All Live Matter When Black Lives Matter

At the end of today, with the grand jury decision following Breonna Taylor's killing, here's the question on my mind. If I, Caitlin Trussell, middle-aged suburban White woman, had been shot to death in my bed at home by law enforcement who entered the wrong house after my husband jumped out of bed with a legally owned handgun to protect us, what would have happened?

Over the last three and a half months, I joined the other founders of Lakewood for Justice, Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion for weekly Black Lives Matter protests and demonstrations at different intersections in our town. While there were many positive honks, waves, and fists in the air from drivers, there was an escalating reaction primarily from older, White men. The reaction of lightening fast rage involved a straight arm, middle finger in the air, leaning toward the passenger window, making eye contact with me, and screaming obscenities at me. This happened to all of us at the protests - Black, Brown, and White. As a middle-aged White woman this was a new experience for me. Every time it happened, I envisioned the newspaper pictures of the White adults screaming at the black children entering schools as desegregation unfolded after Brown vs. Board of Education (1954).

There are so many reports of getting stopped by law enforcement pretty much doing anything while black, including sleeping in your apartment wrongly invaded by a no-knock raid and being shot to death to entering your own home and being asked to prove ownership. Here's a video of people being asked, "If you as a white person would be happy to receive the same treatment as black folks in our society, please stand."

It's illogical that people would even question that black lives haven't mattered and continue not to matter. It's not a question of being a nice person to the black people that we know or call friends. It's a question of holding law enforcement and other people in authority to the standard that White forks enjoy. I, as a former nurse and now pastor, am part of a professions held to the highest possible ethical standards. In nursing, people died if I wasn't. It's perfectly acceptable to hold law enforcement accountable.

Rest Steps (OR Day 2 of Return to Pastorland Post-Sabbatical)

Way down the list of Colorado’s Top 100 peaks is Mount Silverheels ranking 96th. Over supper one cold winter evening, our friends and Rob and I concocted a master plan to climb said peak. Two of our friends are mountaineers with the gear and peak tally befitting the title. The rest of us are not. July rolled around and we started throwing around the euphemism “Gentle Giant” to describe Mount Silverheels. I’m not entirely sure what I thought it was going to be like but I’m pretty sure I’d lulled myself into complacency. This will come as no surprise to anyone but that thing was a beast. A huge, green, rocky beast that steepened as the top loomed. 

About a mile before the top, one of our mountaineer friends coached us through rest steps. The gist is that you can make it to the top of just about anything if you slow your steps way down, resting briefly between each one. Picture a slow bridal march and you get the idea. Rest steps were key to my bagging the peak. We all made it. A glorious, 360 degree view of peaks and valleys, blue sky, and puffy white clouds, not a thunderstorm in sight. 

Rest steps. (Don’t be surprised if they show up in a sermon.) The experience has me thinking about life in general and my work in particular. And, of course, sabbatical. I’m beyond grateful for the recent sabbatical that is a significant “rest step” in my pastoral call with the people of Augustana. It’s given me time to literally rest. And it’s given me time to think about how we take rest steps together as Jesus people in a world longing for hope. 

Sunday worship is one such rest step for me. My first day back in the office, I asked Cindy (intrepid organist) to accompany me through practicing the prayer chants for communion. It’d been awhile, you know. Cindy played the cue notes and I sang, “The Lord be with you…” I barely made it through “Lift up your hearts…” My throat tightened and my eyes welled. My second day back and I’m in my office writing this piece. I’ve missed being in the rest step of worship with these dear people and I’m glad to be back, looking forward to Sunday and more. 

Rest steps in progress...

Mount Silverheels 13,329'/4,215m (Prominence 2,283')

💕

Military Deaths, Murphy, and Memorial Day

"Okay guys, listen to Navy Lieutenant Murphy's story while we wrap up with pigeon stretches." Our coach read us the details of how 29 year old LT Murphy lost his life in Afghanistan. [Click here to read it.]  His favorite CrossFit workout was renamed in his honor posthumously and more recently the Murphy workout became a Memorial Day tradition.

Run 1 mile
100 pull-ups
200 push-ups
300 air squats
Run 1 mile
*With a 20lb Vest or Body Armor

I'd never done it but it was my friend Susan's birthday so we teamed up to each do half.  Mine takes more mods to get through with ring rows and knee push-ups. Regardless, we did what we showed up to do.

