alteration of this quote that I’ve been thinking of lately: If you don’t have something nice to say, come sit by me.[1]

            In our society, “nice” doesn’t usually mean kind, truthful, or helpful. Usually, “be nice” means “don’t make a fuss” or “just go along with it” or “don’t be loud” or “stop making such a big deal”. Being nice often means less about fixing a problem and more about pretending there is no problem. When I think of the stress I feel on a daily basis, when I think of the news stories we hear, when I think of people who are being hurt daily by situations that are alterable or preventable, I want to say, “Yes! If you don’t have something nice to say, come sit by me.” 

            I don’t want to hear nice things. I want to hear honest things. I want to hear hard conversations. I want to hear about broken hearts, deep frustrations, apologies, forgiveness, and change. I want to hear people talk about how to change systems like racism, sexism, classism, ageism, ableism, LGBTQ-exclusion, injustice, inequity, mental illness, addiction, and the brokenness of cultural norms, ethics, and systems. I don’t want to talk about nice things. I want to talk about truth. If you don’t have something nice to say, come sit by me, because I don’t want nice. 

            The writer of Ephesians, using Paul’s writing style, is communicating with the church at Ephesus, reminding them of what it means to be the community of Christ. The reading we have today from Ephesians (4:25-5:2) shows a communal path with niceness and wrath as pitfalls on either side. The life of a Christian is a community life- lived together for support of one another and for work together for the sake of the world. Slander, bitterness, and unmitigated anger with one another mean that the community will be stunted in growth, failing to support one another. Niceness- surface relationships and conversations- means that the community will never take seriously the issues within and without that need attention, repair, and prayer. 

            It is the path of truth, the path of honesty, forgiveness, and grace, which leads us to where God wants us to be. Anything else, any other type of action, grieves the Holy Spirit. What does it mean to grieve the Spirit? If a child asked, it would be easy to say, We make the Holy Spirit sad when we make bad choices and when we don’t do the things we know are right. Most of us, however, are adults and need more solid spiritual food. As adults, we can handle more solid spiritual food. 

            How do we know what the Holy Spirit does? We are taught about the Spirit from the scriptures and from the documents of our faith that come through the traditions of the church. The Holy Spirit moved over the void at the beginning of creation (Genesis 1) and She breathed holy creative order over the chaos that previously existed. Creative ordering is the work of the Spirit and we see that outlined further, then, in the Apostle’s Creed. 

            The Holy Spirit brings order through the gift of the holy catholic church- where people gather in truth and power to worship, share what they have, and work for the sake of Christ in the world. The Spirit creates eternal stability for us, and all people, through the mysterious connection and hope of the communion of saints- the way we are interconnected with all people in God. The Spirit creates order through the forgiveness of sins- making it possible for us to trust one another and have faith in God’s mercy. The Spirit brings about the resurrection of the body- a wholeness that is our hope and God’s promise. And the Spirit continues the work of creation by the transformation that is and will be the life of the world to come. 

            This is the work of the Spirit. Speaking truth about this work and living lives that do not undermine this truth is what brings joy to the Holy Spirit. A bland niceness that fails to wrestle with the doubts and effort it takes to trust in mystery does not create community. Spiteful gossip or frustrated bitterness turns away people whom the Spirit is driving toward our community. Those are the things that grieve the Spirit. The path of discipleship, the way of Christ, the walk of life together means speaking truth to one another, being kind, forgiving, and being willing to ask for and accept help from each other. 

            It would be easier, sort of, to talk about the John reading today- to say Jesus is food for everyone. There’s enough Jesus to go around. God will feed us. That would be a nice sermon. I could do it. You could like it. We’d be fine. But I don’t have anything nice to say because nice is not what the world needs now. Nice is not the Spirit moving over creation. Nice is not the meaning of Easter resurrection or the promise of God with us. 

            Nice isn’t enough. And the opposite of nice isn’t mean, it’s ambivalence. It’s feeling helpless and hopeless and defeated. It’s feeling alone, ineffective, and unimportant. There is no space for nice in a healthy community of Christ. Not in the time of the Ephesians, not now. If you feel that way, and you might, if you feel that way, sit by me. If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me. If you have something you want to change, something that breaks your heart, something that you need to address, come sit by me. 

            Now, who else is willing to be a partner? Who else is willing to open a seat? Who else is willing to say, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, sit by me because I am ready to be part of God’s work”? 

            The writer of Ephesians says, Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. (5:1-2) Imitators of God- that’s a broad expanse of possibilities- imitating God. We can create, unite, heal, feed, free, forgive, build up, put to rest, restore, listen, speak truth to power, rest, befriend, and so many other things. If we wonder what imitation might look like- we have Jesus as the pioneer of a faithful life, worthy of imitation. Jesus was not nice. I’m sure he was pleasant and affable, but his definitive state wasn’t to talk about the weather, the lamb, and the price of olives in the market. He made relationships, spoke truth, and showed compassion. 

