Month: November 2021

Installation Sermon for Rev. Susan Valiquette

by Rev. Sue Joiner, Senior Minister, First Congregational United Church of Christ, Albuquerque, New Mexico

Installation Sermon for Susan Valiquette 

November 7, 2021 

John 12:1-8 and John 11:44 

12 Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. 2 There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. 3 Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. 4 But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, 5 “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” 6 (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) 7 Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. 8 You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” 

We live our lives based on the stories we have been told and even more, the stories we tell ourselves over and over. I heard a story in college that continues to profoundly shape my theology. Wes Seeliger tells this story from his own childhood. It may or may not be a coincidence that the one who changes everything in this story is named Susan. Wes said,  

“Grandmother’s living room was large and dark.  She kept the shades down so her furniture wouldn’t fade.  One day in 1943, when I was five years old, I sat in the middle of her living room floor playing with my toy cars.  I had at least a hundred; fire trucks, buses, tractors, everything – even a hearse. 

‘For me, playing with cars was serious business and there was definitely a “right” way to do it.  The idea was to form a large circle of cars on the living room floor.  And the cars had to be evenly spaced.  Precision was of the essence. I placed my toy box in the middle of the floor.  Then, I took each car out of the box and began forming my circle.  I was very careful.  No two fire trucks could be together.  No two cars the same color could be together.  It was a tedious process, but I was a determined kid. 

When the circle was complete, I sat in the middle and admired my cars and my handiwork.  And since my grandmother never used the living room, my circle remained intact for days.  I returned time and time again to look at my cars and to make minor aesthetic adjustments. 

One morning I was sitting in the middle of my circle.  Peace and contentment bathed my five-year-old soul as I surveyed my almost perfect toy kingdom with everything in its proper order. 

Then came Susan.  Susan was my 3-year-old cousin, and she was a live wire.  Susan took one look at my precious circle of toys and charged.  My precious, tranquil circle was destroyed in an instant.  She kicked and threw my cars all over the room.  She was laughing and squealing – I was crying and screaming.  Grandmother dashed in to see who was being murdered. Grandmother told me later than I cried for two hours, and she had to rock me to sleep that night.  How can you sleep when your world has been destroyed? 

The next morning, I went into the living room to survey the damage.  I was about to begin the painful process of rebuilding when Grandmother told me that Susan was coming over, so I gave up in despair.  So, when my rambunctious little cousin arrived there was nothing to destroy. 

I met Susan at the door to try and avoid additional damage. Susan suggested that we take the cars outside.  What an idea!  I hadn’t thought of that.  But what if they get dirty?  What if one gets lost or broken?  It wasn’t my idea of playing cars, but I gave in.  I decided to risk taking my cars outside.  No use trying to build a circle with Susan around. We played outside all day.  We put real dirt in the dump truck.  We made ramps, forts, and tunnels.  I even let Susan talk me into crashing the cars together.  I had no idea playing cars could be so much fun.’ 

A lot of water has gone under the bridge since that day in 1943.  I have listened to hundreds of sermons and Sunday school lessons.  I have read stacks of theology books.  And a seminary degree hangs on my wall. 

But I think Susan taught me all I really need to know about theology – SIN (unfaith) is sitting in the middle of our homemade universe; FAITH – is the courage and freedom to leave the dark, musty, familiar, living room and take what we love most into the great outdoors.” 

Susan, you know the literal truth of this story already. You find energy outside, and you make sure you get out as much as you can. It keeps you grounded, and I experience that when I hear you pray because I feel your connection to God. Is there something you love that you are called to carry into the great outdoors? 

Let’s be honest. The world is not always open to Susans. Susans come along and question how things have been done. Susans may suggest an extravagant alternative and that can be a threat. At the same time, it can be so beautiful. It is 2021 and the world still isn’t sure what to do with women in leadership. What a gift that First Church has been open and welcoming and loving with you. It is important for all of us to embrace your unique ministry here. 

No one knew what to do with Mary. She sat with Jesus instead of working in the kitchen. Here she takes very expensive perfume and pours it on Jesus’ feet. Note she doesn’t just use a drop or two, she empties the jar and then wipes his feet with her hair. Could she be any more embarrassing? Where is her sense of dignity? But Jesus saw her. He saw the ways she ministered from the depth of her being. She wasn’t trying to be someone else. She wasn’t trying to fit in to a mold that didn’t fit. In fact, she is used to criticism. She doesn’t let that stop her from ministering in the way that is authentically her.  

