Category Archives: Lent 2015

LeAnn Gardner: The Gift of Suffering

Lent 2015, , , , , ,

About three years ago, I found myself in a place I never imagined: in the throes of Post-Partum Depression. The one thing I had wanted my entire life—a child—had been given to me. A healthy, red-headed, perfect little specimen of a boy rested upon my chest as I lay on an operating table, exhausted and out of my mind.

We marveled at him and I thought, “He is the cutest baby I have ever seen.” But did I feel an instant bond? No.

Suffice it to say, PPD invaded my life and rested its pinions there for a while.

In the days of suffering from PPD, the last thing I was thinking of was serving. I just wanted to get through the hell I was feeling and hoped that at the other end, I would be a good mother. The fears and anxieties were crippling.

In those early days, I had one paralyzing vision: that at my son’s first birthday party, I would be in the shadows of the crowd, being an observer, not an active participant in my son’s day (read: life) because I had not gotten better. I would not have the energy, or even worse, the affection for him, to plan his birthday party.

This may not seem like a big deal, but if you knew me, you would know that I love (L-O-V-E) to throw parties. Not being an integral part, the integral part, of my son’s first birthday party would be a sign that something was really wrong with me….and even worse, that I was not mothering him in the ways that were most authentic to who I was as a person.

That vision still makes me cry because it reminds me how bad things were for me after he was born.

But as the days passed (and it took a lot of days, strung together) I got better. It was not instant. It took a long time, but the light crept in and I was able to finally find my rhythm as a parent, as his parent. I gained confidence in meeting his needs, accepted that my life had indeed changed, and that suddenly my calling had shifted to being his mama.

And I embraced it….and him.

As the days turned to months, my secret leaked out, partly because I “verbally vomit” to process my issues, and word was getting out that things weren’t so rosy for me. Because PPD is a sore thumb amidst baby showers and pools of pink and blue, new mamas feel isolated and alone.

I imagine there were whispers of “LeAnn had a hard time; talk to her.” Connecting with other people in the throes of this darkness was key for my healing. Being a resource to those facing similar demons was healing for me, too.

Jesus is given many titles, but the Suffering Servant is one that seems to be the most reflected during Holy Week. Does this mean that Christ could not adequately serve without first suffering? We Jesus people preach the Incarnation- that Christ put on skin and walked among us, that he experienced our spectrum of emotions, including pain, grief and realities that did not meet expectations.

What does this mean to all of us (humans) who experience struggle? The essence of my faith rests in this notion: that my suffering not only mattered, but had also been experienced in and by Christ. There was a knowing in my soul that a Presence greater than me and my pain and anxiety was with me, minute by minute, day by day, until that string of days equaled a month and then months and then three years!

My second son was born 7 months ago. I found myself, again, lying on an operating table, in a cold sterile room, but something was different. My very being had been changed since the redhead was born. I was already a mother. I had been through hell and back with all of my insecurities and angst, and although I was not perfect, nor he, we together have forged a path of mama and son. That sweet little rosy headed boy has taught me so much (even to this day).

Christ is present in struggle. We know this. We preach it all the time. But it is different to walk it. To feel the pain in the fibers my being and know that Emmanuel has walked the ground where I have stood and suffered is life altering. May we be reminded of this miracle during this Holiest of weeks.

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LeAnn Gardner is a right brained social worker and minister married to a left brained engineer. Together they (sometimes) compose a full brain. She is mother to two boys, ages 3 and 7 months.

Alicia Davis Porterfield: Sin, Dirt and the God-Bath

Lent 2015, , , ,

Psalm 51:1-10 Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love, according to your abundant mercy.  Blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin. For I know my transgressions and my sin is ever before me. Against you, you alone, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight, so that you are justified in your sentence and blameless when you pass judgment. Indeed, I was born guilty, a sinner when my mother conceived me. You desire truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart. Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean; wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones that you have crushed rejoice. Hide your face from my sins and blot out all my iniquities. Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me. Amen.