            He was a companion- a bread friend[2]- to the people who traveled with him, who he met on the way, and to the people who were otherwise shut out of his society. If you don’t have something nice to say, sit by Jesus. And we are now his hands and feet, we are now his ears and words, we are now the workers in the kingdom. We are called to the imitation of God in Christ. We are called together- as community- to help one another in the imitation of God in Christ. We are called to help one another, to hold one another accountable, to be truthful and generous to one another in the imitation of God in Christ. 

            The Spirit draws us together, tethers us through her creative ordering, for the sake of one another, for the sake of Spenard and Turnagain, for the sake of Anchorage and Alaska, for the sake of our country and the world, for the sake of others and the world that God made, as it says in our baptismal vows. 

            Here we are- you and me. There are many chairs, but if you don’t have anything nice to say, please- come sit by me. 

            

---

[1]Alice Roosevelt Longworth (Teddy Roosevelt’s oldest daughter) had a sofa pillow that said, “If you don’t have something nice to say about someone, come and sit by me.” All variations of this quote are usually traced back to reporter commentary on that decoration. 

[2]Companion comes from words meaning bread (pani-) and with (com-), making the word mean something more like messmate or bread friend, describing someone with whom you eat more than simply an acquaintance. 

Yes And (Sermon)

Sermon for 18 July 2018, Feast Day of Mary Magdalene

Some of this sermon was inspired by this book: God, Improv, and the Art of Living.

The person who helped with the sermon works for this theater company: https://www.tbatheatre.org

When It's Complicated

A few days ago, I was driving down a busy Anchorage road with both my kids in the car. I glimpsed something in my lane up ahead and tried to make sense of what it was. As part of my brain registered that it was a crumpled American flag in my lane, the other part of my brain began to scan for where I could safely pull off and grab it, before it was run over, soiled, further disrespected.

I have not said the Pledge of Allegiance in years. I remember clearly the curious looks I got for standing with my hands by side on my son's first day of kindergarten, silent while everyone else recited along with the principal over the intercom. I love to sing and the American national anthem is great for a soprano who wants to pretend she's Beverly Sills, but I stay quiet. My relationship to my country is not my greatest allegiance and I've pledged everything I've got to the One Who Loved Me First.

Due to my activism, my efforts to bring change on a variety of levels of society, to what people are sure they know about my politics... (Just a week ago someone mentioned assuming everyone in a group was registered as voters for a certain party- I'm not registered with any party.)... due to what people see and hear from me, assumptions are made. For most of those doing the assuming, it is an impossible idea that I would be found sprinting down the sidewalk toward a crumpled American flag, hoping to reach it before the situation was any worse. Yet there I was.

When I was about 50 yards from the flag, a man sprinted across several lanes of traffic from the other side of the road and snatched it up, rescuing the cloth itself from additional ignominy. And I returned to my car, panting, trying to figure out how to explain to my children why their mom was suddenly possessed with a frantic need to rescue a particularly patterned fabric from the street.

I barely understood the frantic need myself.

I wanted to save my own hope in the flag as a symbol of what this nation can be and could be.

I wanted to show my children that you can be deeply frustrated and disappointed and still faithful.

I want to continue to have the hope of General Lafayette in the "perpetual union of the United States" that it may "one day save the world".

Inside me, beyond how impotent I feel, how grieved, how desperate, how revolutionary, I believe there is a soul of an idea of who the United States can be that seeks to repair the wounds of the Doctrine of Discovery, to heal and repent of the on-going injury of enslavement, racism, and white supremacy, that truly embraces the concepts of equality and equity relative to justice, access, and opportunity.

My jaw is tight, I cry, and I'm so tired.

Better is possible.

Surely, better is possible.

It is a sign of high privilege that I can even entertain that notion.

And, yet, I know that I am an Esther among Esthers, an Abigail among Abigails, a Huldah among Huldahs, a Priscilla among Priscillas. I am not alone in the work or the call or the disappointment or the anger.

I will resist the efforts to cave and accept oppression, silence, complicity, lies, or misdirection as normal, representative, or necessary.

I will fight.

And I will hope.

And, if I have to again, I will sprint down a sidewalk along Tudor Road on a Monday evening, to rescue a tangible symbol that is more than history; it is possibility. It is that possibility that my Truest Allegiance will not let me ignore.

Six Cans

I realize these six cans don’t look like much, but they represent a big deal to me. I made dinner for a group tonight and I wasn’t entirely sure how many people were coming. I have a tendency to overestimate and overprepare, ending up with way more food than necessary. 

I have come to realize, though, that cooking too much is my attempt to control a situation. I want everyone to enjoy themselves and for the event to be perfect. This isn’t actually mine to control. Having too much food doesn’t guaratee a good time. It’s just a lot of food.

No one who was coming would likely be in danger of starving. And if someone came who I knew needed more food, I could help with that in a different way.Furthermore, having a good time is up to each person. I am not the guarantor of other people’s good times. (#truth)

So, four cans of black beans and two cans of vegetarian refried beans represent not only my desire to be a good hostess, but also my willingness to let go of the outcome. If we run out of beans, it will be okay. Fun can still be had. 

Who knew six cans of beans could mean so much? 

What Kind of Stranger Are You?

"What kind of stranger are you?"

