Come, Spirit, Come. NOW!

“Live your life with love, following the example of Christ…” – Ephesians 5:2 (CEB)

I tried to write Friday night, but I couldn’t.  I tried to read Friday night, but I couldn’t.  I even tried to just watch television Friday night, but I couldn’t.  There was no energy to do anything.  I just cried….

It started right before the afternoon break in our legislative committee work.  For the last two General Conferences, I haven’t reached this point until Tuesday or Wednesday of the second week.  It only took until Friday this time.  Don’t take me wrong.  There are moments of great joy, celebration, and true relationship building at our UMC General Conference.  Yet, there are moments that make your heart break.  Friday afternoon, that came as individuals stood to make speeches for or against a petition, using every political and parliamentary maneuver to try to influence the process, offering every “code word” to sway votes.  It breaks my heart that my fellow United Methodists – on both sides of issues – act this way.  But sadly, it’s not just here in Portland.  It’s in almost every local faith community, of every tradition, in every setting.  So I cry…for my own doubts and questions of faith, for my church, for our country which finds itself in exactly the same place we are as a denomination, for the world.

And I celebrate…the awesome experience of being a connectional church. 

·         I received a text message on Friday morning that reminded me of the sounds of the trumpets, only to walk into worship to the music of a brass small ensemble.  And leading that and other worship experiences have been people of all cultures, colors, ability levels, languages, sizes and shapes.  There was even a gospel choir from Norway that had us all out of our chairs. Yes, a gospel choir from Norway…not where those of us in the U.S. would expect a rousing gospel song to come from, but it was amazing.  These have been the most wonderfully diverse worship experiences, calling us all to recognize the gifts of all people.

·         On Thursday, I sat beside a woman from Mozambique who speaks very little English and tried my best to communicate.  The next day, I walked by the table where she was sitting and suddenly heard, “Where are you going?”  I knew I was to turn around and take my appointed place beside her, if for no reason other than her feeling of acceptance and security.

·         As the tears began to flow on Friday, a new friend from Sierra Leone came over, put her arm around me and said, “We all want the same thing, but it will only come in God’s time.”  While I don’t like the idea of waiting, it was her gesture of love that was important. She made sure to sit beside me when we changed spaces.

·         As those tears continued, a staff member from Discipleship Ministries came to check on me, letting me know that the staff had seen my Facebook post from earlier and wanted to support me.

·         I was invited to join a lunch conversation this morning.  When we gathered, it was me and three young clergy – one from Colorado, Montana, and Pennsylvania.  What an honor to be the old, lay person invited into this holy time of fellowship.

There are important decisions ahead that will greatly impact the life of our denomination. There will be more tears – and there will be more celebrations of what it means to truly be United Methodists.  Our deepest Wesleyan values do not rest on decisions around human sexuality. They are built upon our understanding of grace, our belief that we cannot keep our faith to ourselves – that whole idea of the connection between personal piety and social holiness, and our recognition that we are not an institution, but living examples of Jesus’ love that if we really put our minds to it could change this crazy world.

I’ve seen all kinds of blogs and posts by clergy from all parts of the world in this last week.  Many have talked about the Wesleyan quadrilateral, missiology, theology, and UMC polity.  Maybe my lay understanding is too simple, but fact is that everything comes down to trust, and we have very little – with each other or church leaders.  I honestly think that it is all because we don’t trust ourselves to lean into the Holy Spirit and give up control to a power much greater than ourselves. We’ve never really learned that important teaching from Jesus of giving up everything to follow him. Pure and simple.

On this day of Pentecost, may the fire of the Holy Spirit fill our hearts, take over our souls, and do something totally outrageous and unexpected among us!

Lessons From Around the Magnolia Tree

In the back yard of the house next door to the one I grew up in Fieldale, there was a magnolia tree.  We have a picture of my mother holding me on the day I was baptized 55 years ago with one of the neighbors under that magnolia – fairly small at that time, but so was I! All of these important issues – where acts of faith and witness were needed – first came into my life in the community around the magnolia tree.  It was faith taken from the pews of the church and put into action around that tree.

