Today is Barbara Goodman's birthday.  I know this because we are facebook friends.  This week, for some reason, I had a dream about Dr. Goodman.  It's pretty fuzzy now, but I know that it was one of those, oh-it-was-all-a-mistake-and-he-didn't-really-die kind of dream.  I was in a classroom and Stacy was there, too.

Then, in the Phoenix airport, I saw a Nathan's hotdog stand.  This reminded me of a get-together at Stephen's house last summer (before we moved).  We had a lengthy discussion about how DG only ate Nathan's hotdogs... then Chuck and DG talked about The Decemberists.

Then I realized that today is Barbara's birthday; her first without him... and it all hit me at once.  I had a large cry right here in my office.  It's still so so so so so so so sad.  It's just the worst thing that could have happened.  I miss him... and then I feel bad for missing him since I didn't even know him like so many others did.  It hurts a little bit to think about Koine Greek or cool Jewish people... it hurts to think that if I ever get my academic act together that I'll never be able to email and say, "Thanks for not being a candy-ass professor and patronizing/enabling me.  I actually learned from you.  Thanks for being real about being disappointed with me."

He was the coolest, most progressive, Godliest, generally neatest professor I've ever had... and I've had a lot of professors. 

It sucks that he died.  It sucks that the GWU Div class of '09 will have to graduate without him present.  It sucks that new students will never know him.  Who's the best professor there, now?  

It sucks that, when Lydia gets a PhD, she won't be able to tell him about it.  It sucks that when Stacy writes a really great book she can't send him a copy.  It sucks that when I decide to re-take Greek that I can't shoot him an email about it.  (I'll probably try harder, now.)

And it so totally and completely sucks to think that Barbara has to celebrate her birthday and raise two boys and work and go to church and live life without him.

I preached this sermon this morning in our hospital chapel service.  There are some typos and grammar goofs, but I made the corrections as I preached, so you can make them as you read!

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

Growing up, I thought that my faith tradition didn’t observe Ash Wednesday.  I kind of knew it was the beginning of the Lenten season, and I kind of knew what that was, but it was mostly foreign to me, and not something “we” did.  We didn’t really pay much attention to the church calendar, except for the season of Advent and the major holidays.  I was intrigued when my Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, and Catholic friends discussed what they were giving up for Lent.  It was usually chocolate.  I took my questions to my youth minister.  I asked, “Why don’t we observe Lent?”  He provided such an uninformed and trite answer that I’m embarrassed to even tell you here.   His answer was something like, “We believe in sacrifice all year long.”  Even as a fifteen year-old, I thought that answer was pretty silly.  Perhaps in defiance to his response, my journey to appreciate Ash Wednesday, the season of Lent, and the beautiful cadence of the liturgical year began.  I secretly began “giving up” certain things: sweets, magazines, makeup.  I was severely uninformed and usually unsuccessful.  I was typically aware of the day I was supposed to begin my fast, but I had little other understanding of the meaning of what I was doing... still, though, I knew it was important and I hungered to know more.

This trend continued throughout college.  Most of my friends at the private college of my faith tradition were as ignorant about this habit as I was, but there was a slow underground movement of the secretly liturgical.  In our quest to be the Christian-est kids in our Christian college, we were least skilled at keeping our discipline to ourselves.  Looking back, we just needed to talk about our experience in order to learn, but be sure that most people knew about our piety.  But as I’ve learned from some wise people, the life of faith is about progress, not perfection.  We were learning about sacrifice.

When the ancient city of Pompeii was being excavated, there was found a body that had been embalmed by the ashes of Vesuvius.  It was that of a woman.  Her feet were turned toward the city gate, but her face was turned back toward something that lay just beyond her outstretched hands.  The prize for which those petrified fingers were reaching was a bag of pearls.  Maybe she had dropped them as she was fleeing for her life.  Maybe she had found them where they had been dropped by another.  Maybe they were a precious family heirloom given to her by someone she loved.  Still, though, even when death was hard at her heels, and life was beckoning to her beyond the city gates, she could not shake off their spell.  She had turned to pick them up, with death as her reward.  But it was not the eruption of Vesuvius that made her love pearls more than life; in only froze her in her greed.

At this point of my journey, I related to this tragic story.  I learned about sacrificing what I believed was important for something even better.  I learned the value of sacrificing the pretty things for the eternal things and the alluring things of this kingdom for the less observable Kingdom of God.  So, if you’ve chosen to make a sacrifice during this Lenten season, I pray that God prepares you to forever be more aware of when to sacrifice the pearls for life.

Follow me a few years later in the journey.  Believe it or not, in all my make-it-up-as-you-go spirituality, I actually graduated college and went to divinity school.  It was there that I made some Episcopalian friends.  They really blew my mind; I had been pretty sheltered.  My new friends invited me to the Ash Wednesday service.  I’ll never forget going to sleep that Tuesday night; so scared.  I woke up before dark to make it to the 7 a.m. service because I knew I couldn’t wait throughout the day.  I drove, alone, to the The Church of the Redeemer and quietly slipped into the back pew. Arriving late and still feeling scared, I crept into that loud church, every step echoing in the ears of the faithful church members who’d arrived on time.  I sat there in that beautiful building, worshiping without music but through responsive reading,  standing and kneeling at the most inappropriate places, wondering what happened to the altar call.  I was shaking a little as I walked forward to receive the dark, oily ashes rubbed into my forehead.  Then I left, and I was both proud and embarrassed by the ashes that were imposed on my skin.  I wasn’t sure what to do with them - did I leave them there the rest of the day - even at work? I wasn’t sure that I’d ever seen anyone just walking around with a hastily imposed gray cross on their forehead.  What would people think?  I went into work later that morning and a coworker tried several times to subtly hint that I had dirt on my forehead.  That day was scary and weird and exciting.  The burning anxiety in the pit of my stomach reminded me that those ashes were there.

