“As you therefore have received Christ Jesus the Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving.”

– Colossians 2:6-7

Beloved of God,

My first Call brought me and my young family to the Redwood Coast of Northwestern California where I remember the excitement of exploring those ancient forests.  Driving south on Highway 101 along the Eel River we entered Humboldt Redwoods State Park, one of the last remaining refuges for the great trees, and took the exit for FOUNDER’S GROVE.  Stepping out of the car in that majestic grove was like stepping into a cathedral.  The sheer scale of the trees left us slack jawed and tongue-tied.  Within a ten mile radius of where we stood were some of the largest and most accessible Redwood giants on the planet—trees that towered over 350 feet, with trunks measuring 15 feet or more in diameter, some of which were seedlings when Jesus was a boy. Redwoods were turning soil, air, and water into leaf, branch, and trunk eons before human beings made their appearance on planet Earth.   So ancient is the trees’ lineage that the footfalls of dinosaurs once echoed between their trunks. And now here we were standing in their shadows, craning our necks in awe, hushed and humbled by these greatest of living beings.

What allows these majestic trees to achieve a longevity that other tree species cannot? In a word: their root system. But it isn’t the depth of the root system that makes the critical difference—even the greatest giants have roots extending only 6-12 feet deep. It’s the breadth of the root system that’s key. Redwoods create the strength to withstand powerful winds and floods through the centuries by extending their roots more than 50 feet from the trunk and by living in groves where those roots can intertwine. Recent research into forest ecology has shown that interlocking root systems like these provide not only physical support; the healthier trees actually share nutrient resources with the younger and more vulner­able trees with which they are connected. Trees, it turns out, know something about living in a supportive community.

When measured against the lifespan of an ancient Redwood, the 75 years the Peace Lutheran has been around is a brief moment in time. Yet in human terms, it’s not insignificant. The same principle that contributes to the health and longevity of Redwood trees contributes to the health and longevity of human communities—namely our ability to extend our roots outward, to cultivate shared commitments and shoulder shared burdens, to grow strong and interdependent from the name we receive at the Font and the nourishment we receive at the Table. The congregation we know as PEACE grows stronger when we promote a healthy interdependence and attentiveness to needs and opportunities which exist within our community and this neighborhood at 39th and Thistle where God has planted us.

During the run-up to our 75th Celebration all sorts of new gifts and givers have surfaced—one of the great outcomes of this whole process!  Our yearlong celebration of God’s steadfast accompaniment with us over three quarters of a century has brought renewed energy.  A good deal of that energy has been focused on updating our physical structure so that it better reflects the vibrant nature of our community.  But the energy must not stop there.  It must spill out beyond these doors and walls and windows into our neighborhood; the roots must continue to grow outward, seeking new connections.  This is always the journey which we’re about.  A joy filled and thanksful 75th dear Peacefolk!  I can’t wait to see what God will be up to next.

With you on the Way,

Pastor Erik

When the poor ones, who have nothing, still are giving;

when the thirsty pass the cup, water to share;

when the wounded offer others strength and healing:

We see God, here by our side, walking our way;

we see God, here by our side, walking our way.

– José Antonio Oliver, ELW #725

Beloved of God,

In spite of serving as a pastor in the Lutheran Church for 33 years, I had never heard the name Jehu Jones, Jr., until last month.  His story, as the first African American to be ordained a Lutheran pastor, is at once an inspiring example of determination against all odds, and “a melancholy and indeed shameful aspect of Lutheran History.”[1]

His father, Jehu Jones, Sr., who had purchased his own freedom from slavery, was a pew owning member of St. Philip’s Protestant Episcopal Church and proprietor of one of the finest hotels in Charleston, South Carolina.  A tailor by trade, Jehu Jr. had inherited his father’s name and business.  He brought his own children to St. Philip’s for baptism in 1815.  But shortly after the Lutheran Church of German Protestants (St. John’s Church) opened its doors to blacks in 1816, Jones and his wife Elizabeth became members.  Their subsequent children were baptized there by Pastor John Bachman.  In October of 1832, Jones felt a call to be a missionary in Liberia.  But he knew that, because of his race, southern Lutherans would not ordain him, so he sought an avenue of service in the North.  He arrived in New York City with letter from Pastor Bachman in hand and made contact with Pastor William Strobel, a former member of St. John’s, and after examination was ordained by the Ministerium of New York on October 24, 1832 at the age of 46.

But when Jones returned to his native South Carolina to prepare for the trip to Liberia, he was arrested and jailed under the Negro Seamen’s Act, which forbade any free Negro from reentering South Carolina and directed that free blacks could be jailed or put on the auction block.  Appearing before a judge, Jones was told he must spend time in jail or leave immediately.  He chose to leave, and after stopping home long enough to say goodbye to his wife and children, the youngest of whom was 3 days old, he departed Charleston for New York.  Exiled from his native city and unable to join the group from Charleston about to embark for Liberia, Jones sought another way to reach the colony, but his efforts and those of his supporters were rebuffed and the dream of ministering in Liberia was set aside.

