revnancyduncan

“Want to do Ashes to Go,” she asked.

“In Waldoboro?” I responded.

“Yes!”

“No,” I said.

The thought of offering ashes to strangers on a street corner with the words, “You are dust and to dust you shall return” is a stretch for me.   Observing Ash Wednesday is relatively new to me; I am still learning about the depth and even joy of the practice.

This year members of the Waldoboro United Methodist Church, the Broad Cove  Community Church and the Broad Bay Congregational United Church of Christ gathered for soup and ashes–served separately, of course.

The tables at the Methodist Church were set with purple table clothes, gorgeous flowers, and little candles.  I saw the people gathered–a community acquainted with death and life.  They knew the power of community to ease the pain of grief; they knew the joy of hot soup, old friends, and strangers on a snowy night.   We celebrated the gift of mortality, the power of God, and the love of community.

We are dust and to dust we shall return.   The purple flowers will fade and die before long and we will not be far behind.

I worry about the stained glass windows at the Broad Bay church.

Will I walk in one day to find glass on the floor and snow covering the pew?

Will the congregation fight about whether to restore the windows them or replace them with clear glass or something else?

One day this fall, on a very grey overcast day, the light in the sanctuary nearly blinds me.

Two of the many windows are safely stored. Clear vinyl, a durable, though temporary fix protects the sanctuary from the elements. For the first time in 125 years, the sanctuary is brighter. Insiders can see out and outsiders can see in. Viewed from the outside, the chandelier and the windows on the other side of the church are stunning. From inside a tree stands tall against the skyline.

Still the clear windowless hole is odd.

A church school teacher asks “could the children create a Christmas-themed “stained glass” to hang over the window space using clear plastic and sharpie markers?”

“Sure,” say the Trustees.

Looking at the final installation, a leader comments, “God made those windows—not us.”

Whenever people come into the sanctuary, their eyes are drawn to the children’s windows. I tell the story of the windows and a sense of awe and wonder is shared.

An adult asks a child, “What part did you do?”

Child responds, “we did it together.”

On Christmas Eve, with a spotlight lighting the windows from outside, the colors lit the ceiling over the chandelier. Stunning! I no longer worry about what will happen with the windows. We’ll make a decision about whether to preserve what we have, replace it with clear glass or do something else.

The deterioration of windows and vision of children help us to envision a new future—with windows that tell a story—our story.

Does the fragility of the windows help me to see the light?

“Arise. Shine. For Your Light has Come.”

I wonder what will fall apart next.

God is not confined to the church.

In the Bible, God shows up in the fields, at the mountain, in the bull rushes, at the well, on the road to Emmaus, at the cross and at the empty tomb.

Church is where we tell the story.
Church is where we share one another’s encounters with God. Church is where we question, worship, pray, laugh and cry.
Church is the place where we stand together  at the cross
with broken hearts only to be surprised
by the mysterious hope of resurrection.

Our shared stories of God’s mercy, our ministry, and our worship transforms lives.

Winter 1944 or 1945

The flag that hung in my mother’s home as her brothers Richard and Ross served in the military.

Today I open the cardboard box my mother gave me–
Peruse the photo album from WW1, France, Germany.
Photos of the trenches–a battlefield–death.
Young smiling men–among them a grandfather I never knew.
A well worn history of the First US Engineers.  A 125% casualty rate.
A Commendation for my grandfather’s valor.

A photo album from the Aleutians in WW2.
Handwritten notes of his tour of duty–“forced landing.”
Uncle Richard avoided flying except once when very frail, he flew to see his brother.
His military ring–misshapen and worn by his large hands which always brought huge stuffed animals to his nieces at Christmas–was in the bottom of the box.

A photo–Worcester, MA  1944.
My grandfather, a widower stands in a suit with his four children.
He didn’t talk about the war but now I know he was at the reunion in Washington in 1925.
I heard a story that Uncle Jack was in an elevator and the black elevator operator recognized him; was it just that he was a spitting image of his father?  “I was with your father in the trenches; he didn’t leave us,” the elevator operator’s voice cracked.
(But the military was segregated… I wonder)
Uncle Richard–strong and handsome in his army uniform.
Uncle Ross, a lanky sailor, ready to ship out with the navy.
The twins, my mother and uncle, a head shorter, well dressed for what may have been the last time all the children were together with their father.