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Having grown up in the church and family story I did, I’ve generally had a strong sense of my own sinfulness. I heard it every week in church (and some Wednesday and Sunday nights, too). Our preacher, whom I called a “scream-y preacher” as a preschooler, yelled about my sin regularly, every “you” and “your” translating as “me” and “my” in the concrete-thinking way children’s brains work. I wiggled down as low as I could in the pew so I couldn’t see his angry face, but I couldn’t block out the accusing voice.

If I opted for Children’s Church, I found the same message with less yelling. In every example, every funny story, every serious talk, our children’s minister expressed constant, urgent concern that we take our sin absolutely seriously. I once heard him say that if we didn’t ask forgiveness for every, single sin we committed every, single day, then we weren’t forgiven.

So I stayed up at night after prayers with Mama and Daddy, all tucked in and anxious, trying to recall all the times I’d been mean to my sisters or disobedient or angry or unkind or grumpy or felt anything negative at all. I usually fell asleep part way through my confession.

The fear that I had forgotten to confess a sin haunted me regularly, although another little girl and I once wondered if maybe God was more forgiving than our ministers.

My personal sinfulness was in the air I breathed and the water I drank. I was a wretch, a worm, a sinner, stained. Everyone was telling me it was so: my sinfulness was clearly the most important thing I needed to learn at church and in life.

So one Sunday, I went forward to get cleaned up, to profess my faith in Jesus as my Lord and Savior. It took all the courage I had to get my little legs moving down the aisle toward the “scream-y preacher,” who never learned my name.

But I had to go.  Somehow, even amidst the constant and overwhelming bad news about me, I had heard the good news about Jesus.

Sunday School teachers told me stories about how Jesus welcomed the children to him. We sang about how Jesus loved all the little children of the world. That included me somehow.

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http://www.tomwhitestudios.com

Jesus loved me, wanted me to follow him, wanted me to be with him for eternity. If I could just get to Jesus, my sin would stop being the most important thing about me.

Now, as a minister and the mother of three young boys, I wonder how my childhood understanding of sin, forgiveness and redemption might have been different if someone had told me that sin was sort of like getting dirty. Sometimes we get dirty through a choice we make all on our own, sometimes because we didn’t see the puddle clearly or didn’t know how to get around it—and sometimes because someone pushes us in.  Other times it’s from a mess we inherited from others that becomes our own.

We all get dirty. It’s part of being alive, of engaging with the world, with each other, with ourselves. We are created to be together: in families, in schools, in our communities, in the church-—of course our messes will affect each other.

We are broken and sinful. We are also infinitely beloved.

Jesus understands all that, even if we don’t. Jesus knows why we do what we do even when we can’t untangle the rhyme or reason to our faults and foibles any more than the Apostle Paul did (Rom. 7:15-20).

That’s why Jesus is the one who can truly forgive us.

Getting dirty is part of living; being sinful is part of being human. Psalm 51:1-10 is a gift for when we discover we’ve gotten dirty, when we look and see the wrong we’ve done (intentionally or unintentionally). Your mess, your sin—our mess, our sin—is never greater than God’s forgiving love through Jesus Christ. Never.

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These ancient words of confession are like a warm, sudsy bath after we’ve fallen in the dirt. Imagine Jesus drawing you a hot bath, putting out the good towels and handing you the soap you’ve saved for the special occasion that never came.

It’s here. Take off everything that hinders, that holds you back, that covers up what you’d rather not show. Step in and soak awhile.

Let God, who loves you—just as you are and far more than you can imagine—wash you clean.

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Alicia Davis Porterfield is a minister married to a minister, the mother of three boys and a writer, teacher and preacher (www.helwys.com). She is grateful to all who have shared God’s love with her, from her earliest days to now.