In the spring of 1833, joined by his wife Elizabeth and nine children, he chose Philadelphia as his new home.  Arriving there with letters of recommendation, he was discouraged by leading Lutheran clergy from establishing a Lutheran church.  “The people will hate you because of your color,” he was told; why not join another communion—such as United Methodists, Presbyterians, or Baptists—who already count pastors of color among their ranks?  That, Jones insisted, was not an option; he was Lutheran through and through.  And so the establishment of a Lutheran mission to the black citizens of Philadelphia began to take root.

Using his own resources and those acquired through a fundraising tour, he bought land and began building St. Paul’s Church, the first independent African American Lutheran congregation.  But when the church encountered financial difficulties, rather than lend them aid, the Ministerium of Pennsylvania took title of the church building and failed to assist its pastor.  The New York Ministerium also rejected his appeal for funds, and eventually the building was sold to pay off acquired debts.  His subsequent appeal to the Synod of New York for permission and support to establish a Lutheran mission for the black community in New York was not only rejected by the synod, the validity of his ministry itself was called into question and he was unrightfully censored.

The institutional church failed Pastor Jones abysmally.  Even after all this, Pastor Jones continued to be faithful in keeping his Philadelphia congregation together without a building and he continued to preach. As late as 1851, at age 65, he could proudly assert, “I continue to preach to the colored congregation of St. Paul Lutheran Church.”  In the face of the Lutheran Church’s unfaithfulness to him, Pastor Jehu Jones remained faithful to the gospel.  He died September 28, 1852, the victim of prejudice, rejection, and institutional abuse.

In his book, DEAR CHURCH: A LOVE LETTER FROM A BLACK PREACHER TO THE WHITEST DENOMINATION IN THE U.S., ELCA Pastor Lenny Duncan makes an impassioned plea for our church and society at large to acknowledge our captivity to white supremacy. The community Duncan serves in the heart of Brooklyn takes its name from Pastor Jehu Jones; it’s called Jehu’s Table.  Duncan’s book, the subject of our Adult Sunday class through this month, is provocative and challenging.  And it belongs at the center of discussions about the prevalence of white racism in church and society and in congregational life.

This month, as we celebrate the various ways our congregation has engaged and is engaging in ministries of social outreach, assistance, and advocacy, we remain mindful of the reality that systemic oppressions of all kinds bedevil our culture at every level. The church’s responsibility in the midst of this reality is not only to feed the hungry and bind up the wounded, but to consciously engage and defeat white supremacy and the other demonic forces within us and without that call into question the image of God that resides in every human being.

Jesus’ ministry among those who were marginalized, his model of bringing them into the circle and challenging the forces—both social and spiritual—that supported them, must be our model. The impulse to reach out and serve, as you’ll see in the article by Boots Winterstein below, is embedded in our congregation’s DNA.  That’s something to celebrate, even while we remain alert to the continuing work to which God, and siblings in Christ like Pastor Duncan, call us.

[1] Philip Pfatteicher, New Book of Festivals and Commemorations.  2008.  Much of what I share here is taken from Pfatteicher’s article on Rev. Jones, an essay in The Lutheran Quarterly, Volume X, 1996 by Karl E. Johnson, Jr. and Joseph E. Romeo, as well as from Lenny Duncan’s book, Dear Church….(Augsburg Fortress, 2019)

Luther & Lilian Anderson, December 1946

I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.

So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.

– 1 Corinthians 3:6-7

Beloved of God,

The Letter of Call from the Lutheran Board of Home Missions was dated January 14, 1944, and it was directed to a seminarian in his senior year at Augustana Theological Seminary in Rock Island, Illinois.  Though it would be six months before the candidate was approved for ordination, he’d already been identified by the Board as a good fit for a new mission start that was to be established in the “southwest section of the city of Seattle.” Starting annual salary:  $2,100; with a housing allowance “not to exceed $60 a month for rent.”  The seminarian’s name? Luther Anderson.

Luther said YES to the Call, and on September 10, 1944, he conducted his first worship service as the mission’s founding pastor.  There was no building—that would come two years later.  Worship was held in an E. C. Hughes School portable classroom.  Years later, on the occasion of the congregation’s 50th anniversary, Pastor Anderson shared this remembrance:

“The first service was memorable. It was my first service as a young ordained pastor. Eighteen attended that first worship; there were only 15 when I pronounced the benediction. One lady left early to fulfill a promise to her husband, another fainted and was taken home! I wondered what my ministry was to become.”

