Reflections on a holiday

Today is Indigenous Peoples’ Day, and yet for some it is still Columbus Day.

At least in the confusion, there is now some grappling with the complex reality of what the day has always been: for some, a celebration of a man who “discovered” the Americas (to European minds); for others, a painful reminder of what his so-called discovery cost the indigenous peoples of our land.

This year, I am doing a little better about catching myself from calling it Columbus Day, and adopting the new name – in part, because I am learning more about the indigenous people who are deserving of our honor and recognition, and even more so our support and solidarity.

I have joined a denominational initiative called the AntiRacist Discipleship Pathways this year, embarking on year two of a journey for white and BIPOC clergy as we seek to grow in our antiracist understanding, advocacy and ministry. And one of our assignments for this fall is reading Becoming Rooted by Randy Woodley, a one hundred day devotional aimed at “Reconnecting with Sacred Earth.” I’m also, outside of the pathway, working my way through Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass, a powerful collection of essays that invites us to consider the intersections of science and indigenous knowledge as they relate to the natural world. It reads like a memoir, like poetry, like an epic tale and a little bit like a science text – fitting for a book that seeks to blend multiple perspectives into a whole, nuanced understanding of creation.

Mostly, I share this with you because I can wholeheartedly recommend both of these books, by indigenous authors. I’m being challenged as I read them, but I’m also learning so much. Both of these authors have a way of looking at the natural world that I can only describe as reverent, even though neither writes from an explicitly Christian point of view. They honor the world, they understand themselves as living in relationship to it, not dominion over it. They are taught by the world, by the ebb and flow of seasons, by plants and by animals. They feel a sense of responsibility to it, and gratitude for it.

I’m only partway through these books, but already I am grateful for what they’ll teach me. I wonder if this isn’t exactly the kind of tender care, stewardship and love that God had in mind when God put the first people in the garden of Eden. I wonder if there isn’t still an opportunity, after all the harm done in the name of God and the name of America and the name of exploration, to step back and to learn from these indigenous voices. Scratch that – I don’t wonder, I know there is.

My hope is to take some of what I’m learning and share it with you, whether in Sunday School classes or sermons or more posts on here. But I’d also love to invite you to learn with me, to join me on a new kind of journey of discovery, one undertaken in humility, one that has healing and hope and justice as its goal.

yours,

Pastor Jen

Reflections on a holiday

Today is Indigenous Peoples’ Day, and yet for some it is still Columbus Day.

At least in the confusion, there is now some grappling with the complex reality of what the day has always been: for some, a celebration of a man who “discovered” the Americas (to European minds); for others, a painful reminder of what his so-called discovery cost the indigenous peoples of our land.

This year, I am doing a little better about catching myself from calling it Columbus Day, and adopting the new name – in part, because I am learning more about the indigenous people who are deserving of our honor and recognition, and even more so our support and solidarity.

I have joined a denominational initiative called the AntiRacist Discipleship Pathways this year, embarking on year two of a journey for white and BIPOC clergy as we seek to grow in our antiracist understanding, advocacy and ministry. And one of our assignments for this fall is reading Becoming Rooted by Randy Woodley, a one hundred day devotional aimed at “Reconnecting with Sacred Earth.” I’m also, outside of the pathway, working my way through Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass, a powerful collection of essays that invites us to consider the intersections of science and indigenous knowledge as they relate to the natural world. It reads like a memoir, like poetry, like an epic tale and a little bit like a science text – fitting for a book that seeks to blend multiple perspectives into a whole, nuanced understanding of creation.

Mostly, I share this with you because I can wholeheartedly recommend both of these books, by indigenous authors. I’m being challenged as I read them, but I’m also learning so much. Both of these authors have a way of looking at the natural world that I can only describe as reverent, even though neither writes from an explicitly Christian point of view. They honor the world, they understand themselves as living in relationship to it, not dominion over it. They are taught by the world, by the ebb and flow of seasons, by plants and by animals. They feel a sense of responsibility to it, and gratitude for it.

I’m only partway through these books, but already I am grateful for what they’ll teach me. I wonder if this isn’t exactly the kind of tender care, stewardship and love that God had in mind when God put the first people in the garden of Eden. I wonder if there isn’t still an opportunity, after all the harm done in the name of God and the name of America and the name of exploration, to step back and to learn from these indigenous voices. Scratch that – I don’t wonder, I know there is.

My hope is to take some of what I’m learning and share it with you, whether in Sunday School classes or sermons or more posts on here. But I’d also love to invite you to learn with me, to join me on a new kind of journey of discovery, one undertaken in humility, one that has healing and hope and justice as its goal.

yours,

Pastor Jen

Asking the Right Questions

We’re back! Back to school, back to work, back to church.

Back to mask-optional and in-person meetings; back to coffee hour and passing the offering plate and sharing Wednesday dinners together.

And it feels really, really good.

Not to say that COVID is over – of course not – but that, thanks to a whole variety of reasons, we are largely able to resume the kinds of fellowship, learning, service and worship together that we have always had, and have missed so dearly over the last two and a half years.

I’m grateful for it. Grateful to see and be with you again, to give and receive hugs, to share meals, to sit in our homes and to talk with less anxiety about what unknown germs we might be carrying.

In the midst of my gratitude, though, I’m noticing that the switch back to something-like-normal isn’t immediate, or without its bumps.

We are coming back together carrying all sorts of things: grief, frustration, anger, sadness. Continued anxiety about the present and future. Relationships that were interrupted, or severely damaged, by our differences over COVID, over our discernment process, over politics, over a host of other things.

We are coming back together, which is the important thing. But we are coming back as complex people with complex experiences and feelings about what we’ve been through. And it makes for some friction.

I noticed this last fall, when I went on an annual retreat with several seminary classmates, now old friends and colleagues in ministry of mine. We met early in 2020, in February, just weeks before everything exploded, and then gathered again some twenty months later in October 2021. And we had some bumps. Some moments that went awry. Some tears and aggrieved silences. Some lingering difficult feelings.

I went on that same retreat this weekend, and I admit to feeling lots of trepidation about it this year. Would the same friction rear its head? Would I come home rested or depleted, feeling built up or worn out?

Overall, it was a great weekend. Wonderful food, long slow hours of visiting, devotional times and afternoon rests and walks in the crisp fall air. And also…there were still bumps.

But when we encountered them, I tried something different this year. Instead of retreating internally, to sulk or nurse my wounds, I leaned in. I asked some questions. I tried not to let my assumptions or interpretations of a conversation be the only information I took in, but I interrogated things. I tried to do so gently, and with humility, but also with some courage.

I said things like, “I’m sorry if my words came across this way” or “Here is what I was trying to say.”

I tried to learn more about a situation. To understand why something said or done created an immediate, sharp reaction instead of internalizing it, deciding I was bad or stupid or disliked.

Let me tell you. It wasn’t less tiring.

But it was so much more helpful.

I left those few days of intense, intentional relationship building feeling more connected, feeling at peace, feeling reflective and cared for and centered.

And I am thinking about that all this morning. Wondering if I stumbled, with the help of God and a good therapist, upon some tools that might be useful for all of us, as we come back together.

Not magical fix-its, or easy buttons. But assists. Ways to lean in towards each other, instead of further away. Ways to try and break down some walls, instead of adding to them bit by bit.

I’m going to try this again, and I invite you to join me. The next time you’re with a friend, or in a group, and that friction rears its head…think about some questions you might ask. Some ways you might work toward understanding each other better. Some information you might seek out that brings clarity.

And I hope you’ll also find that the right questions help us find our way back to each other.

yours,

Pastor Jen