On the prairies of the midwest, a grass fire can be a good thing.  Burning the grass can stimulate growth, return nutrients to the soil, expose seed beds to the sun, and suppress invading trees and shrubs.  Writer Cathy Schreuder describes the fire: 

“Pushed forward by the wind, the flames raced across the prairie.  Thick, dead grass stalks wavered for just a moment before buckling and falling into flames...  Settlers spoke of the violence of burns, their noise, heat, power and attraction... a prairie burning is something like a great thunderstorm in exhibiting the raw power of nature.  After its burned, there’s nothing left.  It’s so pure.  Every leaf that emerges is new and shiny; every flower petal is perfect.  It reminds us of being young.”

In the same way, I learned a big lesson from that eventful February morning at The Church of the Redeemer.  I learned that the risks are important.  Going to a church new church in a new town that practiced worship in a very different way than I knew was risky.  Though the people of that church were accepting and caring, they didn’t have to be, and I felt alienated enough to make up for what wasn’t reality.  But, this risk paid great rewards; I received the gift of a fresh renewal of my spirit during that Lenten season and felt so greatly rewarded when I reached that light at the end of the tunnel on Easter morning. God used this experience to provide me with a new way to view the world.  I pray that you take a risk during this Lenten season in the name of renewal.  Who knows?  Maybe it will work. If you are taking a risk or trying something new as a sacrifice during this Lenten season, I pray for renewal and new life for your spirit.

And now, you all join me in the journey by being here this morning.  On this Ash Wednesday, 2009, we awoke this morning to a world of uncertainty.  The last time I checked, we’re still engaged in two wars.  The economic outlook of our world is getting bleaker by the day.  This is not to mention that we’re sitting here - in a hospital - surrounded by people who are weak, sick, sad, and suffering.  Maybe this is a year when we don’t need to be reminded to wait... to wait on the Lord... to wait for healing, redemption, and salvation or to wait just to KNOW that we are already healed, redeemed, and saved.

One great Texan, Max Lucado, tells a powerful story of his friend, Joy - a teacher - and her student, Barbara.  Barbara’s difficult home life left her alone and insecure.  For the weeks that my friend was teaching the class, Barbara never spoke.  Never.  While the other children talked, she sat.  While they giggled, she was quiet.  Always present.  Always present.  Always speechless... until the day Joy taught the class about heaven.  Joy talked about seeing God.  She talked about tearless eyes and deathless lives.  Barbara was fascinated.  She wouldn’t release Barbara from her stare.  She listened with hunger, then she raised her hand.  “Mrs. Joy?” she asked.  Joy was stunned Barbara never asked questions.  “Yes, Barbara,” she said.  “Is heaven for girls like me?”  Barbara couldn’t be more qualified.

Ash Wednesday is about being aware of the sad mysteries of our faith and of an awareness of our unworthiness.  We are waiting for redemption, but luckily we are not asked to wait in vain.  It happens every year - Lent ends and that great promise - the promise on which our faith is founded - is celebrated.  So, as we begin the journey - allow yourself to experience it completely.  Feel the darkness of the season.  Be aware of your sin.  Make sacrifices.  Take risks.  But most of all - keep one eye focused on that light at the end of the tunnel.  The light of things promised and things yet to come.  May God bless you as you learn or relearn the awkward steps of the dance of the Lenten season: mourning your mortality and sinfulness, but hoping beyond hope that everything you’ve really believed in the quietest corners of your spirit have been realized and will be realized.

I'm about halfway through my year-long CPE residency.  We will finish our second of four units this week.  It's my third unit total, since I started with one unit already.  Last Saturday was the extended shift from hell.  (I'm allowed to use the word hell because I have a M.Div.)  I can't even explain what was so bad about it because I can't remember in the blur of blood and guts and rude staff and complainers... I just know that it was the first time all year I thought to myslef, "I really hate this and I want to quit."  I've been emotionally suffering since mid-January.  I've sought the help of anti-depression medication, which is helping.  I don't want to sleep all the time, which is making my life a little more productive.  But sometimes we're just stretched too thin.

Everyone who works in a hospital has an important job; I'll never argue that.  Nurses are absolutely the coolest.  I love what they do and I love hearing about why they want to do it.  They are the first ministers patients see when they arrive in this place, and they have far fewer tools to deal with the emotional crises that they face on a daily basis.  Nurses rock.  However,  I can certainly understand how its difficult for clinical staff to estimate the toll that the emotional work that we do takes on us, but I wish they would try.  Not only do we deal with death, loss, sickness, grief, etc. on a daily basis, but we're doing some very rigorous emotional work on ourselves as part of the educational component of our residency.

So many people assume that you can just stroll into the hospital and fill out an application for a job as a chaplain.  Sometimes people ask me what kind of training we have to have, then their eyes nearly pop out of their heads when I explain that we have a three-year graduate/professional degree and have to undergo at least one year of residency to be a Board Certified Chaplain.  Obviously some jobs are called "thankless" for a reason; but sometimes I just get tired of it.

I have a lot of learning to do and I could certainly use another year.  But can I handle another year?