It was while serving Peace that Luther met and then married his wife Lilian in July 1946.  (Lilian, like Luther, was a child of a Lutheran pastor.  She was born in China and lived there for many of her early years.)  A new Call in 1949 took Luther and Lilian from Peace Lutheran to First Lutheran Church in East Orange, New Jersey, where he served until 1960.  In 1960, he accepted a Call from First Lutheran Church in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where he remained until retirement in 1985.  Retirement, however, didn’t last long.  In 1986 he accepted a call to serve as Assistant Pastor at All Saints Lutheran Church in Tamarac, Florida; a position he served for the rest of his life. Pastor Anderson died in April of 2002, and two months ago we received word from their son Eric Anderson that Lilian passed away on June 12th of this year. We also received another communication from Eric.  It came while I was on vacation—and it came as a total surprise: Luther and Lilian Anderson had left a bequest to Peace in their will.   Eric sent paperwork for us to fill out, but we still didn’t know the amount of this legacy gift.  On August 20, I sent Eric the following email correspondence to Eric:

We are both surprised and grateful that your parents Luther and Lilian felt such affection for Peace that they would choose to include the congregation in their final tithe.  What a tremendous gesture!

We are in the midst of our 75^th capital campaign right now, building on the momentum of the congregation’s 75^th anniversary.  This all comes to a culmination on Sunday, November 24th.  A major project we’re engaged in at present is the updating and refurbishment of the narthex.   We want the building, both inside and out, to reflect the vibrant nature of our growing community.  Our narthex redesign effort is aimed toward that goal.  I think that utilizing your parents’ legacy gift to support this effort would be very fitting and would further serve to inspire others.  Can you tell us the scope of your parents’ gift?    Depending on the size of their gift, there may be additional areas where their gift could be applied.  Thank you again.  Yours in Christ,

Erik Kindem

That evening, after a council meeting in which the question of capital project funding figured prominently, I checked my email.  Eric Anderson had responded.  The amount of Luther and Lilian’s final tithe gift to Peace would be $27,083 (!!!)   Immediately, I wrote back:

WOW!  What astounding generosity!  I’m overcome.  After finishing our monthly church council meeting I found your email in my inbox.  What a tremendous gift!

The God-timing of Luther and Lilian’s gift is amazing.  September 10th will be the 75th anniversary of Luther’s first worship service at Peace.  I wish I could tell both him and Lilian that Peace, after ups and downs, is a joyous and vibrant community with a keen since of faith-centered welcome and a strong community outreach beyond its doors.  Your parents’ final act of generosity will be such a powerful witness and testimony to the current people of Peace.  We look forward eagerly to receiving the gift.  Our desire will be to put the gift to work right away in the remodeling effort I described previously, which builds on the very physical structure that your father was instrumental in establishing…  Soli Deo Gloria!  – Erik Kindem

In his first letter to the Corinthians Paul reminds that community who gets the credit when good things happen in ministry:   “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.”

The seeds of what would become Peace Lutheran Church were sown before Luther Anderson arrived on the scene.  (See my Pastor’s Pen article from September 2018 as well as the History of Peace Series available on our website.) And after his time of watering those seeds, the continuing formation of Peace was passed on to other leaders, each of whom in the ensuing decades brought their own gifts to bear.  And God gave the growth.  No one could have predicted that Peace would hold such a strong place in the Andersons’ hearts 75 years after Luther’s ministry here began…no one but God.

Luther and Lilian Anderson knew something about the generosity of God.  No doubt they experienced it growing up in the household of faith.  But I wonder if, as they witnessed Peace families offering time, resources, and sweat equity to establish this congregation, a new layer of understanding about God’s generosity didn’t cement itself within them.

Through their years in ministry after leaving Peace, their knowledge of what God could accomplish with and through them and the congregations they served continued to grow.  During the 25 years they served in Fort Lauderdale many changes were afoot in the larger world, as millions of people from across the US and around the world came to call Florida home.  As Fort Lauderdale grew and changed during this period, so did Pastor Anderson’s vision of the ministry. He expanded the influence of the church outside its walls, starting one of the first Cooperative Feeding Programs in the area, and became an integral player in refugee relocation programs—particularly those dealing with Asian refugees. Over his lifetime Pastor Anderson was instrumental in the resettlement and sponsorship of well over 250 refugees from around the world.  And he participated in numerous organizations as part of his social ministry.

Luther and Lilian knew that the gifts they’d received and the assets they’d saved through lifelong, faithful stewardship were meant to be passed on.  Their tremendous legacy gift supporting the mission of Peace affirms that truth.  75 years later, their affection for this congregation and its mission rings out loud and clear… “And God gave the growth.”  

As we enter the final three months of this 75th anniversary year, culminating in our celebration on November 24, there are many opportunities for giving.  I hope the Andersons’ example will inspire you—as it has me—to reach more deeply and participate more fully in the efforts to equip our facilities for faithful ministry in the next 75 years.