Whether heading with my family over to the U.S. Marine Corps Memorial in Golden or showing up to do a Hero WOD, it's a good moment for me to pause in gratitude about the commitment that soldiers make on behalf of those of us who are not soldiers. I admit that I'm a sucker for homecoming reunion videos between soldiers and their families as well as the videos where soldiers talk about the freedoms they believe they are protecting.  The price they pay is ordinate for whatever benefit they receive.

I recently heard an NPR report about a cross-partisan group that has formed to support veterans in running for Congress [listen here].  Military Veteran politicians tend to favor diplomatic strategies over military intervention at higher numbers than their civilian counterparts. They know the cost of war at a deeply personal level.  I appreciate anyone working long hours to prevent the kinds of deaths experienced by LT Murphy, his fellow fallen soldiers, and their families.  Young people dying on my behalf in this way is overwhelming and humbling.  Young people dying in wars with fewer of the decision-making politicians ever having lived through or fought in one is questionable.

My larger family includes veterans (brother, stepfather, and father) and active duty military (cousin) but no one has died in active duty.  I'm open to conversations that honor the military and also challenge the institution to do better by the people affected by them.  That's consistent across institutions by the way - church, government, schools, banks, manufacturing, law enforcement, etc. It's pretty much consistent with my tradition's theology that we are simultaneously saint and sinner [simul iustus et peccator].

Today, though, I'm grateful for the young people who have given their lives for freedoms that I can so easily take for granted.

"Greater love has no one than this; to lay down one's life for one's friends."  (Bible verse: John 15:13)

Am I Afraid or Is It Just Hard Work?

Riding my bike to the trail head allows enough time for waffling. Back in the saddle after an unintended hiatus and determined to ride dirt, I'm back-and-forth on whether to attempt my old fave trail of choice - uphill, switchbacked, and strenuous - or stick to the base trail with its rolling intervals. Fed up with my internal drama, the self-talk concludes with a stern speech to the tune of, "get a grip, take your time, and see what happens."

I pass an elderly man using hiking poles, both of us moving at a snail's pace, coming up on the first switchback. Panic ensues. Bailing, I dismount and walk through it.  The breeze and cricket song settle my panic. I get back on my bike and muscle the second two switchbacks. Feeling victorious, I stop to record a meadowlark who's celebrating their own moment. Minutes later, loose trail messes with my mind. Breathing fast, I stop. I can't tell if I'm panicky or just out of breath. Am I afraid or is it just hard work?  So it begins, the writing in my head.

Writing in my head seems as old as my memory. Maybe it's the reader in me that likes third person narration. Hard to say. Anyway, my mind takes off on the "am I afraid or is it just hard" question. Fear is an odd thing. Brain stems battle for survival every minute and our brains' amygdalas churn out corresponding emotions. For me, this looks like turning into a hot mess when I'm booking airline tickets and the flight is weeks away. Before you launch into the safety of air travel, I know, I've heard it all. Brain stems are reptilian though. They simply react. (Yes, by the way, I'm thinking this all through on the trail. Ill-advised, to be sure.)

Consoling myself with my propensity for public speaking scenarios that would unglue other people, I keep riding.  Mind you, this ride is only an hour even with all my stopping for breath, fear, and thinking. And, for the gazillionth time in my existence, I find myself wishing I was as calm as people think I am.  So, I keep teasing apart my reptilian and emotional reactions from how I use my gray matter to respond. Buying time before responding whenever possible. Reminding myself that survival is hardwired by evolution but, thankfully, rarely at stake in my day-to-day. This gap between reacting and response often looks dramatically inelegant and pretty darn human. Just ask Rob. Or, better yet, ask my kids. Evidence abounds.

Still on my bike, a biblical promise pops into my head about perfect love casting out fear - meaning that we are creatures first loved by God who is love.*  Now I'm just an 'n' of 1, but this promise seems to muscle its way through my indulgence in instinctive fear. Regardless, my love of riding dirt seems like one more chance to take the promise out for a spin.