Throughout the war, the two star flag hung in the window.
Two brothers serving our country, sons of a man who saw active combat.
In my mother’s box,  I found the photo of the flag in the window and I found the flag.
Tears found me.

My mother grew up in that home full of love and laughter
and later grief as the twins mourned the death of their mother and later their father;
I imagine her sadness and worry as she looked out the window through that star-studded flag wondering why her brother Richard’s letters had stopped coming.

On Veterans Day, I remember those
Who put their lives on the line
Who saw and see bloodshed
Who learn to kill for what we pray is a greater good.

I remember mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, friends
who prayed and worried and knit wool socks and kept the home front going.

I pray for peace and reconciliation.

I put the photo albums, letters, and discharge papers back in the cardboard Michelob box and try to pen this post.  Time wipe away the tears, let go of the questions, and cook supper.  Blessings and thanks to veterans and their families. Blessings and thanks for all who work for peace.

Claire Riser standing with her altar.

Día de Muertos–Anglo style

I walked into the sanctuary and immediately was drawn into a place of reverence and love.  About ten people had created altars (displays really) to remember loved ones.  They had carefully chosen pictures, things, food that reflected the lives of friends or family. Hanging from the balcony were “clouds of witnesses” with drawings the children had done of grandparents.

Claire Riser, a retired Spanish teacher, had taught her Spanish students about the ways that Day of the Dead is celebrated in Mexico with several days of  remembering loved ones. Now we were her students.

Jonathan Clowes photographs the altar in honor of his family members.

I invited the congregation to listen to Carroll Smith’s extraordinary organ music in silence. Some sat and others walked around and looked at the displays.  Orange and yellow slips of paper were available for people to write the name of a deceased person and bring to the communion table.  Many names were brought forward.

The love and the grief were palpable. There were tears.  We could cry without having to explain. Our love and grief and gratitude were both deeply private and profoundly shared. We brought our love and our heartache to the foot of the cross.  The organ stopped and a middle school student and I rang the bell.

“Take and Eat: the body of Christ broken for you.”  We shared bread and wine as we celebrated the sacrament of communion that has nourished our people for 2000 years.

We will die.  All of us. The breath will stop.  We will enter into the mystery.

For now, we live and celebrate in community–at the cross and the empty tomb–sharing Christ’s love in word and deed and silence.  

On Worldwide Communion Sunday, we gathered in the church basement around tables.  I told the story of Jesus and his disciples and their last night together. “This is my body broken for you.”  It was a sweet bread. Dipped in grape juice, it was a taste I had never noticed before.  There was Jesus again pushing me from the familiar to seeing with new eyes and tasting with new insights.

We ate breakfast–breakfast casseroles, coffee, and orange juice. We talked together.  We sat close to one another.

The story of the loaves and fishes was read. There is enough.  All will be fed.  People were invited to take loaves of bread to friends and neighbors.

Prayer concerns were shared.  Some personal.  Some global. Some joyful.  Some heart wrenching. “Let us pray…”   There was prayer and silence.

The children sang and I said a blessing.

A few people stayed to wash dishes.  Others took names home and sent cards and letters to people far away.  One group went to work at the Head Start Playground.

I led a three car caravan to sing to two home bound women. We held hands in a circle, a ninety year age span between the youngest child and eldest member.

I didn’t preach a sermon.  There was no organ. No candles were lit.  The hymnals remained in the pews. It was a service of prayer and food and conversation and service and love.  A blessed and holy morning.

Opus #793 was built by Hook and Hastings Organ builders in 1875, when Waldoboro was prospering. Today Waldoboro struggles to revitalize its downtown. Opus #793 sits in the front of the church and it continues to transform me–to show me God’s amazing presence and grace.

Ten years ago, when I was new to the church and the church still new to the building, a community leader said, “that is the church with the organ.”   Curiosity piqued, I picked up the phone.  Half a dozen calls later, I spoke with David Wallace, an organ restorer with contagious enthusiasm.  David Wallace and Kevin Birch, organist, generously shared their time and expertise to cheer us on and today the organ is restored.