The LORD appeared to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre, as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. He looked up and saw three men standing near him.  When he saw then, he ran from the tent entrance to meet them, and bowed down to the ground.  He said, “My lord, if I find favor with you, do not pass by your servant.  Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree.  Let me bring a little bread, that you may refresh yourselves, and after that you may pass on—since you have come to your servant.”  And they said, “Do as you said.”

– Genesis 18:1-5

Beloved of God,

This story from Genesis shows Abraham to be the consummate host of three unexpected guests who show up of the blue.  Abraham offers them food and refreshment, and when they give him the green light, he sends his servants scurrying to make it so.  Only later is it revealed that these unexpected guests bring crucial news about the promise Abraham and Sarah had received from God— that they would be the progenitors of a whole new people.  These guests, later tradition suggests, are none other than the Holy Three.

We all have stories of hospitality—received or given—and how they have changed us.  As I write, I’ve just returned with Chris from our 20th anniversary get-away to an Italian Villa bed and breakfast (in Tacoma of all places!), where we experienced the marvelous hospitality of our hosts Toni and Martin.  While visiting with other guests during a sumptuous breakfast the morning of our anniversary, we received a recommendation for a small, intimate restaurant where we could celebrate in style.  We took the recommendation and ran with it and, boy, are we glad we did, for it added a wonderfully rich layer to our celebration and to our appreciation of excellent hospitality.[1]

Twenty-two years ago this month, while driving back from the Midwest after dropping my son Nathan off at college, I was the recipient of another unforgettable experience of hospitality—one totally unexpected.  After putting my “pedal to the metal” on a marathon leg of driving with the goal of getting home to Portland as soon as possible, I arrived at Coeur de Alene, Idaho, thoroughly tuckered out.  Unable to keep my eyes open any longer, but not wanting to shell out for motel room, I pulled off I-90 at a rest stop just east of town.  Finding a payphone (no cell phone back then!) I made a call to my still-newish girlfriend Chris Hauger.  All I got was her voicemail.  So I let her know that was taking a break at a rest stop outside of Coeur de Alene, too tired to drive any further.

Earlier that summer, Chris had occasion to introduce me to dear family friends Jeanne and John.  Chris had met Jeanne and her children in Ethiopia when she was a girl and their families had stayed in close touch ever since.  Jeanne and John, it turns out, lived in Coeur de Alene, and when Chris received my phone message she —unbeknownst to me—went into high gear.  While I was taping newspapers over the windows of my van and preparing to lie down for a few hours, Chris was reaching out to Jeanne and John by phone.  She told John how concerned she was for me; that I was at a rest stop somewhere outside of Coeur de Alene; that I needed a safe place to get some rest before continuing on.  John assured Chris: “There is only one rest stop it could be and I know just where it is.”  Before they hung up, they’d hatched a plan that John would search me out using Chris’ description of my van, and offer me lodging at their home for the night.

As I lay in the back of my Dodge Caravan behind papered windows—just on the edge of sleep—with nasty visions whirling about in my exhausted brain of what might happen if somebody tried to break into my van while I slept, I was startled by a loud knocking on my front window.  Bolting up quickly as adrenaline flowed, I prepared myself for whatever I might encounter on the other side of that window.  Finally, opening my door cautiously, I looked out and there was a big burly man with a mischievous smile on his face.   Holding out a phone, he said, “IT’S FOR YOU.”

It was John.  And the voice of the other end of the phone?  It belonged to Chris.  “John and Jeanne are ready to put you up for the night, Erik.  Is that alright?”  Alright?!  YES—AND THEN SOME!  So I pulled the papers from my windows, followed John to their house in town, and was welcomed into the safety and comfort of their home for the first time, treated like a long lost son.  The next morning, after a hardy breakfast, I took my leave, deeply appreciative of Jeanne and John’s hospitality and mindful once more of the way grace can show itself in our lives when we least expect it.

From that time on, John and Jeanne’s home has been a regular way-station for us as we’ve journeyed—first as a couple and then with our children—to Kindem Family Reunions in Whitefish, Montana.  This year, on our way back from Whitefish at the end of July, we’ll be stopping in Coeur de Alene once more.  This time so we can attend Jeanne’s memorial service; where sadness at her passing will be mingled with gratitude for the deep friendship and hospitality which has been such an incalculable gift through the years.

Wherever your summer takes you, I pray for experiences of hospitality—received and given; for sacred encounters in which grace becomes known.

[1] The restaurant, in case you’re interested, was Over the Moon Café, located in Tacoma’s Opera Alley.

“We sing the glories of this pillar of fire, the brightness of which is not diminished even when its light is divided and borrowed. For it is fed by the melting wax which the bees, your servants, have made for the substance of this candle.”

– From The Exsultet, sung each year at the Great Vigil of Easter

“Go to the fields and gardens, and you shall learn it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower. But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.  For to the bee a flower is the fountain of life.  And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love.”

– Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Beloved of God,

“The bees, your servants…”  I love that line—and listen for it each time the Exsultet is sung during the Easter Vigil.  Truer words were never spoken, as I’ve been learning of late while reading two books that trace the natural history of bees: BUZZ: The Nature and Necessity of Bees, by Thor Hanson, and Bee Time: Lessons from the Hive, by Mark Wilson.

The first bees evolved from wasps about 125 million years ago—soon (in geologic time anyway) after flowering plants begin to appear.  These primordial bees made the transition from being predators to being gatherers of nectar and pollen from flowers—an innovation that initiated an explosion in the diversity and abundance of flowering plants and bee species, enhancing the survival of both.  This exchange between bees and flowers, as Wilson points out, is pretty basic:  Flowers provide sugar in nectar and protein in pollen; and bees transfer pollen from flower to flower as they collect the nectar, thereby fertilizing the flower. (Gibran, in the quote above, gives this utilitarian arrangement an eloquent touch.)

One delicious byproduct of this encounter—honey—has served as an important food source for human beings ever since our pre-human ancestors began walking upright on African soil.  In fact, recent studies of early human diets suggest that a significant source of calories, trace vitamins and minerals upon which our forebears depended for survival came from “hunting” honey—a practice that continues in many parts of the world today.  Over the eons, human beings have been fascinated by the complex cooperation that allows honey bee colonies to thrive.   Along the way we’ve discovered many uses for the byproducts of bees, including the beeswax from which the candles we use in worship are made.  Our Scriptures turn to bees to capture holy things and sacred promises: The psalmist enlists honey to help describe the treasure which is God’s word: “The ordinances of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey, and drippings of the honeycomb.” (Ps 19:8-10) And to extol the virtues of the Promised Land—“a land flowing with milk and honey.”

But the more than 20,000 species of bees in our world, with their wildly diverse patterns of living, have a role which goes far beyond satisfying the sweet tooth, extending the daylight, and embroidering literature. They are vitally important to human survival because of their pollinating role in agricultural and natural ecosystems.  Approximately one-third of all crops benefit from or are dependent on insect pollination—mostly by bees, a reality to which the vast majority of us, unless we’re farmers or orchardists, are oblivious.  When we bite into an apple or crunch down on a handful of almonds, the image of the humble bee likely doesn’t come to mind, nor a sigh of “thanks” escape our lips—but they should!

The collapse of honeybee colonies in recent decades (dubbed “colony collapse disorder” or CCD) along with the accelerating disappearance of less common bee species and the endangerment of others, has caught the world’s attention.  And that of our worship planning team.  This decline is not caused by a single factor but by a complex mix of factors, including the widespread use of insecticides and pesticides, disease outbreaks, and the reduction in the diversity and abundance of nectar- and pollen-producing flowers.   A crisis is afoot that portends massive implications for our world.  As we mark this month’s Season of Creation at Peace we’ll be learning more about bees and pollinators, and the role they play in our fields, gardens, and orchards.  All this in the service of revitalizing our God-given vocation as Earthkeepers.  Come learn with us from the bee how to be more faithful servants!

There in God’s garden stands the Tree of Wisdom, whose leaves hold forth the healing of the nations:

Tree of all knowledge, Tree of all compassion, Tree of all beauty.

Thorns not its own are tangled in its foliage; our greed has starved it, our despite has choked it.

Yet, look! It lives!  Its grief has not destroyed it nor fire consumed it.

See how its branches reach to us in welcome; hear what the Voice says, “Come to me, ye weary!

Give me your sickness, give me all your sorrow, I will give blessing.”

– There in God’s Garden, #342 in Evangelical Lutheran Worship

Words by Pécselyi Király Imre (Hungary, c. 1590—c. 1641)

Beloved of God,

Toward the end of the film masterpiece, Return of the King, the last of three films based on The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien, as the dark minions of Mordor mass for battle and the end of all that is good seems inevitable, the story takes us to the White City of Gondor—Minas Tirith.  Minas Tirith represents the nations’ last, best hope, but the steward of its throne has tipped the scale toward madness, and now the fate of the whole inhabited world lies on a knife’s edge.  At the pinnacle of the alabaster city’s mountain bulkhead, in the plaza high above the plain where the decisive battle will be joined, stands the White Tree of Gondor.  It is a symbol of the nation’s long kingly heritage, its dignity, wisdom, endurance and fruitfulness.  But this once great tree has lost all its leaves, and the bare limbs that remain seem to portend that the noble tree, like the nation itself, is destined for oblivion.  But as the siege of Gondor begins and casualties mount, we watch as, inexplicably, a single white blossom on the tree—unheralded and unnoticed—opens; a sign that, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, all is not lost, and a future with hope is still a possibility. It’s a stirring moment but one that is easily missed.

