When God is Silent

These words were discovered on a wall in the German concentration camp, “I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining.  I believe in love even when I can’t feel it.  I believe in God even when God is silent.”

We have journeyed through six weeks of Lent.  Six weeks of remembering what it must have been like for Jesus, God’s son, to know he would die for the sins of all mankind.  At our church, we have been preaching Jesus’ seven last words (really phrases.)  In these phrases, we have looked for what lessons Jesus’ words teach.  He teaches we are to forgive, accept the grace that God offers, take care of our family – neighbors – church family, pray even when we feel forsaken, reach for Jesus and his love so we will thirst no more, know that through Jesus’ death he saved us and commit our souls to God each day – put our lives in his hands.

This is the crux of our faith.  This is where the rubber meets the road.  Jesus was born, lived and died for us – so that our sins would be forgiven and we would live eternally with God.  It’s a little overwhelming to think about.  How God loved us so much that he sacrificed his son in order to save us.  It’s also overwhelming to think about all the lessons Jesus taught us while he was walking on this earth.  He taught of love, forgiveness, sharing and caring.  It’s nice to think about that Jesus and the “teeny, tiny, baby, Jesus”, but what about the cross?  What about all that Jesus taught then?  What does that mean for us now?

As parents or those wanting to be, Jesus’ death is excruciating.  #1 – how does a parent sacrifice his child for others?  I suppose military parents deal with this question more than we would like to admit.  #2 – how does Jesus cry out to his parent while he’s dying and hear nothing?  Many times we cry out to God in the midst of fertility issues, heartbreaking miscarriages or stillborn births, sicknesses of our infants, struggles with our children, struggles with finances, marital relationships, work, etc, etc, etc.  We cry out or maybe we don’t cry out, because we think no one’s listening or no one cares.

Jesus cried out and prayed the Psalms.  He prayed Psalm 22 and Psalm 31.           Psalm 22 says, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?  Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?  O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest. YET you are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel.  In you our ancestors trusted; they trusted and you delivered them.  To you they cried, and were saved; in you they trusted and were not put to shame.” 

Psalm 31 says, “In you, O Lord, I seek refuge; do not let me ever be put to shame; in our righteousness deliver me.  Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me.  You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name’s sake lead me and guide me, take me out of the net that is hidden for me, for you are my refuge.  Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.”

We can cry out too.  We can pray even when God is silent!  We can seek God’s refuge in the time of terrible storm.  Through Jesus’ unspeakable pain and death, he calls out and so can we through our grief. 

Remember, there is resurrection.  After Good Friday – the pain and the death, there is indeed resurrection.  The resurrection and new life may not be exactly what you prayed for, BUT there will be a resurrection and new life in yours. 

Lauren Boyd
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5

I Have a Dream

Yesterday was the 50^th anniversary of the I Have A Dream speech as well as the 57^th Inauguration of a US President.  What a glorious day!  Even if you aren’t a fan of the president’s policies, it was a glorious day for democracy and for the US.  What I heard from the Inaugural Address harkened back a bit to I Have A Dream, but more so to the Sermon on the Mount.  “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.  Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.  Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.  Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.  Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven.”

President Obama spoke of equality: equality achieved at some levels, but not completely.  He spoke of the desire for everyone to feel and be equal.  Everyone deserves respect and kindness and love.  I couldn’t help but think of those who are poor in spirit, because they so want a child to hold and love.  I couldn’t help but think of those who mourn for the loss of a child, be it a miscarriage or stillborn birth.  I couldn’t help but think of the merciful, the caretakers for those who struggle and mourn. 

Do you see yourself amidst the poor in spirit, those who hunger for righteousness, the merciful, or the peacemakers?  Do you feel persecuted because your family doesn’t measure up to society’s view of the perfect family – two moms, single parent, one child, 5 children, aunts and grandmothers pitching in?

I have a dream.  I have a dream that one day everyone who wants to be a parent is one.  I have a dream that every parent who has a child will embrace them with love, patience and understanding.  I have a dream that no more children die before their parents do.  I have a dream that every family feels complete just the way it is.  I have a dream that our society will reach out and take care of those who have struggles along this parenthood journey.  I have a dream that words like miscarriage and postpartum depression are completely understood and that each community wraps their arms around the families who deal with these issues.  I have a dream that every family has the love and joy that I have in my family.

Let us continue to pray for that dream or whatever yours may be.

Here is my pastoral prayer from Sunday.

God of Justice and Might, who raised the meek and the righteous.

Thank you for this day. Thank you for the opportunity to praise your name and lift up each other.  Thank you for helping us overcome each day – our trials, our tribulations, our sin.

Lord, help us to love each other, care for each other, fight for justice for each other.

Lord, be with those who are in need of prayer.  Be with those in need of food and shelter.  Be with those in need of you.

In the name of Jesus, Amen. 

Lauren Boyd
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5

Two weeks later

It's been more than two weeks since the Newtown shootings, and the shock of senselessness continues to unsettle me, even as I spend the holidays surrounded by family. I think about all the firsts that my daughter has experienced in the last two weeks -- first Christmas Eve candelight service, first Christmas, first present unwrapped, first fire in the fireplace.