No matter what time of the year, you could look out the windows on the side of our house and see signs of life in the magnolia tree – from the birds that roosted there to the evergreen leaves. The smell of those large sweet scented flowers filled the air around our house when they were in bloom and when they were not blooming, you could see those hairy flower bulbs which are borne at the tips of the twigs and know that they would blossom again.

Living in that particular house was a family whose only child had come back to live with them in her middle age following a mental health crisis.  I grew to love and care about JoAnn because my mother and father set the example.  Even though she had some rather unusual ways of doing things and preferred to stay in the house alone, she was loved and cared for as part of our neighborhood.  We looked in on her for many years after her parents’ died and until her death.

Jack and Clara Norris opened their house to me when I was 6 weeks old and cared for me while my parents worked until I finished elementary school.  Mr. Norris was very involved with the Lions Club.  He is the first person I knew who talked about organ and tissue transplants.  He worked hard to make people aware of the need for corneas for transplants.  And as I grew, in the community around the magnolia tree, came the need for bone marrow, kidney, and tissue transplants due to illness and injury.

That magnolia tree saw my brother go off to the Vietnam War and was there when he returned.  There are pictures of our family under or near that tree on both those occasions, one in particular with my brother in his dress blue Marine uniform with a tiny little sister holding on to his leg.

Families not far from the reach of that magnolia tree lost 4 sons to AIDS in the 1980s.  Two of whom I went to school with, one who was the first boy to walk me home from school.  Of course, we were in the second grade and it was only a short distance!  But in a small town, 4 men dying of AIDS is a tremendous number.

Some of my fondest memories of Thanksgiving and Christmas are of our large extended family gathering for dinner.  I remember one Thanksgiving when my mother and one of my aunts decided to take meals to a couple of the neighbors who were alone.  I vividly remember my mother coming back one Thanksgiving in tears.  They found one of the neighbors lying on a mattress in awful surroundings, having drank everything he could find.  He had not eaten in quite some time. That Thanksgiving meal has been a lasting example to me of giving with open hearts.

That tree stood tall as friends and neighbors cared for one another with compassion during times of grief, addiction, abuse, racial turmoil, cancer, injury, and a host of other events.  That tree was a part of celebrations of home comings, weddings, graduations, family gatherings,  Halloween shenanigans and so much more. 

There are many other stories of how our community cared for one another.  But each one centers on strong faith put into action – sort of like the trunk of the magnolia tree – standing firm, deeply rooted in the teachings of Jesus and an ever-present faith in God.  A faith that has been passed on from generation to generation.  But without the outstretched branches that tree couldn’t show life – there would be no evergreen leaves or flowers, no birds singing.  Faith cannot stand by itself.  Like the branches of the magnolia, it is when the faith reaches out in into the community that it blossoms.  Remember that the magnolia flower is at the very tip of the twigs on the branches.

The lessons I learned from around the magnolia tree were about an active, working faith.  As John Wesley wrote, “Faith hath not its being from works, (for it is before them) but its perfection.”

The magnolia tree had to be cut down back in 2002 because of disease, but it keeps on giving.  I have several bowls made from its branches, a rolling pin, and a hand mirror.  When I look in that mirror, I see the legacy of that living faith.  For as James wrote, “If you keep the royal law found in Scripture, “Love your neighbor as yourself,’ you are doing right.”

So why am I headed to Portland on Sunday for the 2016 General Conference of The UMC?  If you read closely, you understand why.  If you read between the lines, you know where I stand on most social justice issues – and why.  If you want to do anything in response, pray.  Pray for courage.  Pray for transformation. Pray for me and all the other 853 delegates…and look in the mirror for your own lessons.

Asking for a Word

I’ve never spent a much time learning about the Desert Mothers and Fathers – ammas and abbas – who lived in the deserts of Egypt, Palestine, and Syria of the 4th – 5thcenturies.  I’ve heard about the collections of their sayings, but have never read any of them.  Many people supposedly traveled to sit at the feet of these respected spiritual teachers and directors. Those pilgrims sought their wisdom and guidance, often asking for a word. It is written that this word or phrase would be something to ponder for days, months, years.  The disciples wanted a word to guide their spiritual formation so they asked their spiritual directors. 