This month the Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES) of the United Nations issued a summary about the state of species on our planet home that was hard to miss.  It was shocking.  Elements of the natural world—both plants and animals—are declining globally at rates unprecedented in human history.  As many as one million species are under threat.  In addition, the rate of species extinctions is accelerating, with grave impacts on people around the world now likely.  “The health of ecosystems on which we and all other species depend is deteriorating more rapidly than ever,” says IPBES Chair, Sir Robert Watson.  “We are eroding the very foundations of our economies, livelihoods, food security, health and quality of life worldwide.”[1]  What are we to do with this information?

From earliest days, Easter has been celebrated as the “8th day of creation” because in raising Christ from death God has ushered in a whole new world.  Baptismal fonts through the ages have often taken on octagonal shapes because of this very recognition. Questions that God’s people keep alive during this Easter season include:

• How do we as a community which gathers around the Risen Christ live the resurrection life?
• How can we live in such a way that our choices and commitments mirror the risen life to which our Lord calls us?
• How can new patterns of living support the renewal that his rising presages?

These questions pertain to the choices we make each day and are firmly rooted in our care for the neighbor—which includes the many species with whom we share planet Earth and on which our own survival as a species depends.

One of my new(er) favorite hymns is the one quoted above, by Hungarian hymnwriter Pécselyi Király Imre. Imre, a Lutheran pastor, lived during the Reformation era, a time of tumultuous change when every strata of society was undergoing sea change. Originally fashioned as a meditation on Jesus’ seven last words from the cross with fifteen stanzas,   contemporary hymnwriter Erik Routley provides a paraphrase of six of those stanzas in the form we have in our hymnal. Using the great image of the Tree as both Cross and Christ, the hymn lifts up the healing and saving role of the crucified and risen One while at the same time demarking the “thorns” that threaten the Tree. What I find particularly moving about this hymn is how it speaks truthfully about the threats we face without allowing those threats to undercut the testimony of hope. Like that single bloom on the White Tree of Gondor, this hymn testifies to hope at a time when hopelessness threatens to overwhelm.

The IPBES report from a group of global scientists includes a call to action. It tells us it’s not too late to make a difference, but only if we start now at every level from local to global. “Through ‘transformative change’, nature can still be conserved, restored and used sustainably – this is also key to meeting most other global goals. By transformative change, we mean a fundamental, system-wide reorganization across technological, economic and social factors, including paradigms, goals and values.” The report omits the term “spiritual” from the list of factors, but for us who follow in Jesus’ footsteps it is essential, and in fact grounds, informs, and abets all the others. As the stories from the book of Acts make clear throughout this Easter season, Christians are people primed for transformative change! The incarnation and the resurrection of Christ affirm the sacredness of this Earthly realm, and the pouring out of the Holy Spirit on God’s fledgling people exemplifies God’s commitment in Christ to “make all things new.” For followers of Christ, despair is never an option; hope gives shape to every dream and endeavor we set our hearts to. With crisis in the natural world looming, we have the opportunity and obligation to get out in front and lead by example.

[1] You can find the summary here: https://www.un.org/sustainabledevelopment/blog/2019/05/nature-decline-unprecedented-report/

“Thus says the LORD: Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old.

I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you perceive it?”

– Isaiah 43:18-19

Beloved of God,

We know them—people dominated by narratives from their past; narratives that hold them captive; narratives from which they are unable to extract themselves.  There may be good reasons for this.  And yet, staying stuck in old patterns exacts a price on the present, and can prevent us from seeing the promise and the possibility of an alternative future.  We know them, and at times we are them.

While I was in Minnesota recently, visiting my mother Shirley in her final days, I was simultaneously going through personal items at my parents’ home as we prepared to put the house on the market.  The first night there, I found a neat pile of items from the past that had been collected and set aside.  A few of them delighted me—the “lost” penny collection from my childhood—including two WW2 vintage aluminum pennies—which I was convinced my younger brothers had raided to buy candy at the corner store.  And the wonderful handwritten notes (in fine cursive script!) I’d received from Montana classmates after moving to Minnesota in the midst of my 4th grade year.  Those I brought home.

There were other items that didn’t make the return trip to Seattle.  Most of these consisted of letters I had written to my parents through the years, some of them during times of significant trial.  As I began reviewing them I could feel the weight of those trying times begin to bear down on me once more.  After a quick phone call to a confidant, they found their way into the recycle bin.  The relief was palpable.  I would not allow bygone events to wriggle their way into my present or my future.

The prophet Isaiah says as much to God’s people as they prepare to leave the land of their exile and head home:

“That old material that once dominated your lives?—leave it behind. I’ve got something better in store for you—in fact it’s unfolding right now, and if you pay attention you can see it!” 

This is God’s message to us all in the death and resurrection of Christ: those old narratives and conflicts, the old prisons, the personal and collective hells that have kept us captive have been breached once and for all.  God is doing a new thing, and it is marvelous in our eyes!  The future is OPEN!

Holy Week and Easter Blessings!

Pastor Erik

“Judging others makes us blind, but love gives us sight.