The small black girl paused in her climb up the playground equipment and asked me that question. She was speeding around the playground with my white daughter and another little black girl. The three preschool age girls united in laughter, daredevilry, and energy were challenging each other to scrambling up, over, and under everything in sight. 

I tried to be inconspicuous as a spotter as they climbed on the equipment, trying to eye all of them equally for potential falls. Halfway through scaling the wooden framework, one of the little girls turned and looked at me. 

"Is that your daughter?"

"Yes."

"Can we play with her?"

"Sure!"

"Are you a stranger?"

"Um, yes, I am a stranger to you, but not to her." 

"What kind of stranger are you?"

I froze for a moment, cutting my eyes away from hers. For a kindergarten aged black girl in Anchorage, Alaska, what kind of stranger am I? What kind of stranger am I to her mom or dad, her older brother, her next door neighbor, her teachers, her cousin, her pastor or community leader? 

"Well," I said carefully. "I am the kind of stranger who you can ask for help if you are hurt or lost or scared. But you should not go anywhere with me or take anything from me. I am the kind of stranger who will be kind to you, but I still want you to know that not all strangers are the same." 

There's no way to explain to any child that strangers are not always the danger. That sometimes the danger is in your house or your school or the people in positions to protect you. I didn't say that I am a stranger who has fought for things for all Alaskans- like Medicaid expansion, more Medicare doctors, community policing, and more detox beds in the Anchorage Bowl. I didn't tell her that I'm the kind of stranger who wrestles with privilege and frustration and anger. I didn't tell her that I'm the kind of stranger who has a #BlackLivesMatter pin stuck into my bright pink pussy hat and I mean both symbols wholeheartedly. 

As far as she knows, I'm the kind of stranger who watches out for all the kids on the playground. I'm the kind of stranger who will push her on the swing. I'm the kind of stranger whose daughter will refer to other girls whose names she does not know as "my sister". (I don't actually know why she does this, but V told me once that all girls are her sisters. I didn't argue.) I'm the kind of stranger who will pretend to be a tickle monster under the slide, but will only tickle hands and arms of children to whom I am not related. I am the kind of stranger who will offer a bandaid for a scrape, but not a snack because I don't want children I don't know to be in the habit of taking food from people they don't know outside of an organized setting or a grownup's permission. 

I'm the kind of stranger who is not close to being perfect or even that good, but I'm strange enough to keep persisting in being better. 

What kind of stranger are you? 

Women's March- Anchorage

It took me longer than I'd like to admit to agree to go to the Women's March in Anchorage. Mostly it was because I don't like crowds and I get very anxious thinking about large groups of people milling about, even with purpose. The conversations about intersectionality, who was and wasn't included, and the vastness of the purpose also made me waffle.

In the end, though, I felt that I couldn't not go. To quote Hamilton, "If you've got skin in the game, you stay in the game." Not only is my skin in this game, but also the skin of my children, my friends, my colleagues, my neighbors, my parishioners, my antagonists, and the rest of creation. If I want to make an argument for seeing others and including others and change, I have to be where the conversation is happening. 

So I started making protest hats and praying. For the first time in my life this week, I thought about getting up early to pray more than I thought I would have time to do during the day. I actually told several people that I wanted Hermione Granger's time turner, so that I could have more time to pray.

I did not carry a sign today, though I did wear my collar. In a crowd situation, I am all pastor all the time- constantly looking around and assessing what's happening. I helped up several people who fell down. Gave and received hugs. Chatted with my friends. Tried to start a sing-a-long. Waded through the snow that did not stop. 

The march was powerful and enthusiastic. May the work that follows continue to be so. 

I made 11 "pussy" hats (all but one in pink) that were at marches today.
Seven were at #womensmarchanchorage and three were at #womensmarchwashington.
One stayed home. :) 

On our way to the Delany Park Strip in Anchorage.
It had snowed about 11 inches overnight and nothing had been plowed. 

People gathering in the cold.
I don't like crowds and I had felt very anxious the night before.
However, the atmosphere was very positive and enthusiastic. 

There were many signs for reproductive rights,
including lots that talked about uteruses (even though not all women have uteri).
Nevertheless, access to healthcare (of all types) and reproductive rights remain a significant issue. 

The signs were great and there were all kinds. 

There were kids of all ages. And lots of dogs. 

Snow on snow on snow, but it did not feel like the bleak midwinter.

My favorite sign of all- it summed up lots of what I think regarding women,
feminism, LGBTQ rights, and intersectionality. We are more than vaginal vessels
or vessels defined by the absence thereof.

#WomensMarchAnchorage is estimated somewhere between 2000 and 3000 marchers.
The line of marchers was well over half a mile long before we started walking and then it stretched out far behind us. 

We shall overcome... snow and tyranny.

This little light of mine... I'll gonna let it shine AND warm me. 

I will never forget this picture as long as I live.
It takes deep faith and desire to come out and march with a walker on unpaved streets,
at 13 degrees (F), in a huge crowd.
You have to want to be there. And she did. 

Signs at the march finish line/ work start line (depending on your view of it). 

Yep. 

Solidarity.