Archive for 2018

The Discipleship of Motherhood

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    Nothing has impacted my journey as a disciple, pastor, and person more this year than becoming a mother. Probably nothing has impacted me in my entire life the way motherhood has.
A year ago, when a few of us were visiting Greece, I lit a candle in a thousands year old church and said a prayer for a baby, in much the way that Hannah prayed for Samuel. It had been the prayer of our hearts for most of our marriage. We had no idea that at the time that prayer was prayed God was already weaving together a miracle.
I don’t know why God chooses some people to bear biological children, and others not to. In my deep Wesleyanism I question if that’s God’s choosing or not, or if that’s just a consequence of free will and chance. But whatever it is, this miracle has deeply transformed my life.
I’m forced each moment to be present for someone who doesn’t understand the words wait. I’m forced to think about what it means to illustrate the kingdom of God to one I hope grows to love Jesus and others in ways I can’t even imagine.
So now, my discipleship journey looks like changing diapers, and drying tears. It looks like good night kisses, and snuggle sessions. It looks like singing “Jesus loves me” just one more time before bed. It looks like reading the little golden book about God for the hundredth time, the way my mom did for me so many years ago. It looks like long prayers during midnight feedings, that the world might see and know the love of Jesus.
It probably goes without saying to say that balancing full time pastoring with full time motherhood is a challenge. I often feel distracted and tired. I feel guilty at times for missing substitute teaching, when I know so many people would give a lot to be able to take their children to work with them every day. A few people have said I’m a superhero, and I don’t feel that way. If anything, motherhood has taught me a lot about my complete and utter dependence on the community of faith and on Jesus.
On my worst days, I have really learned that it takes more than parents to raise a child, it takes the church. This body of Christ together praying, rejoicing, playing, laughing, celebrating, crying, and everything in between. I can’t do this on my own, and my rugged individualism has again had to be chipped away. We need each other.
On Easter Sunday I had the complete honor of baptizing our son into the church. It was easily the highlight of my ministry, but it also was a lesson in discipleship as well. My life is not my own, I know, but my child is not my own either. He was bought by the very life of Jesus, and so I must live each day with this knowledge that this person I have prayed for for years, is to be given to the God who loves him more than I, over and over again. And when he turns his little head to look at me with the deepest love in his eyes, I pray in fervent hope that that is the way he learns to look at Jesus.
And, because of those precious baby looks, and those fervent prayers, I am trying my best to learn to look at Jesus that way too, with unending love for the Lord who loves me beyond measure.

From Dust... To Dust

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      New parent anxiety is a real thing. Even in the hospital surrounded by medical professionals, I felt a deep compulsion to check on my newborn son to make sure he was still breathing. This didn't end when we brought him home, and though we taught ourselves to work through it, we still feel the need to ensure our baby is alive. We feel the need to protect him, to shield him, to do whatever it takes to ensure his survival. 
      So, when Ash Wednesday arrived on the calendar this year, it became even more counter cultural than it had in the past. I walked through the day reflecting on the fact that in a few short hours I would be marking my infant son with ashes and telling him he would day. "From dust you came, to dust you will return."
      My mortality has been wrestled with on more than one Ash Wednesday. It was confronted when I was dipped into the baptismal waters, and was again confronted as I took my ordination vows; my life is not my own. The awareness that I will die is ever before me, and while I hope and pray that it is many years off still, I also know that I would sacrifice my life in a second for those around me. 
       The mortality of my son, however, is a different matter. I had spent his first weeks of life in near paranoia at ensuring he stays alive, and here I am, marking him with an acknowledgement of his death. 
       There are many difficult things I have done as a pastor, but this may have been one of the hardest. We had prayed for this baby for years. I had carried him in my own body for 9 months. We held him in our arms, and had only held him for a few short weeks. But, he's going to die someday. 
      The weight of that is something I couldn't have anticipated, despite the obvious truth of it. It lead me to think and pray for my friends and acquaintances who know the awful and painful truth of their child dying. My dad had a son die just days after he was born, and there are countless others with that same excruciating experience. "From dust you came, to dust you shall return". 
      Still others were confronted with their child's mortality when words like cancer were uttered in sterile rooms. There are myriad diseases and birth defects which force someone to face after years of dreaming and praying, the reality of "from dust you came, to dust you shall return."
       But here we are, facing the Church calendar and this reality. That all is not well. That the world has been marred by sin and death, and that we too will die. That our friends and family, and yes, even our sweet babies will succumb to the inevitability of death. 
      It is counter-cultural in so many ways, because everything is about protecting our children, keeping them safe, shielding them from all the horrors of the world. But it seems the church is communicating something different... your child is not your own, and the call to discipleship extends to them too. The call to carry a cross, the call to follow Christ even unto death, extends to them too. Our responsibility, then, becomes less about protection, and more about preparation. Our call as parents then becomes less about hoarding special moments, and more about releasing our child to bring about good in the world. Our role then is not just to teach our children about the wonders of the world, but to teach them about sacrifice and love for others. 
       Ash Wednesday confronted me with a lot of things, but I also told my congregation that while somber, the service is tinged with hope, because the story doesn't end in ashes, the story ends with resurrection. Maybe that is the most powerful thing I embraced this year. I marked my child with a mark of death and grief, but not for the sake of death, rather for the sake of resurrection. 
     
 My prayer for my infant son, on Ash Wednesday and always, then, is that he would embrace death, that he might know resurrection. That though the world will constantly sell him lies about hording goods and moments, that the world will tell him security and safety are his goals, that though the world will say the problems are too big, that he will look at all the challenges, that he will look at all the sin and brokenness, and he will lay down his desires, his wants, his needs, and yes, even his life for the sake of others.  I pray that he will look death in the face, in all the places it has control, in all the ways it has robbed this world of joy, that he will look at the ashes of this world, that he will hold them in his hand and he will breathe resurrection life into them.  
        It is my prayer that I will learn to release him into all that God has called him to. That I will push against everything that tells me to do whatever it takes to protect and shield him, and that I will instead remind him "from dust you came, to dust you shall return", so that he might be all that God is calling him to be. 

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