By judging others we blind ourselves to our own evil and

to the grace which others are just as entitled to as we are.”

– Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship

Beloved of God,

Their names run the gamut from the 16th century English poet John Donne to the two 18th century slaves-turned-abolitionists Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth; from the 5th century’s Saint Patrick to the 20th century’s Saint Oscar Romero.  What do they have in common?  In each case, their commemoration date or feast day on the church calendar falls on a Sunday during Lent this year.  Add to these the name Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Lutheran pastor and resister during Hitler’s 3rd Reich, and we end up with a season peopled by followers of Christ who demonstrated uncommon courage through acts of love and discipleship in the face of fear and institutional injustice.  Look for their names, their faces, and their deeds to be woven through our worship life as the season of Lent unfolds.

Each of these extraordinary persons lived out their vocations in full understanding of their need for community; and each has something to teach us about the value of community in our 21st century world—a world which, though more socially “connected” than ever, is marked by estranged relationships and the inability to talk across “enemy” lines.  The life stories of these diverse witnesses inspire us to see our own with fresh eyes.

It was the poet and pastor Donne who penned the lines:

               “No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main…

any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.” [1]

This is the reality we seek to live each week when we gather as God’s beloved community around the Eucharistic meal.

Our family has felt the embrace of this beloved community in a profound way over the last month in the aftermath of Kai’s sledding accident.[2]  Church community, school community, neighborhood community, medical community—all of them, all of you—rallied to weave a dense layer of prayer and care around our family in the face of trauma.  We lift our hearts in gratitude to God for you—tangible emblems of God’s ever present, compassionate accompaniment.

There are many examples of ongoing trauma besetting our world.  By refusing to allow fear to control or silence them, these ordinary people named above became extraordinary witnesses, telling the truth, breaking down barriers, challenging the status quo, putting their own lives at risk while leading others to freedom.

Minutes before being assassinated while presiding at Holy Communion in San Salvador, Archbishop Oscar Romero told his congregation: “Those who surrender to the service of the poor through love of Christ will live like the grain of wheat that…only apparently dies. If it were not to die, it would remain a solitary grain.  The harvest comes becomes of the grain that dies… We know that every effort to improve society above all when society is so full of injustice and sin, is an effort that God blesses, that God wants, that God demands of us.” 

If Bonhoeffer is right—that judging blinds us but love gives us sight—then perhaps this Lenten season can become an opportunity for practicing less judging and more loving.  The traditional disciplines of Lent—prayer, fasting, almsgiving—sets us up beautifully to do just that, and to follow our Lord on a pilgrim’s journey that will lead us from death to life.

With you on the Way,

Pastor Erik

[1] From MEDITATION XVII, Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

[2] By God’s mercy, Kai’s healing is progressing well.

“Oh, the house of denial has thick walls and very small windows

and whoever lives there, little by little, will turn to stone.”

– Mary Oliver

 “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall…”

– Robert Frost

Beloved of God,

One of the great motivations for us to move forward with our plans to “refresh” our sanctuary and narthex with new carpet, paint, lighting, furniture, and windows, is to make our building space and facilities match the bright, vibrant and welcoming nature of our community.  Phases 1 and 2 of this project call for us to focus on spaces within the building, but conversations will inevitably lead us to evaluate the outside of our building as well—the face we project to the neighborhood and community beyond our doors.

We’ve done quite a bit in recent years—via God’s Work-Our Hands projects, patio events, raingardens and cisterns, Tiny House build, ramps, little library, solar panels, HUB work—to give neighbors a view into the priorities of this congregation that gathers at 39th and Thistle.   When we replace the westside narthex windows (Phase 2) with ones which are more energy efficient and which allow us to visually connect with the world outside our building (and visa versa), we’ll be taking another step toward seeing our mission more clearly.  That mission to “venture beyond ourselves” (Vision Statement) calls us to always be looking for ways to connect with the people and world around us; ways to join in the work God is already doing there.

While we’ve been moving forward with our facility plan, the news cycle in the greater world has been dominated by conversation about the need—or not—for a wall along the U.S. Mexico border.  Poet Mary Oliver, who died last month, reminds us that walls not only separate people and things, they damage the souls of those who erect them. (See excerpt of her poem above.)  The next line of her poem reads: “In those years I did everything I could do and I did it in the dark— I mean without understanding.” Entrenched positions put blinders on us from which there is no escape.

During this Season of Light we are called to follow Christ beyond our personal or corporate entrenchments. To remind us how difficult this can be, as February begins we hear the story of Jesus’ sermon in this hometown of Nazareth. At first, the community seems to welcome his message – proclaiming liberty to captives and letting the oppressed go free sounds perfectly fine to them.  But the ensuing conversation devolves into an argument about insiders and outsiders and the next thing you know, the hometown crowd is ready to throw Jesus over the cliff!