*1 John 4:16-18

Wind-on-Skin, a sabbatical "short"

Wind-on-skin is a top reason to get on a bicycle. It's a sensation I've indulged in less and less over the last five years with occasional attempts to get back at it. Sixteen months into my pastoral call in June 2014 the Senior Pastor (SP) retired. The same afternoon as his send-off shindig, our beloved family dog Romi was diagnosed with cancer. She died five weeks later.  Those five weeks were full of last walks with her and first steps for me in the three months before the first interim SP who was to shoot the gap during the search for a new one. Wind-on-skin was the last thing on my mind. So a summer a came and went without cycling time.

Each new departure and welcome of SPs brought role changes for me. So I tend to think about my work in five phases - 16 months before the retirement, 3 months on my own, 12 months with the first interim, 9 months with the second interim, and now 2 years with the called SP.  I don't know how other people handle multiple, rapid work transitions within the same organization but it became clear to me that I needed some help to do better thinking - enter Bowen Family Systems Theory, stage left, which includes regular visits with a leadership coach steeped in said theory.

It's also become clear in more recent hindsight that there were unintended consequences along the way as I was getting my act together as a pastor in a thriving parish. One of them is loss of wind-on-skin. It's not just an exercise thing. Sunny dog joined our family a few years back so walking and weight lifting continued. Wind-on-skin is joy and it's also a couple thing for Rob and me. Case in point, our honeymoon included a supported mountain bike ride over the Uncompahgre Plateau from Telluride to Moab. I'm also very aware that Rob married an R.N. not a pastor. He's remarkably supportive of my work and believes, as I do, that it is a calling.  So, as our Trussell sprouts empty from the nest (yeah, mixed metaphor...just roll with it), as parish work has become more defined and mentally manageable, and as I begin a three month sabbatical (gifted by my congregation) in which to rest, reflect, read, and learn, wind-on-skin makes for a top priority.  Rob and I rode dirt together for the first time in a long while a few days ago. It was inelegant, wonderful, and literally took my breath away (clearly more riding to do to get the lungs back).

Signing off to saddle up solo today...
     More sabbatical "shorts" to follow...

Nothing Short of Full Abolition

On April 26 and May 3, Sister Lee McNeil and I testified alongside each other and legislative sponsors to abolish constitutional slavery in Colorado at the House and Senate State Affairs Committees respectively.  Concurrent Resolution 1002 unanimously passed these committees and also unanimously passed the subsequent floor voting in the House on May 1 and Senate on May 8.

Senator Crowder's (R) testimony is memorable for his passionate call to fellow Republicans to continue their long history of abolition, including the work of Abraham Lincoln, and vote "yes" to abolish constitutional slavery.  Now the voters have the same opportunity on ballot November 6.

Here is my fb post from that first day, April 26...

Honored to be testifying this morning alongside Sister Lee McNeil of Shorter AME Church, whose great-grandmother was a slave, in favor of amending the Colorado State Constitution to remove the slavery exception as punishment for a crime - House Continuing Resolution HCR18-1002.

Read Resolution here: http://leg.colorado.gov/bills/hcr18-1002

Listen here: eg.colorado.gov/node/1349541 
House State Affairs Committee proceedings begin at 9:30a. No telling what time we're up.

My testimony:
Good morning Representatives Foote and Lontine, and members of the committee.

I am Caitlin Trussell.

A Pastor of Augustana Lutheran Church, an 1,100 member congregation in Denver;

Faith Leader in Together Colorado, a multi-faith, multi-race organization;

the great-great granddaughter of Hugh Thompson, governor of South Carolina (1882-1886) and a graduate of The Citadel who led a battalion of Citadel cadets, firing the first shots of the Civil War against the Union ship 'Star of the West' as it entered Charleston Harbor;

and the great-great-great granddaughter of Thomas B. Clarkson, plantation owner of 300 slaves.

Complacency and justification are too easy when we ourselves are not the ones in chains. Prior to the Civil War and the burning of his plantation, my triple-great grandfather invited an abolitionist to come and see the condition of the slaves for himself. The abolitionist recorded his visit in a letter. The letter congratulated my triple-great grandfather on his good care of the slaves. He specified that they were clean, educated, and instructed in the Christian faith. I suppose it’s comforting that he treated his slaves with some kindness. Regardless, there's no legitimate excuse for owning people. 