Because of this tragedy, those experiences have been taken away from so many families, and when I focus in on that fact, I have a hard time coping with a sadness that starts to spiral out of control.

There may not be an obvious connection here, writing about this event on a parenthood blog that mostly focuses on the struggles of trying to become a parent or being one. But despite all the ink spilled and bytes consumed and punditry blathered on television stations, I believe there's something missing from the national conversation: the role of community and shared responsibility. As any group of people living in community, we need each other and we have a responsibility to care for each other. Part of the reason we started this blog is because we felt like too many people suffer alone. Women (and their partners) suffer miscarriages without telling anyone. Or others find they can't have children and quietly go through the process of adoption (or they decide not to have children at all). But no one talks about it. Communication that might generate conflict and awkwardness and pain is avoided. Is that the kind of world we should live in? Where we suffer alone and assume no one else can (or is willing) to share our burdens? As my family and I have been through our own struggles with a miscarriage, a traumatic birth and subsequent mental health battles, we decided to stop suffering alone.

For me, that's what connects this blog to what happened in Newtown.

I have a hard time believing I live in a world where someone bursts into an elementary school and systematically shoots and kills children.

As a new dad, I don't know how to process this. As a human being, I don't know how to process this. I am grateful that my daughter is only six months old, and I don't have to figure out how to tell her about this kind of evil in the world just yet. Not yet...that qualifier terrifies me. I never want her to know that kind of evil and pain, but I know it's inevitable.

It feels like there are no sacred, safe spaces left in this country. Schools, temples, malls and movie theaters. Why have these communal spaces become arenas for shooting tragedies? What does it say about how we build and sustain communities? Have we as a country lost our willingness to engage in meaningful community building? Are there safe community spaces? Where do people come together in meaningful ways to share their lives, experiences and responsibilities?

I will leave the political debates, specifically about gun control and mental health care, for another time, for others to argue about in another space. But I wonder: Would it make a difference if our communities were stronger? Would things like this happen on such a scale and with such frequency if we lived more intentionally communal lives -- where we had responsibilities to others that extend beyond our families? Where we know our neighbors, where villages really do raise children? I don't know much about Newtown, other than at least portions (especially where the killer lived) seem like a classic bedroom community. There is plenty of urban violence in this country -- awful shootings that also often involve children, for example -- but I wonder about the impact on our society of communities where we don't know our neighbors. Suburbs and subdivisions seem to experience a disproportionate amount of these mass killings.

As we sift through the horror of Newtown, there will be plenty of conversation about mental health services and gun control -- and rightly so -- but I wonder if the real question is the loss of dense, community-driven connection in this country. As far as I can tell from media reports, no one really knew Adam Lanza very well, nor his mother, who owned several guns. Their house was on a huge plot of land, and their neighbors didn't really know much about them. Their subdivision (what a depressing word, by the way) clearly does not structurally lend itself to communal, shared responsibility. This is a (broken) family that lived in functional isolation.

(Quick aside: though I do not own a gun, I have no issue, generally speaking, with guns or others' choice to own them. I grew up around guns, took a hunter safety course as a teen and even participated in target shooting competitions as a kid. I was taught how to handle and respect the weapons in my home, and I respect the rights of people who choose to own guns.)

In truth, I live in a city that has ten times the density of Newtown, Conn., but I don't know my neighbors very well, either. In this country, we no longer seek out the company of people who live in proximity to us. We drive out of our way to connect with people who agree with us -- who share our predetermined, demographically assigned values. Or we just shut out everyone else entirely.

My wife and I joined Park Hill United Methodist Church partially out of a sense of lost community. We'd had several friends who'd moved away and we had encountered some personal loss that we were struggling to make sense of. We needed a community, and, thank God, we found it through a church that's only two miles from our house. Every week, we invite members of the church into our home.  They come, they hold my daughter, play with her, they engage in fellowship with us, and we feel connected in a way that we haven't ever really experienced before in our nine years in this city.

Why is that? It shouldn't be this hard to connect and engage with your neighbors and build community.

Was Adam Lanza part of a community that cared about him? That shared his struggles? That felt a responsibility to take care of him as a neighbor or friend? This young man didn't have access to (or at least didn't take advantage of) mental health services he needed -- that's clear -- but did he even have a community of people who cared about him at all?

Have we lost our sense of community in this country? Have we lost our sense of shared responsibility?

There will always be tragedies, but I have to believe this particular kind of tragedy doesn't have to be. This isn't a natural disaster or an act of political terrorism. This is a shooting. In an elementary school. A sacred space. What fixes this? I don't want my daughter to grow up in a world where tragedies like this happen. I don't want her to grow up in a world I have a hard time believing even exists.

Can we rebuild a sense of community, shared responsibility, service, compromise and dialogue in this country? That's what has always made our country great. How do we repair the parts of this great society, this American Dream, that have been broken?

What fixes this?

Miscarriage, Stillborn and Newtown

Isaiah 26:4 says, "You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you.  Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord, the Lord himself, is the Rock eternal."

