Green Lake United Methodist Church

With three young children in my house, I spend a lot of time urging people to listen to their bodies. I ask questions like “Do you need to go to the bathroom before we get in the car? Have you had enough breakfast, or do you need a second helping? I notice you are rubbing your eyes; do you need to come in and rest for a few minutes?” It feels like I ask these questions all day, every day. In our house, there is no ignoring our bodies.
It is tempting sometimes to tell my kids what to do, rather than letting them figure it out for themselves. It would certainly be quicker to holler, “Go lie down RIGHT NOW!” than to help them learn to interpret their own signs of fatigue. But, even though it seems to take forever, I know that teaching them to listen to their bodies is important. If we cannot listen to our bodies, we will not know how to care for them. And caring for our bodies is one of the ways we learn to love ourselves.
In the church, we often use the phrase, “the body of Christ.” To me, this phrase reminds me of three things.
First of all, it reminds me that Jesus Christ had a body. In Jesus, God became a person, a person who ate and drank and laughed and got tired and felt pain, just like me. Jesus Christ had a body that suffered, a body that died.
The body of Christ means incarnation. In the incarnation, in becoming human, God reminds us that all the things our bodies do are incredibly holy. They are part of how we learn about God’s love.
We also use the words, “the body of Christ,” every time we take communion together, remembering Jesus’ words as he said goodbye to his friends: “Take, eat; this is my body” (Matthew 26:26). We know the body of Christ in the breaking of the bread, and when we eat it, we become part of that beautiful, risen body.
The body of Christ means bread. Breaking bread together is incredibly holy. And breaking bread together – not just at communion, but at dinner tables and coffee shops and soup kitchens and school cafeterias – is part of how we learn about God’s love.
Finally, we use the words “the body of Christ” to describe the people of the church. Our community is one body, and we are called, “by speaking the truth in love . . . to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ” (Ephesians 4:15). When we gather together to worship, we are the body of Christ, speaking the truth in love the best way we know how.
The body of Christ means people. A people gathered together is incredibly holy. And gathering together – not just for worship, but for committee meetings and school plays and exercise classes and even for funerals – is part of how we learn about God’s love.
I invite you, as you move through your daily life, to consider how you encounter the body of Christ. Is it through the stories of Jesus? Is it in breaking bread with someone? Is it in gathering together with other people? Notice where you encounter the body of Christ, and when you do, make sure you listen to what that encounter is trying to say to you.
If we cannot listen to the body, we will not learn how to care for it. And learning to care for the body, even for the body of Christ, is one of the ways we learn how to love.

May the peace of Christ be with you always,
Pastor Meredith

Scripture — John 20:1-18

There’s something about Easter that reminds me of Alice in Wonderland. Some of it is all the white rabbits and the little girls in poofy dresses. But there’s something about the Easter story, too – the confusion, the expectations always being turned upside down, the way it invites me into a world at once familiar and completely beyond my experience.

At one point, in her adventures through the looking glass, Alice gets into a race with the Red Queen. She runs and runs at top speed, breathless and hardly able to keep up. When the race finally finishes, Alice takes a good look around and exclaims,

“’Why, I do believe we’ve been under this tree all the time! Everything’s just as it was!’

‘Of course it is,” said the Queen: “what would you have it?’

‘Well, in our country,” said Alice, still panting a little, “you’d generally get to somewhere else — if you ran very fast for a long time, as we’ve been doing.’

‘A slow sort of country!” said the Queen. “Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!’”[1]

Running, especially racing, in this strange world, makes you very tired and ultimately gets you nowhere.  It changes nothing. It makes you wonder what would have happened if Alice and the Red Queen had just stood still. If running changes nothing, does standing still change everything

The Easter story, also, begins with a race.

Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb and finds it empty. So she races toward two other disciples, crying out, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” They race each other back to the tomb and eventually both muster the courage to go in. They see wrappings, a head cloth, but no Jesus. And, finished with their running for now, they return to their homes.

There is no more reason to run.
Then, for a little while, the story stands still. The two disciples return home, but Mary Magdalene stands still. She stays, weeping, outside the tomb.
Mary Magdalene is nothing if not persistent. She is one of the last to leave Jesus as he died on the cross; she is one of the first to return to Jesus’ tomb after his death. She is the first to discover that the stone has been rolled away. And after the disciples go back home, she stays. Weeping. She stands still.

And standing still changes everything.

When Mary Magdalene looks in the tomb, she sees not wrappings, but angels, angels who ask, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She stays there, with her story, with her questions, telling them the same thing she told the other two disciples; “They have taken my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”

She turns around and catches a glimpse over her shoulder of someone, who asks her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom do you seek?”  She asks this person where he has laid Jesus. Then, she hears this man say her name: “Mary.”

She turns around, all the way around, away from the tomb. She answers, “Rabbouni. Teacher.”

And then, she knows.

Long after the other two disciples have raced away, Mary Magdalene stands still, gazing into the tomb. There she stays, motionless, staying with her grief, staying with her confusion, staying with her tears. Where the first two disciples see linen cloths and bandages and run away, Mary Magdalene stands still and sees angels. When Jesus calls her by name, she turns away from the tomb, toward the teacher whom she loves, who she thought she had lost forever.