The odd thing is that I’d known for many years that he was a plantation owner and it never once occurred to me that he owned slaves. Of course I’m not responsible for his choices but I am affected by them…and so are all of us here. There is always something to be learned and another step to take. The legacy of slavery for all of us in this country, but especially for our Black brothers and sisters, is part of how I understand my call to the ministry of reconciliation in the second letter to the Corinthians in the Christian Bible -reconciliation understood as healing our broken relationships between God and neighbors.

My triple-great grandfather justified chattel slavery as a gentleman and a Christian. He had people around him at the time who knew it was wrong. He cozied up to something we clearly know was wrong. We’ve grown similarly cozy with the vestiges of chattel slavery including justifying constitutional slavery in our guiding document. I implore you to join me in abolishing the remnants of this inhumane evil by voting “yes” on the Concurrent Resolution to amend the Colorado State Constitution by removing the exception language as we continue to heal as a state and as a country.

Groundhogs, Jesus, and Five Years a Pastor

February 2^nd is Groundhog Day and, only slightly less well known, the festival of Presentation of Our Lord. The Bible story sees the Holy Family showing up at the temple in Jerusalem (Luke 2). The elderly Simeon and the prophet Anna are both awaiting the promised Messiah. The weirdness of this scene is marvelous. Simeon scoops up the baby Jesus and dances around. Eighty-four year old Anna praises God and talks to anyone who will listen. It’s an impromptu, ecstatic celebration. It also happens to be the reading from my pastoral ordination with the good people of Augustana, five years ago exactly on the festival day of Presentation of Our Lord.

After five years, I love Jesus, the people, and the work. There’s work I’ve done well and there are situations I wish I’d handled so much better. Reflecting on these experiences is my own personal version of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Superstar Jennifer Hudson said awhile back, “Stop singing a perfect song and tell an imperfect story.” I love her line so much that I ended up preaching it on Christmas Eve [read it here]. There are several reasons that I can't let go of Christianity. Imperfection as a given is one of them.

Recently, I led the rite of individual confession with someone – hearing their confession and announcing to them the forgiveness of all their sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The power of that moment hung in the air of my office for a good while. There is nothing like being present when a soul is broken open by forgiveness. People are in pain, my friends, deep in their being. There are so few places to be held in grace and held accountable. The church is one of them, however imperfectly lived out. 

At this five year mark, I'm still grateful (and yes, on occasion, even ecstatic) for the chance to do this weird thing called church...

...and still having fun along the way...

My Dad, the U.S. Presidency, #metoo, and the Women's March (yup, all that in just a few words)

Dad roared, "I'm going to treat her like a woman should be treated!!" I was about five years old standing in the living room with my mother, older sister, and grandparents. 911 was quickly called to protect my mother. My sister and I watched the police lights through the lace curtains of the next door neighbor's row-house as Dad was taken into custody.  Obviously, there's more to the story but that's enough for now.

Alongside that memory, Mom tells the story of all of us driving along in our VW van when I was small. Dad waxed on about becoming President of the United States and he meant it. As the story goes, I piped up from the back seat, "Mommy, Daddy's crazy." And Mom burst into tears. I don't remember this moment but it was pivotal as Dad would be diagnosed with schizophrenia and become homeless in the years to come. When I was six years old, Mom packed laundry baskets in the night and my uncles came to help her move with the five of us kids. She's a fierce survivor that woman, my mother. 

So when Dad roared his infamous roar in our living room, it's easy to lay that on the crazy as if that's all it takes to explain it. Here's the thing, my father's words were NOT crazy. Calling it "crazy" too easily excuses the origins of the roar and his behavior. That roar was a cultural norm unleashed through the crazy. Let's not further shame people struggling with mental illness by piling on social ills that belong to all of us. 

When then presidential candidate, Donald Trump, revealed himself to be a pussy grabber and kiss pusher in recorded video, I thought his candidacy was over (listen here). I was shocked when the GOP solidified his candidacy and voters elected him to the presidency.

When then President Clinton, at age 49, had sexual encounters with a 22 year old intern in the Oval Office of the White House, the critique from his political supporters was fairly quiet. While respecting the intern's claim that the relationship was consensual, the power differential between the two of them and the lack of leadership on the political left to critique the president gives significant pause to consider "how women should be treated." 