 

I find myself in these final days before the start of our 2016 United Methodist General Conference trying to make space for God. In the midst of reading, trying to keep details for the delegation in check, planning for travel and being away from home for two weeks, trying to coordinate a Samaritan Offering emphasis that begins at the same time as the Conference…I find myself struggling to stop and be still, to listen for God’s voice.  I recognize that I have become fixated on tangible items that will help me focus.  I laughed Wednesday morning as I thought about having to ship a box of “things” to Portland.  In that box would be the new set of prayer beads I made for myself; a plaque from the Cana Barn project that my amazing friend, Kristin Holbrook, made for me with the closing words of the 14th verse of the 4th chapter of Esther (“…for just such a time as this.”); and a special cross, among other things which I consider sacred.  It dawned on me that without really thinking about it, I was creating my personal altar space for Portland.  

 

Just a short time later, the “word” became clear.  The clearness came by way of the Spiritual Director that has been walking with me since January.  It is the same word that has repeated itself over and over since last summer through prayer and community.  Actually, it hasn’t just been since last summer.  I began to realize its importance when a young adult who has taught me much said a while ago, “Do you realize you sent me the same card twice?”  On the front of that card is the final sentence of this quote from Eleanor Roosevelt:

 

“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face.  You are able to say to yourself, ‘I lived through this horror.  I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”  (You Learn by Living, 1960)

 

The word emerged in the spiritual direction conversation.  It’s repeated several times in the message that I’ve been working on for Sunday’s Older Adult Recognition worship service at Lower UMC.  It is in this week’s readings on leadership in my John Maxwell Daily Reader. The word is appearing everywhere. That word is “courage” – for just such a time as this. The question that is beginning to start each of my days: “How is God calling me to courageously respond to the circumstances of this day?”

 

For an introvert like me who would prefer to be asking for a word of guidance at the feet of the amma in the desert rather than sitting in committee work and plenary sessions at General Conference trying to listen for God’s word for The UMC in the midst of many, many voices, I need all the courage I can muster.  

Why I feel the need to have something I can hold in my hands or see before me as a symbol of that courage is a different question.  One for counseling, not spiritual direction, I believe, but I’m still planning to pack my box.

 

“Courage is found in unlikely places.” - J.R.R. Tolkien

A Life Lived Deeply

Ten years ago or so, the required text for one of the classes I took through Wesley Seminary for my certification in Older Adult Ministries was "Saving Jesus From Those Who are Right: Rethinking What it Means to be Christians" by Carter Heyward (1999). For Heyward, those who are "right" are any of us whose socio-political commitments are hardened fast and whose spiritual dispositions are tightly boundaried - people who are so sure they are "right" that they don't notice the complexities of our world.

One of the most powerful statements in the book for me reads:

"...the only way we can live really creative, caring lives here on earth, lives rooted deeply in the Spirit, is to learn to struggle together - mutually - to build communities, institutions, and relationships in which everyone's well-being is secured."

As General Conference moves closer, I wonder what our United Methodist Church would look like if we were fully alive in the Spirit...

...if the fear of living passionately as disciples of Jesus was not ever present in our lives and churches - 

...if the fear of following the Spirit's leading didn't cause us to retreat into the safety of church building walls, didn't cause us to take our sides, didn't cause us to question each other's intentions.

Since becoming the chair of our delegation in June, I've been told many things which have filled me with fear: a fear of how the church looks and sounds to the world.  I must admit that I'm afraid of and anxious about many things in my middle age these days: health concerns, retirement investments, Alzheimer's disease, becoming an "elder orphan," my house being too big and not accessible. However, none of them have to do with being afraid to struggle together in the church so that I might live a life deeply rooted in the Spirit and so that others may know the message of love that Jesus modeled.

The book I've been trying to read in the midst of petitions, letters, and email is Eugene Peterson's "Run with the Horses: The Quest for Life at its Best" (2009).  In it, Peterson writes:

"The aim of the person of faith is not to be as comfortable as possible but to live as deeply and thoroughly as possible - to deal with the reality of life, to discover truth, create beauty, act out of love...The only opportunity you will ever have to live by faith is in the circumstances you are provided this day."

Two writers, ten years apart. Both with a message I need to be reminded of this day.

When the Music Stopped

My family history in church music began here.