But the passage does not end here.

This is a snapshot, a reunion photo of a moment of stillness and beauty where the joy fairly spills over the borders of the frame.  Mary Magdalene has found the one whom she lost. And the temptation for her, the temptation for us, is to let it remain a beautiful snapshot, to put it in our wallet and pull it out over-and-over on days when we we’re feeling a bit low. We, like Mary Magdalene, want to hold on to happy, intimate memories, to the times when we knew for sure that God was right there with us —  in, through and on the other side of our deepest grief.
And make no mistake – God is right there.  Jesus loves me, this I know. Nothing can ever separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus, and this is good news. God’s steadfast love endures forever.

But even this is not the end of the story.

After this life-changing reunion, the very next thing Jesus says to Mary Magdalene is, “Do not hold on to me.”

Why?

Because even after the empty tomb, the stone being rolled away, the rolled up burial garments and the angels, Jesus’work still is not finished and neither is Mary Magdalene’s. The time for standing still is over; it’s time to move. So Mary moves, runs, maybe, back to the disciples, and says to them, “I have seen the Lord.” She stays at the tomb, reaches the other side of grief, and turns back toward the sad, broken world from which she came. She turns toward the risen Christ, toward hope, and keeps turning back to a world which needs that hope.

I have seen the Lord, she says. What has she seen?

That grief is not the end of the story.

Death is not the end of the story.

The cross does not get the last word.

Betrayal and domination and torture and murder do NOT get the last word.

Love does!

Joy does!

Hope does!

And why would anyone want to keep that to themselves?

Easter reminds us that God transforms murder into resurrection. God turns weeping into dancing. Nothing is impossible for God.  Easter happened once two thousand years ago, but it continues to happen every day. Darkness and evil and death are very real, and we don’t have to scratch too far beneath the surface of our lives to find them. But love and joy and hope are real, too. And I believe that they are slowly but surely transforming the world in which we live.

Easter happened. Easter is happening. Easter will happen again, but in this world, Easter could use a little help.

So what can we do?

We can show up. We can stay with God, not turn our backs on grief and suffering, no matter how many tears we may have to shed on our way to resurrection. We can continue to turn, to turn toward the holy: weeping, questioning, seeking, and staying present, even when others have moved on. And when we are ready, we can turn toward the world with love in our hearts and hope on our lips.

We can listen for Jesus calling our name, and we can call his name in response. We can embrace the risen Christ and proclaim with our words and lives the power his all-embracing love.

And, we can remain committed that nobody – nobody! — will disappear from the story of God’s people as it continues to unfold.

So, stand still. Look at the tomb, if you need to. Stay there – don’t leave before you’re good and ready.

But remember to turn around and look hope in the face when it calls your name.

And then – get ready to run.

[1] Lewis Carroll, Through The Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There, Chapter 2.

Taking a Good Look

I write to you this month at the close of a very rainy Ash Wednesday.
Every year, Christians around the world observe Ash Wednesday as they enter into the season of Lent, a time of contemplation and looking inward. In the words of theologian Walter Burghart, Lent is a time of “taking a long, loving look at the real,” at the parts of our lives and of our selves which we would sometimes prefer not to see. At our worship services today, we spent time reflecting on our human brokenness. We heard Jesus warn us, “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them” (Matthew 6:1), a good reminder that being seen in a good light is not really the point.
We were marked with ashes on our foreheads, a visible reminder of our shared, fragile humanity. As I looked at the grey crosses on people’s foreheads, I was reminded that the people around me were not perfect, nor would they be here forever. Seeing that symbol on people’s foreheads helped me to see them differently and, I hope, it will remind me this Lent to treat those people more tenderly.
I invite you, as we enter the season of Lent, to spend some time with me taking that long, loving look at what is real in your own life. Opportunities abound. On Sunday, March 20, I will begin leading a 9 a.m.  Bible study, encouraging this type of reflection.  On Palm Sunday, we will begin worship by joining a neighborhood processional around Green Lake itself, opening our eyes to the community around us. On Maundy Thursday, we will join together with Woodland Park United Methodist Church for a soup and bread supper, looking at the story of Jesus’ last supper with his companions as we look into the eyes of newfound friends. And throughout these weeks, you’ll hear opportunities to help people who struggle with blindness, both in our community and around the world.
This Lent, I invite you to look into your heart and into the world around you with the eyes of love. I encourage you to pay attention to what you see, to notice your wonderings and your discoveries. And I invite you, in the words of the old hymn, to “turn your eyes upon Jesus,” who has a delightful and disturbing habit of showing up, sometimes in the most surprising of places.

You just have to look.