There is another story line about friendship, passion, and collaboration. David Wallace gave me the courage and resources to gauge whether there was interest in attempting an organ restoration.  Organist Kevin Birch showed us what the organ could do and inspired us to get started.  Not only did we meet Kevin Birch, but we met Anatole Wieck, Danji Buck-Moore, Josie Davis, Sophie Davis, Wayne Ching, Leticia van Vuuren, Jay Zoller, Sean Fleming, Carroll Smith and others. People from far and wide flocked to the concerts and it was good. The town noticed that there is an organ in the center of town and a church with open doors.

Be the Church Banner

Recently we celebrated the 10th Annual Organ Concert. With joy I greeted Kevin Birch as an old friend who was delighted to help us. The organ has shown me that both I and the church have precious gifts to offer the wider community.  We’ve gained courage, confidence and conviction.  Just because our church is small and we struggle to do the ministry we feel called to do, doesn’t mean that we aren’t effective.  Just because we get weary or discouraged, doesn’t mean that our ministry isn’t helping to reveal God’s kingdom and transform lives.

A small church with vision, gumption, and an openness to the winds of the spirit can bring wonderful people and community leaders together to do more than any of us could do alone.  Broad Bay has a strong core of hard workers who do the work day in and day out to keep this ministry strong.  Broad Bay also has a outer circle of friends who share time, talent and enthusiasm with us.  Their support is essential–both to me and the church. Thanks to Kevin Birch and David Wallace for their love of the organ and the support of our ministry.  We are not the church we were at the time of our first concert.

O Beautiful for organ pipes/ and friends like Kevin Birch
Who makes majestic music ring/ throughout the Broad Bay Church
Waldoboro, Waldoboro!  Oh may she stand and hear
Our voices raised in songs of praise/ with laughter and with cheer.

A mother, reflecting on raising her youngest child said, “all I did was wash him and love him.”

“God has loved you, loves you now, and will love you always.  this is the good news that brings us new life.”  Women and Worship as quoted in the New Century Hymnal.

“Basing our lives on the faith that, in Christ, all things are made new, and that we, and all people, are loved beyond our wildest imagination – for eternity.”  Phoenix Affirmations

If we believe that God loves us always, everything changes.  It is easier to be kind, forgiving, tolerant with ourselves and others.  It is easier to risk failure, to be ourselves, to love and to be loved.   It is that simple.

As swimmers dare
to lie face to the sky
and water bears them,
as hawks rest upon air
and air sustains them,
so would I learn to attain
freefall, and float
into Creator Spirit’s deep embrace,
knowing no effort earns
that all-surrounding grace.

                                             — Denise Levertov

A family gathered. The sanctuary was alive with the sounds of jazz.   Food for a potluck dinner was placed on the tables.   Friends and family from far and near had arrived.

Words were spoken. Memories shared.  Glimpses of a strong, wonderful, complicated woman who was seen differently by different people began to emerge.

The service did not fit in a neat box.  The life of the deceased did not fix into a neat box. We celebrated a search for meaning that did not limit itself to one particular tradition.  We included Jesus’ teachings. We welcomed all of the people.  The service was honest and authentic.  Surely the presence of God was there.

Thanks to all who made it happen.  To those who cleaned the church, set up the sanctuary, set up the fellowship hall with white table cloths and flowers, received the food, and washed the dishes.   You helped to create a sacred moment for the family and for the community.

Is it fair to say that I am an “out of the box” pastor serving an “out of the box” church that follows an “out of the box” God?

A friend requests info about books on mindfulness.  I peruse my shelf of books on prayer.  Nothing seems right.

She asks again. We talk about life and death and accomplishments and grief.  We talk about books on mindfulness that have changed other people’s lives and sit unread on our shelves.  Should we try again to read them?  As an aside, she mentions scrapbooks; she has made beautiful ones for every occasion in her family’s lives.   She LOVES to scrapbook. It hits me like a lighting flash.  “Just scrapbook!”

For her, scrap-booking is a way of paying attention, of celebrating life and its ups and downs.

Sometimes (often!) the things we need to do to stay centered are right in front of us.  Sometimes (often) the answers are in our hearts.  🙂