The mistreatment of women is accepted as normative in the U.S. Presidency, so much so that someone can still get elected to the office with major strikes against them in this regard. I've been in recent conversations when people talk about the normalcy of men using their positions of power to stoke their own egos as if that explains everything and we should all go along with it because that's simply the way things work. Well I'd like to see the day when we collectively shout, "That's not how this works; that's not how any of this works!!"

At a very young age, I heard my father roar something that many people believe about women. I'm grateful for the #metoo movement begun by Tarana Burke to support young Black women that now frees women of all colors to speak their truth about sexual harassment and assault (read more here).  There are, indeed, amazing men on the planet who don't believe for a second that women should be thus treated. However, it's unsettling to me that the "treatment of women" is up for debate in terms of what is okay to say out loud about us and to do to us. Much, much worse is the daily experience of women and also men who continue to be harassed and assaulted with no recourse. 

So, I'll be at the Women's March in Denver this Saturday. Marching for family reasons, for myself, and for the many women who have yet to heal from their experiences or who are not free to march or who are fearful to tell their truth or who cannot safely get away from someone who is hurting them whether it be a customer, an employer or a family member or a President of the United States. Marching is the next right step for me.

#metoo

"Why do you care so much about race?" Well, here's part of the why...

I’ve been wondering lately about how our stories fit into how we move through the world.  It makes me wonder how the different parts of our story work together to form our passions and work. Many of you know my religious background and church refugee status that led to my call to the pulpit. Added to this call is Martin Luther King Jr. Day and my experience of call as a person of faith to work in the breach between Black and White people in this country. There’s a lot in the mix there for me.  

When I moved to California from D.C. at 9 years old, my very first friend Kim Gammel was Black and so was my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Gaines.  In sixth grade, my teacher Mrs. Lake – an amazing, strong Black woman – assigned the novel Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry about racism in America during the Great Depression.[1]  I spent four years at John Muir High School in Pasadena. It was 10% White kids and predominantly Black and Latino kids with an additional minority of first and second generation Asian and Armenian kids. 

Running in parallel to those details of upbringing is the picture of the South Carolina governor’s mansion hanging in my grandparents’ home because my Great-Great Grandfather, Hugh Thompson, was the governor of South Carolina.[2]  He led a battalion of Citadel cadets to fire some of the first shots of the Civil War against the North’s Star of the West as it entered Charleston Harbor.  And, on top of that infamy is my Great-Great-Great Grandfather, Thomas B. Clarkson, Plantation man and owner of 300 slaves – men, women, and children.[3]  

About a year and a half ago, my mother gave me a letter written by an abolitionist to my triple-great grandfather.  The letter congratulated him on his good care of the slaves. I suppose it’s good to know that he treated his slaves with some kindness. The bottom line for me is that he owned people. The odd thing is that I’ve known for many years that he was a plantation owner and it never once occurred to me that he owned slaves. Of course I’m not responsible for his choices but I am affected by them…so are we all. There is always something to be learned. The legacy of slavery for all of us in this country, but especially for our Black brothers and sisters, is part of how I understand the anti-racism work that I do with my multi-race, multi-faith colleagues of Together Colorado.[4] 

---

[1] Mildred D. Taylor. Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry (1976).

[2] Hugh Smith Thompson (1836-1904). 51^st Governor of South Carolina (1882-1886).  http://www.carolana.com/SC/Governors/hsthompson.html

[3] Suellen Clarkson Delahunty (my mother’s cousin). Information About Thomas B. Clarkson, Col. http://www.genealogy.com/ftm/d/e/l/Suellen-Clarkson-Delahunty-NC/WEBSITE-0001/UHP-0001.html

[4] 2 Corinthians 5:11-21

My Heart on this 500th Reformation Day [a.k.a. Halloween]

There's this prayer about the church that includes the line, "...where it is corrupt, purify it." I love that line because it sums up being human. It's one of the optional prayers for Reformation Day that falls on October 31 every year (a.k.a. Halloween). This year adds up to 500 of those (1517-2017).  Martin Luther (monk, professor, saint/sinner) challenged the corruption of the medieval church at the time even as he added his recipe for antisemitic sauce. Catholics have long since instituted many of those reforms.