My aunt, Bea Ensley Meeks, is second from the left on the front row.  My grandmother, Ethel Ensley (later Harrington), is last on the right in the same row.  My grandfather, Ralph, who died long before I was born, is second from the left in the middle row.  He served as director of the choir at Fieldale Methodist Church.  His pitch pipe and hymnal marker sit on the bookcases in my house.  My dad, Gene Ensley, is next to last on the right in the back row.  He had to have been only a teenager.

I was 13 when I started singing in the adult choir at Fieldale Church.  Here’s my confession for today:  I pretty much stopped singing in the church choir about 5 years ago.  At first I said it was because of my schedule and needing to take some time away.  Then came General Conference of 2012, and other than one funeral, a few Sundays of song leading, and a very occasional anthem or special, there’s been no singing other than hymns.  Steve has often asked why.  I’ve been unable to articulate a good explanation. Until now.

This journey to General Conference 2016 has already been filled with many challenging moments and experiences.  In late December, I decided that I had to find someone to walk along beside me.  I must also admit…since I’m in a confessing mood…that I’m one of those midlife Boomers really struggling with the role, if any, I see the institutional church taking to help me and others with what Richard Rohr calls the “second half of life questions.”  (Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life)

A few weeks ago, the conversation with my Spiritual Director turned to tap roots of trees.  Some trees develop them, others do not.  Some of us have them in our spiritual lives, others do not.  Our conversation went on to the seasons in our lives when branches must be pruned for new growth to take place.  When asked what I had pruned from my spiritual life, “music” came immediately from my mouth.  …Sometimes you just need that person in your life who asks the right questions.

That night, I downloaded a playlist of hymns and anthems that have been meaningful to me over the last 15 years or so. The next time I was traveling alone in the car, I sang along with them all…and came to the realization that the reason my heart had not been in singing was the hurt and deep emotions experienced at General Conference in 2012.  The songs I had downloaded were all by contemporary hymn and anthem composers and shared common themes:  seeing God in one another, seeking to be like Jesus, offering love instead of legalities, putting faith into action, seeking justice.  It hit me like a brick that my challenge was in singing the words and melodies that touched my soul while living in the Body of Christ that does not always seem to practice what we say we believe.

I sang along with the playlist again this morning as I traveled to Culpeper.  Right as I came to the top of the knoll that offers one of the most beautiful views of the mountains, with all the dogwoods and flowering trees in full bloom, and fields of purple clover stretched before me, the chorus of my favorite hymn began:

“Do not be afraid, I am with you.

I have called you each by name.

Come and follow Me.

I will bring you home.

I love you and you are mine.”

(“You Are Mine,” David Haas)

Another David Haas song followed:

“Come to the song, come to the dance,

Bring all you are, and all you can be.

Come with your voice, come with your heart.

Come and journey with Me.”

(“Come and Journey with Me”)

And the tears flowed.  No church-bound worship experience could have brought me to the same place this morning. Especially after the last delegation meeting before General Conference. Especially after months of questions.

On the way home, the words that brought the tears were from Shirley Erena Murray’s “For Everyone Born” (“…a voice to be heard, a part in the song…”) and Mark Miller’s “I Dream of a Church” (“I dream of a place we all can call home….”). Certainly not the same type of words that my family sang when they stood for the picture above, but the same love of the church and its people. 

The start of General Conference is only 5 weeks away. What song will it cause to be sung… or left unheard - for a day, for a week, for 5 years, forever? 

An Enduring Inheritance

“You have a pure and enduring inheritance that cannot perish – an inheritance that is presently kept safe in heaven for you.” –  1 Peter 1:4 Common English Bible (CEB)

 

You never move away from or outgrow your roots.  I walked into a meeting for the Hermitage in Roanoke last year and was greeted with "You're not Martha Stokes. You're Martha Ensley."  The person making the comment worked with my mother many years ago.  That same week I was telling clergy gathered at WindsorMeade for a program that when I was little, my cousins in New York used to put me on the ottoman in the living room as soon as we got to their house to visit and say, "Now talk," just to hear my accent.  One of my VUMH co-workers quickly added, "She doesn't realize it but we do the same thing in the office."  Soon after these experiences, I was in Nashville trying to explain to a United Methodist Bishop from The Philippines how you make true southern pound cake, including the fact that you have to be very still and quiet in the house while the cake is in the oven - otherwise, you're the one in big trouble if the cake falls.  The real fun in that experience came after my description of a pound of sugar and a pound of butter going into the recipe when the Bishop took his first bite of a very sweet brown sugar pound cake and said, "I understand what you mean." 