My concern about the stories we tell ourselves is that those stories may be the ones that keep us from being who we are at any given time. Susan, God called you to ministry. Today you are installed at First Church, and you all say a wholehearted yes to each other. My hope is that this covenant you make with one another will allow you to be who are as you serve this congregation. By doing so, you may all be surprised by the joy you find when you take what you love most into the great outdoors. 

I didn’t read the story from John that comes before Mary’s ministry to Jesus, but it is important. Mary and Martha’s brother has died. He has been in the tomb for four days and he smells. Jesus calls Lazarus out of the tomb and then he turns to the people gathered and gives them a simple instruction: “unbind him and let him go.” My friends, that is what we are here to do. My understanding is that you know this, First Church. You have a history of it. My prayer for you as a church is that these will be your guiding words in the days to come. Jesus did not turn to the ordained minister. He did not turn to the lay leader. He turned to the entire gathered community and called them to be the ones who would unbind Lazarus. It is what we do for each other. It is what we do for those who dare to walk through our doors or log on to see if they could possibly be welcome here because they have been told there is no place for them in God’s church. It is what we do for those who have sacrificed everything to step into this country, hoping to find freedom. It is what we do for those in recovery, for those who are housing insecure, for those who are struggling with mental health challenges.  

If we are going to unbind them and let them go, it will take all of us. This is not a job for a few volunteers or committee chairs. It will require the whole community to listen to one another and care for one another. It will mean decisions that are difficult. It will mean loss and sacrifice. It will take us into places that are scary and unknown and sometimes places where it seems there is only death. It is into those very places that Jesus calls us to make room for life.  

We are trying to be the church in difficult times. The pandemic has taken over five million lives. There have been more than 37,000 deaths to gun violence in the United States this year alone. Suicide is among the leading causes of death in our country. Our planet is dying before our own eyes. As we have made decisions over the last twenty months, we are not just talking about what we should do, we are asking “who could die if we do this?” Death is not hypothetical.  

We worship a God who teaches us again and again that death is not the last word. People are dying around us. God is not shielding us from death, but rather calling us to be the ones who will “practice resurrection” to use Wendell Berry’s words.  

God is at work in the world right now. God is breathing life into those places where this is no hope, where there is nothing but death. God is showing us a new way. As Kate Bowler says, “God can make things new with or without us. But God chooses to use us.” Be warned, we are going to be asked to get involved. God will remove the stones from places we believed were only death. Then we are called to step in and begin the process of unbinding. 

Wes Seeliger didn’t experience deep joy until he risked losing his precious cars. Susan taught him that life is to be lived out in the world and that means things will get dirty and broken along the way. But she showed him to live fully. 

Before he became a full-time poet, David Whyte tells about being stressed and feeling like he was in a dead-end. He met with Brother David Stendl-Rast and said, “Speak to me of exhaustion.”  [David Stendl-Rast] put his glass down for a moment and realized that David Whyte was absolutely exhausted.  David Stendl-Rast said, “You know, David, the antidote to exhaustion is not necessarily rest.”  And David Whyte repeated, “The antidote to exhaustion is not necessarily rest.  What is the antidote to exhaustion?”  He said, “The antidote to exhaustion is wholeheartedness.  This is the point where you have to take a full step into your métier (meh·tee·ay), into your future vocation, and wholeheartedly risk yourself in that world.” (https://gratefulness.org/dw-session-1-transcript/).   

In 2017, we took Kadhim Albumohammed into Sanctuary at First Congregational, Albuquerque. We did this with the support of the Southwest Conference, Bill Lyons, Ken Heintzelman, and Brendan Mahoney who flew to Albuquerque to talk with us about the legal implications of this decision. Kadhim was from Iraq. He worked for the U.S. military to teach them language and culture with the promise that they would take care of him. Instead, he received a letter to report for deportation. To be deported was guaranteed torture and death. He had betrayed his country and he would pay for it if he was sent home. In November that year, the Native American youth from the Rehoboth School in Gallup came to sing for worship. Afterward, they asked to hear Kadhim’s story. He spoke with them and then they asked him to stand in the middle of the sanctuary. They formed a circle around him and sang the words, “We are not alone.” When I hear these words, I am reminded that in the most difficult situations, God is with us.  

Susan, First Church friends, today you commit to ministry together and my prayer for all of you is to do so wholeheartedly, to ground yourself in a God who calls us to life and to know this work must be done together. God is with you. May you discover the fullness of God’s love as you practice resurrection in the days to come. 