How do we seek peace in the midst of sadness, struggle, devastation and loss?  Whether it be a miscarriage, a stillborn birth or a horrific death of a child.  Who and what do we turn to?  We turn to our loved ones.  We turn to our friends.  We sometimes reach out to professionals - doctors, therapists.  But often times there is no peace.  We find no peace.  We move on with the wonderful families we have, the children already in our lives and for some we are able to have more children.  But is that peace found?

This scripture from Isaiah is a letter to the people in Judah.  It is written in Hebrew.  As we know, the Hebrew word for peace is SHALOM.  It's said twice in this passage: a peaceful peace or a complete peace.  The passage says to be steadfast in our minds - to focus on God through attending church, being a part of a bible study and praying daily.  Through this steadfastness and over years of relationship with God, we pray that we will have this perfect peace.  It doesn't come by just meeting God on a first date and suddenly we have "perfect peace", no it's a relationship that takes time.

The person who steadfastly looks to God can know an inner oneness which makes possible a confident outlook even in the darkest hours.  In exchange for our mortality, short-sightedness and weakness, faith receives God's perspective, immortality, strength and presence.  That is security far, far beyond anything this world offers.  The promises God keeps with us are intended to create confidence in His Word and faithfulness to Him.  Those who abide in His Word and cultivate faithfulness, find peace, a deep, restful constant assurance that God cannot forsake His Word nor His promises.  For those whose mind is fixed upon the promises of God, the outcome of all events is peace.

How can we find this peace when we feel far from God in the midst of our loss, sadness and grief?  We find it by giving ourselves time while at the same time trusting that God is present right where we are.  It is a time to receive Grace when we need it most of all.  It's a time of understanding that God knows where we are on our journey and will not lose hold of us as we seek comfort and healing that can only come from God.  Isaiah reminds us to trust when we can do nothing else and God promises to hold us and give us a firm foundation upon which to stand as our journeys continue, because He is the Rock Eternal.

**This post is adapted from our Service of Remembrance honoring our children who were miscarried, stillborn or have died.

Here is my pastoral prayer from yesterday's worship service,

O Great Comforter,
who was with Elizabeth through her barren years and with Mary through her uncertain pregnancy.  We know you were in the school Friday, you were with the teachers and the students EVERY MOMENT. 

Lord, we ask that you continue to abide in the families of Charlotte, Daniel, Rachel, Olivia, Josephine, Ana, Dylan, Dawn, Madeleine, Catherine, Chase, Nancy, Jesse, James, Grace, Anne Marie, Emilie, Jack, Noah, Caroline, Jessica, Avielle, Lauren, Mary, Victoria, Benjamin and Allison.  Lord, in your mercy - hear our prayer.

We pray for those in our congregation and in our community struggling this season.
We pray for your peace.  God of peace, let us feel your peace today. Amen

Lauren Boyd
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5

Barrenness at Christmas

God is amazing. This ministry is so new.  We are looking for those of you who would be willing to share your journey with others so they might feel community and hope.  Then just yesterday, Donna Claycomb Sokol, a friend from divinity school wrote the following post.  She quotes another divinity school friend, Enuma Okoro.  Donna is a pastor in DC.  Enuma is a writer who has written a poignant book called Silence and Other Surprising Invitations of Advent.  Enuma writes about what happened in the corners and in the minds of those journeying so long ago.  She writes of Elizabeth’s barrenness and that God brings John the Baptist into the Christmas story so it isn’t such a “Hallmark Story.”  She also broaches the subject of barrenness and infertility.  Donna wrote about this yesterday and had several comments on her post.  She has allowed me to share it with you today.

“I encountered rather raw words from my reading with Enuma Okoro this morning. The words are uncomfortable. They also name so much of the pain I have encountered as a pastor and as a woman who always thought she would have children but now finds absolute peace in my family of two. Our churches have not always made space to name and hold infertility and miscarriage. Instead, we regularly ignore the pain as we hand out flowers to mothers and celebrate fathers while some young adults sink further into the hardness of their pew. We don't know what to say when someone says, "I just had a miscarriage," often failing to see and hold the pain. I'd give anything - absolutely anything - to fill wombs that are longing to no longer be empty. Here's what Enuma writes, ‘Barrenness does not simply mean that a woman cannot have children. Infertility can be fraught with all kinds of unmentioned trials and varying levels of pain. And rarely is it clean. It is messy. Enduring a miscarriage is a horrifying experience of encountering life blood seeping from your body. Not to mention the emotional trauma of infertility, the self-inflicted guilt, feelings of failure, the possible onslaught of depression. Only after we acknowledge the physical reality of barrenness can we begin to consider how such pain can transfer to other forms of barrenness. Then we can adequately name other empty spaces in our lives that feel as painful as the ache of a womb that refuses to carry life, the purpose for its creation.’” – Rev. Donna Claycomb Sokol, Mount Vernon Place UMC.

You may be struggling with infertility or you may be struggling with a barrenness inside of you that is an unwillingness to forgive someone or to be forgiven, or an inability to hope.  This season, we are called to look to the God of hope and love.  We are also called to cling together in the messiness, be there for one another through the pain and bring life to one another.

Lauren Boyd 
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5