Rachel Whaley Doll: Healing Journey

Lent 2015, , , , , , , , ,
Rachel's painting
Rachel’s painting

Early last spring, as we were preparing to move, my husband, Aaron, brought me several small bags. “I found these in the freezer. Can you believe we still have bags of breast milk?! I’ll just throw them out.” I grabbed the bags, highly offended. “No, YOU did not make this, you do NOT get to decide what happens to it!” I surprised even myself at my passionate response to these little bags. You see, my youngest child is now six, in first grade, and stopped nursing at age one.

But those little bags signified so much I had never dealt with. I put them back in the freezer and spent the next week trying to decide what their fate would be. Our move would take us 800 miles away, so the bags would not be traveling with us. But they represented a time in my life that had been so hard in coming; I was not willing to simply throw them away. It felt like I had a tangible connection to so much untouchable loss. I prayed, I meditated, and I waited to see what would be created from those little bags of breast milk, sitting my freezer.

I’m not sure how I arrived at my plan, but I saw a watercolor forming in my mind. I gathered blues, purples, and black paints; sea salt to represent so many tears. And I waited. It occurred to me that over the course of our ten rounds of fertility drugs, there had been ten embryos that had been created by Aaron and me. Ten. That number was astounding. Those little bags of milk represented the end of a four year struggle with infertility. They represented seven embryos that never attached. They represented the child lost through miscarriage. They represented the cherished time I nursed two amazing children. Still I waited.

One day, amid packing boxes and looming deadlines, the feeling was overwhelming. It was time. I stood at my dining room table and began to swirl the blues, the purples, the black. I left ten little spaces and while the paint was still very wet, I dropped the breast milk onto the canvas and watched as it swirled and mixed and danced with the colors on the canvas. I sprinkled salt over it all, and whispered prayers for each of those embryos, for the space they would always hold in my soul, for the healing I longed to take place there. Finally, eventually, it was finished. The power of that dance; of paint, milk, tears, salt, and prayers – was unspeakable. I had no idea how much I had needed that dance. When it was finished, I sat in silence with the painting for a long time. There was a powerful connection swirling in the air. Eventually the feeling of connection was replaced by a wide feeling of peace inside me. There was a little milk left over, and I walked outside and sprinkled it over the wild blackberries that grew in our yard, knowing it would feed someone; birds, squirrels, friends, strangers.

That was months ago, and the painting is very dear to me. It went to the book launch party with me, and hung that night in the art gallery as we celebrated. After our move, I hung it in our new home, in our bedroom, and enjoy its nearness. A couple of weeks ago, my hand brushed the bottom of the canvas as I went to turn on the light. My fingers came away damp, and I turned on the light to see streams of paint weaving down the wall. The painting was wet. Aaron said the recent high humidity had caused the salt to soak in the moisture from the air.

But why now, in January? It had not done this through the many humid months of summer in North Carolina. I counted up the months in my head; it has been dry and fine all this time. Chills raised the hairs on my neck as I realized it had been painted nine months ago. I realized it was weeping. I cannot explain the journey of this painting except to say we are connected, and in my eyes it is beautiful beyond measure.

Whatever journey you are walking, honor the connections your soul sees, and allow them to dance.

Rachel Doll

Rachel Whaley Doll is an educator, Biblical Storyteller, and lover of beach sand. She is also the author of two books, The Exquisite Ordinary, 2012, and Beating on the Chest of God; A Faith Journey Though Infertility, 2014. Connect with Rachel at rachelwhaleydoll.com.

Sarah Boberg: Holy Hands, Holy Moments

Lent 2015, , , , , , ,

These hands have held the hands of youth in prayer circles filled with laughter and tears. These hands have embraced grieving friends. These hands have held the hands of tiny children as we walked, skipped, and played. These hands have torn up old boards, and gotten a few splinters. These hands have planted new flowers in fresh soil. These hands have scraped and painted many walls. These hands have played basketball, dodgeball, and volleyball in school yards. These hands have served many plates of food. These hands have changed diapers. These hands have pointed and scolded. These hands have held new born life. These hands have been covered in dirt and sin. These hands have been washed new. These hands have been the hands of God.  