Wilderness

by Rev. Deb Worley

“Behold, I am doing a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.”

(Isaiah 43:19, ESV)

“Wilderness,” as we all know, can mean different things to different people. Heck, it can even mean different things to the same person, at different times in their life. Wilderness is not a one-size-fits-all endeavor.

Sometimes wilderness might look like unexpected suffering, or soul-wrenching depression, or uncontrollable chaos. Or mental illness. Or cancer. Or a global pandemic. Sometimes wilderness might be found in the midst of profound grief, or deep weariness, or ongoing uncertainty. Or too many responsibilities. Or too few resources. Or not enough young families.

Sometimes wilderness might be individual; sometimes, communal. At times, it might be blessedly short-lived; at other times, seemingly and agonizingly unending.

Wilderness means different things to different people. 

As people of faith, we are not exempt from experiences of wilderness in our lives, whether as individuals or as the Body of Christ. We are promised, however, that we will not go through them alone. We are promised that God will be with us. 

And not only that–if we are to take Isaiah at his word, we are promised that God “will make a way in the wilderness,” that God will lead us through it, that God will open a path where it had seemed to us there was no path. We are promised that God will be with us in and through and out of the wilderness, to the other side, where “rivers in the desert” await, where there will be healing and wholeness, abundance and life.

We can’t know for sure what that path will look like, or how long it will be, or how many twists and turns and hairpin curves and hills and valleys we will pass through along the way. Nor can we know with certainty when we will step out of the wilderness and find ourselves at the edge of the river, dipping our toes in the water and inhaling deeply and recognizing that we have moved into a place of healing and abundance. 

But we can be sure that we will. We can be sure that we will! 

Thanks be to God for the promise of new things, new paths, new life…that come after seasons of wilderness. 

Peace be with us all.

Deb

Thanking the Pandemic Preachers

by Dr. Kristina “Tina” Campbell

In many recovery communities, you hear the phrase “walk the talk,” illuminating the importance of impersonating, rather than pontificating, the guts of the ethical backbone of the program.  In religious circles, the same message is expressed: “Preach the Gospel always.  Use words only when necessary.” 

In my day-to-day life, there have been many profound preachers during the seemingly endless months of COVID isolation. 

Colleen is the woman at Fry’s who stands on her feet for hours on the unforgiving concrete floors to carefully check out our groceries. She never complains when I ask for paper bags, even though it requires her to bend over to fetch them. Colleen is well beyond retirement age and yet continues to be of essential service providing food to the huddled masses, embodying the words, “whoever comes to me will not be hungry.” 

A beloved friend goes to a Veterans Lodge where dead deer heads peer blankly from the walls, and she quietly donates blood. She doesn’t have a good word to say about organized religion, but faithfully shows up at the neighborhood Presbyterian Church Tuesdays at ten to silently sort through giant bags of donated clothes that will end up on the backs of frightened refugees stuck at the border.  Maybe she somehow heard the communion words of blood being shed and bodies being clothed. She doesn’t say. She just shows up. 

Every morning at 5 a.m. someone flings my newspaper to various locations on my driveway and in my plants. During the isolation of the pandemic, the paper became my morning coffee companion. Oddly, I especially enjoy reading the obituaries, because I like to see what brought joy to the life of the dearly departed. Behold, an angel has been sent before me, and she is flinging the news. 

The Post Office stayed open during the pandemic, and countless carriers delivered the mail. Sometimes there were cards and letters delivered that offered a sense of connection, encouragement, or support. On Fridays, my postal delivery people allow me to sneak under their chained barrier while they are still stuffing boxes, because they know I am eager to retrieve my People magazine. These faithful workers are kin to the Biblical bearers of glad tidings. 

COVID has been a long haul at my hospital. I observe the Starbucks stand where weary parents, paper-gowned medical staff and observant security staff line up to order the outrageously over-priced weirdly named drinks. Throughout COVID, underpaid staff kept this place of rare delight open, offering a small diversion from the intensity of illness and death. They are the magi offering their gifts. 

At this time of Thanksgiving, let us lift up these silent preachers who are walking the daily walk. Let us proclaim our gratitude to them for the contribution they make to our lives. A simple “thank you” can mean so much, and its absence can leave a wound. 

THANK YOU TO ALL OF THOSE WHO SILENTLY AND FAITHFULLY PROCLAIM THAT, EVEN IN THE MIDST OF A PANDEMIC, THERE IS GOOD NEWS.  PLEASE ACCEPT OUR HEARTFELT GRATITUDE. THANK YOU.