 

I pray I never forget my roots – my southwestern Virginia history, language and family stories. Yet, I have an even greater inheritance: that of being a beloved child of God.  No matter where I find myself as I age, that inheritance will never fade away.

 

Prayer:  Dear God, help me to live each day knowing that I am your beloved child: chosen, forgiven, and filled with hope and purpose.  Amen.

 

A Song and a Prayer

Mom has been fighting a respiratory bug this week.  As I came in the door from work on Tuesday, my brother was calling to say he wouldn't be surprised if she was taken to the hospital.  She looked and sounded to him like she did back in August when pneumonia set in.  I came to Culpeper on Wednesday to find her a little stronger.  Last night, she told me she had gotten her hair done and walked some, both good signs.

This afternoon, Ralph called again.  Fever, delirium, deep cough, pale.  By the time I got to Culpeper tonight, Mom was again somewhat better and didn't remember a thing about earlier in the afternoon.  

The conversations that led to me accepting my current role with Virginia United Methodist Homes began almost exactly 2 years ago.  The offer and decision didn't happen until July, 2014. In the 4 months that I thought about and considered the possibility, I struggled with the fact that my then 88-year old mother would never live in a place like our VUMH communities.  Maybe I never will either.  What I saw was an opportunity for VUMH to become a tremendous resource for all families and especially for our Virginia United Methodist Churches as together we address the needs of aging congregations.  Little did I know how our family situation would change in these two short years. I also had no idea how challenging it would be to balance this work role and having Mom in a residential care setting.

I cried my way out of the health care center tonight - walking beside my brother - because of three things. First, my mother and her roommate share a "boyfriend" as they call him.  He is an aide that every morning brings them a cup of 7-11 coffee because he knows good coffee makes them happy.  They will both tell you the health care center's coffee is not good, but then my Mom's choice for many, many years was instant coffee. In the midst of Mom's coughing, this man came in to tell them he was leaving for the night, grabbed both their hands across the bed, wished them a good rest, and said he'd be there with their coffee in the morning. Both grinned broadly. This man whom I am sure gets paid very little brings a fresh cup of coffee to a 90 and 95 year old each day he works.  To them, there could be no greater gift.

Second thing that made my eyes tear up was when Mom looked over to her roommate and said, I'm so glad I found another sister." Mrs. Lois is the 95 year old, but will do everything she can to help Mom.  Tonight, Lois said she knew Mom felt really bad because this was the first day since they had been together that Mom had not brushed her hair or put on her powder and lipstick.  She knows Mom well because, if you know Trula, you know she would never be seen without her lipstick! Tomorrow morning when I go over they will be watching Joel Olsteen on TV, while sipping their coffee.  A new friendship that means so much to them and to both families - at 90 and 95.  God was watching over this match.

But the real reason I cried my way out has to do with the Charge Nurse tonight. Ralph and I were getting ready to leave when she walked in with Mom's medicine. Mom grabbed her hand and said, "They need to hear you sing." She made Mom take her medicine first, took both their hands across the bed, sang a worship and praise song, and then immediately offered a prayer for both of them, including for Mom's cough to ease. She said she has to be prepared to sing every night before she comes into their room. I responded with a thank you and told her that (her singing and prayer) made me cry.

As Ralph and I walked down the hallway, I wiped the tears from my eyes.  "You really are crying," he said.

"Yes, but I seem to cry at everything these days."

"Well, you get it naturally," was his response, as he has always seemed to think Mom cried over everything.  However, my first memory of her crying in front of him was not long after his return from his service during the Vietnam Conflict.  Ralph, Dad, and Mom were taking me to the zoo (since I was only about 5 years old) when Ralph got pulled for speeding.  Mom cried in front of the female judge to get him out of the ticket.

I cry because my Mom is loved, sung to, and prayed for in this new place where she finds herself.  And I give thanks for the care givers, the medical personnel, and all the staff who care for her.  And I cry because of a heartfelt song and prayer offered by one disciple of Jesus as she shares her faith so freely and beautifully.  

May I be able to do the same.