I wrote this simple reflection after a powerful Ash Wednesday service. I helped lead the service along with my husband and our music minister. I will have to begin by saying the Ash Wednesday service is one of my favorite during the year. Reflecting on our unworthiness made worthy in the sacrifice of Christ, ashes on the forehead, communion, beautiful music, humble believers – all of these things make my soul break and sing all at the same time.

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However, this year the service took on a whole new meaning. Scarlet, my 2 ½ year old daughter, attended the service with us. This is not her first Ash Wednesday service; as the kid of two ministers she had ashes on her head before she was even a year old. But something about being two makes all things different. (Can I get an Amen?!)

At the beginning of the service she was a bit restless and only wanted to sit with me. Well, I had to participate in the call to worship, so I just took her with me. As I read, she stood behind the podium and held my hand. Then we went to be seated and prayed and sang together. Then it was time for a scripture reading and once again, she went with me, stood behind the podium and held my hand.

During the time for the imposition of ashes she held my hand and we walked to the front. My husband–her dad, our pastor– imposed ashes on our foreheads. We went back to the pew and she started asking, “What’s that?”

Now my theologically trained mind wanted a better answer, but the mother in me simply said, “Jesus’ cross.” She continued to be fascinated by our crosses, wanting to see hers, moving her eyes to try to capture a glimpse of her cross above her eyesight.

Then she sat in my lap, completely still, completely in awe, as our church family continued to receive ashes on their foreheads. She watched in total amazement, almost as if she knew it was a Holy moment. She watched each stroke of her daddy’s fingers, dirty with ashes, as they put the sign of the cross on the foreheads of her friends and family.

Her restlessness returned through another song, prayer, and Brad’s homily. (I have already learned these restless moments bother me way more than they bother others.)

Then it was time for communion. I would be serving the cup. I asked Scarlet if she wanted to go sit with someone else, but no. In my mommy brain I quickly thought, “How is this going to work?”

But there was no time for thinking, only time for doing. So Scarlet and I went to the front and Brad handed me the cup.

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With one hand I held the cup of New Life and with the other I held the hand of my 2 ½ year old daughter.

She once again watched in amazement. She watched as I said to each person, “The blood of Christ shed for you.” She stood right there holding my hand the entire time.

In the beginning I didn’t fully understand the significance of the moment. But somewhere during that communion I realized the power of God through our hands.

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It is a blessing and honor to use my hands to celebrate the blood and body of Christ, shed and broken for the forgiveness of our sins. Each communion served has been a Holy moment and my broken and sinful hands have been used as Holy hands.

But this communion was extremely special. My husband held the bread, the body of Christ. I held the cup, the blood of Christ.   And I held the hand of my child, God’s child, who truly embodies the hope and love of Christ. This was a Holy moment with Holy hands, not just for me, not just for our church, but also for our family.

As we ventured home I could not get over the significance of holding Scarlet’s hand. She has been part of our ministry journey since her arrival. She is a blessing to our church and sometimes a far better minister than Brad and I combined. Her hugs and smiles are the light of Christ in a dark world.

On Ash Wednesday she was a minister. She stood beside me as I read God’s Word. She journeyed with each person as they reflected on their ashes. She helped served communion. Her hands were the hands of God.

Her hands reminded me that life and ministry are more than words, more than carefully planned worship services, and more than tasks to complete. Her hands reminded me we have the opportunity to be the hands of God. Her hands reminded me the importance of Holy moments and Holy hands. So whether changing a diaper or serving communion, these hands will never be the same.

I find that I cannot end this post without saying that this Holy moment would not be possible without a loving and accepting church family. Not all churches would allow or accept their ministers to be parents first. Our church has been extremely supportive of Brad and me as ministers, but even more supportive of our struggle to be parents and ministers together. I did not feel a single condemning eye as our child read scripture with me, served communion with us, or even when she climbed into Brad’s lap as he sat in his chair on the platform as our music minister sang. These people love God, love us, and love our child. This is truly a gift.