St. Paul, who planted many congregations throughout the Mediterranean world and who struggled to help them grasp the implications of being grafted into Christ, spoke powerfully about the importance of reconciliation, which at its heart is about breaking down barriers so relationships can be restored. In Ephesians he writes: “For Christ is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups (Jew and Gentile) into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.”  And in 2 Corinthians Paul testifies to the God “who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation.”

In his poem, Mending Wall, Robert Frost takes us with him as he and his neighbor go through their annual process of “setting the wall between us” which weather, man, and beast have breached. In the middle of this exercise, Frost wonders aloud why they do it.  “Good fences make good neighbors,” comes his neighbor’s reply.  And Frost challenges: “Why do they make good neighbors?  Isn’t it where there are cows?  But here there are no cows.  Before I built a wall I’d ask to know what I was walling in or walling out, and to whom I was like to give offence.  Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, that wants it down.”  In the end, Frost concludes of his neighbor, “He moves in darkness as it seems to me, not of woods only and the shade of trees.”

A good deal of the opposition Jesus experienced in his ministry—including in his hometown—had to do with how he pushed the presumed boundaries of God’s circle of care outward, so that it encompassed those whom law and tradition had walled out.  When at his crucifixion the curtains of the Temple are torn in two from top to bottom—the last wall between God and humanity is breached.  But we human beings are good at building and maintaining walls and fences.  And so the work of erecting them in locations both new and old continues ad nauseam.

Yet, however much we find ourselves tilting toward the task of erecting or reinforcing barriers that would divide, Jesus shows us—and great poets remind us—not to mindlessly accept the convention of wall building, but to bend will and body instead to the task of their dismantling.

Peace,

Pastor Erik

Dr. Eldon Olson, retired pastor and member of Peace, is the author of this month’s Pastor’s Pen column.

“Stir up your power, Lord Christ, and come!”

I was staying for few days at our Seminary in Oakland, California several years ago and happened to be there for the first weeks of Advent. On the first day of Advent, instead of the regular morning Matins service, the entire Seminary community met in the chapel to ‘stir up’ the ingredients of Christmas Fruit Cake – the old-fashioned kind with all sorts of fruits, candies, nuts, and spices. They observed this annual ritual of fruit-cake production since each of the opening prayers for Sunday worship for the weeks of Advent begins with the petition “Stir Up!” (“Stir up your power, Lord Christ, and come!”, “Stir up our hearts, O Lord!”,  “Stir up the wills of your faithful people!”, and again “Stir up your power and come!”).  Although I’m not a big fan of fruitcake, the ritual of beginning Advent with a festive community appeal to “stir up” left a lasting impression.

The phrase “stir up” could have at least two nuances. On the one hand, it could mean to get organized, to start up a momentum, an impulse that gets things going. This suggests some sort of collection, gathering, or assembly – something that calls otherwise unfocused and diverse people to get their collective act together. This is certainly part of Advent’s message – it’s time to awaken to a new year, a new collective attention to the season of beginning, birthing, or new life. Wake up! Come together! Pay Attention! Those of you who would prefer to slumber through winter’s hibernations,  “Stir up!”

John the Baptizer, who enters our Sunday texts as Advent begins, brings the more jarring meaning to the call to ‘stir up!”.  His intention is to provoke a revolution, incite a reformation, instigate a rebellion.  “Stir up!”  “Repent!” shouted to a crowd to arouse them to action.  When this message is conveyed by the strange figure of John it is a loud harangue by a long-haired and unwashed prophetic character.  Clad in hippie-type tatters of animal skins, the call isn’t simply to come together for a new beginning – it’s much more provocative.  It’s more like Paul Revere, riding through the night with news that a rebellion is upon us – not just another new beginning, but a cataclysmic event that will set your world on its edge.  With this announcement, our collective consciousness will never be the same again.  Whatever is coming will be momentous!

Another Biblical image for this is the rather strange image of time itself having gotten filled up – “in the fullness of time.”  Literally, it’s that Time itself is now pregnant!  The clock isn’t just monotonously ticking off its usual hours and days so we can be lulled by the predictability of its tick-tock – the very clock is about to explode!  Those who use this image even designate the struggles of this Advent moment as the “labor pains” of the coming delivery.  You’ve heard about the consistency of seven days a week, seven days of creation – well, you’re about to witness the eighth day, a day no one has ever imagined before.  Or another image – the tiny seed that no one notices is about to burst into a huge tree that can shelter every bird in creation!

How do you begin to describe something that’s beyond human imagining?  How do you wrap your head around a new creation, populated by a new humanity, subject to a new structuring of human behaviors and relationships? That’s the challenge of Advent!  It’s mind boggling! Our normal response to news of such complexity or magnitude might well be to become overwhelmed.  But the appeal to “stir up” comes to us each year with the nuanced response – be excited and alert to the promises of a coming Messiah, and be bothered by the illusions and evils this Messiah comes to dispel.

But wake up! Or better yet, “Stir up!”