May the peace of Christ be with you always,

Pastor Meredith

Let Your Yes Be Yes!
This past December, I received a phone call from the district superintendent, asking me if I would be open to a part-time position as pastor of Green Lake United Methodist Church. I said yes. I met with GLUMC church leadership, who also said yes. I cannot speak for church leaders, but from what I could tell, both of these “yes”es were heartfelt, joyous and filled with hopes for a new relationship. And now that we have all given our enthusiastic assent, we begin the deliberate and patient work of getting to know one another. Or, in other words, now that we’ve taken the plunge, it’s time to learn who we just married. So with that in mind, here are a few words of introduction about your new pastor.
I come from a family which moved around all the time, and growing up, I lived in Illinois, New Jersey, Kansas, Florida, Connecticut and California. Five years ago, my husband Mike (who is from Tennessee!) and I moved here to the Seattle area with the intent on making this our long-term home. For the past five years, I have been studying at Seattle University’s School of Theology and Ministry, and I intend to graduate in June with my Master’s of Divinity degree.
Before I entered seminary, I worked as a youth minister, a community college professor and a high school English teacher. Following God’s call has led me through several different states and a few different careers, but the journey has always included a passion for providing hospitality to strangers and for bridge-building and reconciliation, passions I hope to continue to share here at Green Lake.
As most of you have noticed by now, my family is also becoming part of GLUMC. Though we usually see him wrangling children on Sunday morning, my husband, Mike, works at Google developing software for cell phones and tablet computers. We have three little boys. Nathan, age six, is in kindergarten and especially loves reading, writing, drawing and playing with Legos. Adam, age three, loves being around people, will talk your ear off, and especially loves stuffed animals and running as fast as possible. Eric, age thirteen months, is already walking and loves wearing hats, babbling and keeping up with his older brothers. We are still living in Kirkland right now, once the school year finishes in June, we look forward to moving into the parsonage.
In this Sunday’s Scripture reading, Jesus tells his disciples, “Let what you say be simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’; anything more than this comes from evil” (Matthew 5:37). My prayer as we begin our journey together is that we will say “yes” joyfully when we want to, say “no” clearly when we need to and together continue to discern the work God is calling us to do here at Green Lake United Methodist Church.
May the peace of Christ be with you all,
Pastor Meredith

Beautiful Ladies visiting all who pass as they sit in the piazza.

John T. WIlliams artist at work in Victor Steinbrueck Park at the Pike Place MarketEnjoying a day in the sun and talking with neighbors who pass by. Village life in Italy.Beautiful Ladies visiting all who pass as they sit in the piazza.

Context is so important in life, and the context of living on the streets is one place where context is most important.  For years I’ve had the great honor of serving folks in Seattle who live in poverty, some homeless and “living in the streets.”  But in recent history I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing life in an Italian hilltop village, where “living in the streets” is the norm when it is possible, where folks live their lives in community; in piazza, square, doorways, benches, walking and talking with neighbors.  It was an irony of life to spend a week in Italy and return the next day to a march in honor of John T. Williams in downtown Seattle, a native American who lived a life of Living in the Streets that encompassed both places.

Mr. Williams, a native carver, had been homeless for years, although he had been living in an apartment for a while before his untimely death by police gunfire August 30th.  Mr. Williams also truly lived in the streets as a place where he carved, met friends and strangers to whom he would sell his art.  If you spent any time around places like the Pike Place Market, Pioneer Square, or other parts of the urban corridor you have probably spotted him at some point, knowingly or unknowingly.  He would carve while sitting on park benches, or even walking, and sell from those places as well.  His workmanship was very well appreciated and folks would often traverse the city in search of him in order to purchase one of his fine carvings.  That he was shot while working on a piece of art with his artists’ tool, a wood carving knife, perceived to be a weapon is tragic, but what is more tragic is that living LIFE in the streets is seen as suspicious.

Just as the culture of the Italians is to live life outdoors and in public, so it is with native Americans.  For John Williams to stay safely within some walls, or the fence of a yard would have been out of place.  He spoke to long friends and made new friends in his life on the streets.  It is a life where relationships are maintained with personal contact and developed with personal contact, it is nothing short of living the Gospel of loving neighbor as self.

It appears that the police officer was scared, scared of someone who lived life differently, scared of someone he didn’t understand.  The reality is that he is the norm in our society, a society where we spend so much time in our homes, or in some small way self-isolating.  It is common for people in public to have headphones on, even Mr. Williams had headphones on, listening to music and completely unaware of the world around.  It is common for folks who really enjoy spending quality time in the yards of their homes to build fences to keep themselves in and other out.  It is common for people to live for years and never know their neighbors.  It is all sad, it is common.

As a pastor called to encourage others into discipleship, into following Jesus in sharing love and healing to a broken world, the first step we have to take is to Live in the Streets.  We must be willing to talk and share love with strangers, to make friends of those we’ve yet to meet.  To lend a hand when someone is struggling to walk, to accept a hand when we stumble.  We must be willing to simply Live with others, to move beyond the “stranger danger” fear that has become embedded in our culture.

It was nothing but blessing to spend a week sitting outside, reading a great book, chatting with new friends in Piegaro.  It was also nothing but blessing to walk the streets of Seattle mourning and remembering John T. Williams and praying for a time when Living in the Streets is a time for grace for all.

I look forward to a time when we can live fully in the streets; that the hungry will be fed, that the mourners can cry, and that people will know and love their neighbors as themselves.

Pepina out with the kids on a summers day visiting with us at the restaurant. Pepina is nona of the piazza, watching all kids who play.