I am thankful to serve a church that allows for Holy moments for our entire family.

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Rev. Sarah Boberg is the Minister of Youth and Children at First Baptist Church in Red Springs were she serves alongside her husband, Rev. Bradley Boberg. She is the mother of the beautiful and energetic Scarlet Carolyne and spends her “free” time working on her Ph.D. in Educational Studies with a concentration in Cultural Studies from UNCG.

LeAnne Spruill Ryan: Death and Life and a New Mom at Lent

Lent 2015, , , , , ,

My Lenten journey through the wilderness is different this year than ever before. I am not engaging in any fasts of any kind. I try to contemplate Christ’s suffering and death, but the life bubbling within me makes this a difficult task

I am pregnant. 35 weeks pregnant to be more exact. My first born is a boy and he is due the week after Easter. I feel absolved because the Pope grants pregnant women exemption from fasting from any food (I wonder if the Pope will also absolve me for not being Catholic?).

But I am still asked to dedicate myself to prayer and to serving others. I am still called to engage in reflection of Christ’s affliction and death which brings the world new life. From ashes I came and to ashes I will return.

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But there is life inside me. Life that jabs with his elbows and feet, stretching my stomach further; life that gets the hiccups; life that presses on my bladder; life that continually engenders my mind to wonder with excitement, expectation, and pure joy.

I can’t help but think of Mary holding her little boy in her womb all that time. Did she worry about swollen ankles? Did she prop extra pillows around her at night just to sleep? Did she send Joseph to fetch weird food cravings?

What excitement she must have felt knowing that God with us was growing inside her! There she could keep him safe. There she could keep him warm and well fed. There she could protect him from the world and from suffering.

In the womb, she could protect him from the cross.

As a minister, I know it is our calling as Jesus-followers to die to self. It is every Christian pilgrim’s duty to take up their cross and follow Jesus. I have taught and preached that the way of Christ is often the way of suffering. This means putting yourself at risk for the sake of others. It means leaving the comfortable and the safe in order to venture into potentially dangerous terrain where God leads you.

As a minister, I know Scripture and I know my own experience with the Lord. I know that we will not always feel God’s presence. I know that life is not fair and that the honest, the innocent, and the faithful do not always see justice in this world. I know that bad things happen to good people and that darkness and depression threaten to dim the light of the righteous.

One of this week’s lectionary texts is Psalm 22. The opening verse of that psalm reads: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?” (NRSV, v. 1).

The Psalmist begins with words of groaning and cries of anguish because he feels abandoned. As the Psalm continues, he is bullied by others who taunt him and his God saying, “Commit your cause to the Lord, let him deliver…” (v. 8)

You can hear the sheer desperation of the Psalmist who maintains faith in God as he cries out, “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death. For dogs are all around me; a company of evildoers encircles me. My hands and feet have shriveled; I can count all my bones” (v. 14-17).

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Did Mary know that her son would cry out as the Psalmist when she was pregnant? Did she allow herself to contemplate the suffering her son would go through as he was tucked safely in her womb? After she gave birth, did she hold her tiny infant, pray he would breastfeed well, and secretly hope that God would find another way than to let her baby die?

My son is not Jesus, but he will still be called to take up his cross and follow the Lordship of Jesus Christ. He will still be asked to go to uncomfortable places and to put others needs before his own safety and security. He will live in an unjust world with people who will treat him unfairly. Bad things will happen to him whether he causes them or not and I cannot protect my son from everything. There may even be a time when he feels God has abandoned him and his anguish is that of the Psalmist.

I became a mother 35 weeks ago when I became pregnant. As I continue through this Lenten season with the excitement of the life of my son to come, I remember that being a mother also means teaching my son to take up his own cross. It means to teach my son that the ashes on his forehead remind him that he came from the dust and to dust he will return. It means standing by him when the world is unfair and I cannot protect him. It means allowing him to go when God calls him to the uncomfortable or far away.

Oh Lord, teach me to be a good mother! Teach me to offer my son and his life to you.

“To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him. Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it” (Psalm 22:29-31).

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Rev. LeAnne Spruill Ryan lives in Hewitt, TX with her husband Scott who is pursuing his PhD in New Testament at Baylor University. LeAnne enjoys working for Baylor and volunteers through Dayspring Baptist Church in Waco to lead Sunday worship services for their neighbors at Ridgecrest Retirement Center. They have a labradoodle named Jubilee and will soon welcome their first child into the world, Asher David Ryan.

Katrina Brooks: Forever Friends

Lent 2015, , , , , , , ,

Ash Wednesday came and went in my world without its typical markings. No breeze in the air. No warm sunshine. No scrumptious aromas. No reflective liturgy and no ashes on my forehead.

Like most of the great adventures I have embarked upon, this Lenten journey began whether I was ready or not. Like clockwork on Wednesday, my inner self called my name and demanded I begin this year’s quest by counting my blessings.

Two of the greatest blessings in my life are Tia and Debbie. One I met the weekend I came as a candidate to be one of her pastors. The other I met through our daughters before her family became a part of the church.

With both it was love at first sight. My success over the years with female friends was zero, so no one was more surprised than me when we bonded.

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Tia invests herself vocationally as an academic principal for middle schoolers and Debbie as a dean of students for a liberal arts college. Tia has a boy and a girl. Debbie has two girls. Tia and Debbie both grew up in ministerial homes…one in the north and one in the south. Debbie is a bit older than I am and Tia a bit younger. Tia builds things and Debbie makes beautiful things.

I am the nontraditional one. I am the one who prefers wild finger nail polish and a hair color I was not born with. I am the one who brazenly challenges orthodoxy. I am the one who lacks homemaker skills and I am the one who is still trying to find herself vocationally after all these years.

These women “get me” even when I do not “get” myself. Having entered their lives as their pastor, I was not prepared for their friendship. Maybe it was their professionalism or maybe it was because they grew up in ministerial homes, but something inspired them to seek me out as more than “their pastor” … I was their friend.

In 2011 the season for being their pastor came to an end when my spouse took a job in a different state. I would like to say it was an amiable transition, but truth be told I fought the move. One day I will write it all down, but for now let’s just say my beloved friends pulled me through. They knew enough about grief and about me to realize that no matter how “adult” I was pretending to be when I exited the church system, I would crash and crash hard.

Unable to stop the crash, these blessings of mine walked with me. They listened and cried with me. They offered insight and thought-provoking questions. They let me grieve.

When the grief slid into depression they upped their game and intentionally connected with me in spite of the miles. Their love kept me afloat.

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When I could not find a job, these friends of mine reminded me of my gifts and talents. They pushed me to try something new and not dwell in the past. They inspired me to dream again and boldly step into a new adventure. When I did find a job and it was something outside my wheel house, these women dared me to try.

As I fashion and form who I am in this season of my life, Tia and Debbie continue to inspire me. They ask bold questions and send me thought-provoking books. They encourage me to step out and not settle. They dare me to dream big and insist I boldly step into new adventures.

These women unashamedly remind me to be the one I am destined to be and not less than. They challenge my inappropriate self assessments and dare me to try new things. They invite me to question and to wrestle with my unrest. Our friendship bears witness to a love that keeps covenant.

Gratitude for a love that never gives up, never fails, seems to be the perfect starting marker of a Lenten quest.

These women and I do life together, challenging each other to continue to be formed and fashioned by the One who modeled what love is. In spite of the miles that separate us, we commune together and are real together. We laugh and cry, weep and celebrate.

What began as a relationship between congregants and their pastor has become something very precious to me. I am the minister I am because of Tia and Debbie. I am the mother I am because of Tia and Debbie. I am the disciple I am because of Tia and Debbie, my forever friends.

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Rev. Katrina Stipe Brooks has served as a pastor, campus minister and youth pastor. Part of a clergy couple, she is also a mother to a daughter in Divinity School and a son in college.