Here's where my heart is this Reformation Day. I'm grateful for the legacy of grace that loves first. A friend of mine recently told me that her teenage daughter doesn't wonder 'what would Jesus do' but rather that "he would love first." Love is the first move of God in Jesus. Through it we have some kind of shot at love being our first move too.  Corruption and purity, as the prayer names, are held in tension by every human institution, by every human, and by me.  No sooner do I say, "Love first," then do corrupt purity codes kick in - the things I hold close and dear can quickly become a measure of someone else's humanity and worthiness.

So today, Reformation Day, I remember that I am loved first. I'm pretty sure that love doesn't always win the moment. Inflicted suffering is evidence to the contrary.  But loving first is my hope - "knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God's love has been poured into our hearts..."*

Hope is different than optimism. Optimism is a bit blind to actual human experience. Optimism says that things are going to work out in the end as form of denial. Hope sees corruption AND purity. Hope sees my own part in that murky paradox. Hope does not disappoint because it sees the truth of suffering and frees me to love first as I am first loved.  Happy Reformation Day.

Beyond by Colleen Briggs (2013)

*Christian Bible, Letter to the Romans, chapter 3, verse 5 [Romans 3:5]

Colleagues, A Love Language All Its Own

Yesterday I followed a whole heap of colleagues in formal procession and full regalia into a colleague's funeral. Most of us had also just been surprised beforehand by the news of another colleague's sudden death the night before - both were in their 60s. As we filled the sanctuary aisle on our way to the pews, the image came to mind of police officers lining the streets when they say goodbye to one of their own. An imperfect metaphor but one that gets close to describing the shared connection of work in common. My colleagues so often hold space for other people's big moments of life and death. It was different to show up for each other in this way, a motley crew covering the spectrum of grief, love, and loss.

Last Thursday, I picked up a colleague who had flown in for the funeral. He said he was grateful to be able to be with his "team." His gratitude is a bit of what I mean when I use the word "colleague."  There's a lot of love in the word. My colleagues represent a variety of kinds of work in the church world and, in my experience, it's one of the weirder professions one can be called into. The weirdness is part of the love. There are things that we understand without words because of common experiences that defy description. Honestly? There is much among colleagues that mystifies me after only a few years in the mix as a second career person. I can also honestly say that I couldn't continue to do the work without them. It's a love language all its own.

Defiant Faith: Red and Yellow, Black and White

I'm home writing sermons. One for Boogie Bob's funeral and one for Sunday. It was supposed to be a full day of writing but our Director of Youth and Family texted that she's down with the stomach flu so I ended up in chapel this fine Thursday morning with my church's preschool kids. I sang with them:
"Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world.
Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight.
Jesus loves the little children of the world."

It broke my heart open, choking back tears as these beautiful, little people of all the song's colors sang with me. I sang this song to my kids every night when they were tiny. It's simple. Pure. Defiant. So many moments this week have felt loaded with defiant faith. A refusal to let natural or man-made devastation be the last word. From a hospital baptism using a glass bowl gifted from dear friends to a 1:1 meeting about alternatives to prison to home communion with a 94 year old to the surreal painted lady butterfly migration happening through Denver to a super quirky screening of the new Martin Luther movie, it's been a poignant, strange week.

A week made all the more surreal given Colin Kaepernick's knee, carnage and grief in Las Vegas, and hurricane after hurricane. Made all the more surreal by patriotism and the common good being shaped in ongoing debates about protests, guns, race, health care, immigration, media, diplomacy, aid, education, gender, incarceration, taxes, and more.  All of this to say that a defiant faith is what fuels my hope, prayer, and actions. It's easy to give up and hide. It's easy to disrespect other people and turn up the volume on my opinions. It's much harder to fight for your humanity as I hold onto mine while we disagree.

Martin Luther King Senior came home from a trip to Germany and renamed himself and his son after learning about Martin Luther's 15th century commitment to non-violence as a way to turn self-interest and corruption upside-down so that all people could live. No small thing, that name change. I'm committed to non-violence right down to the way I talk about you. Do I get it right every time? Not by a long shot. Do I get angry? You bet.

On the docket is confessing on Sunday my part in the mess, receiving training on October 15th to better understand connecting conversations across difference, and remembering that my faith doesn't mean I'm good, it means I live a new life. Every. Single. Day. I get a chance to live. Because if Jesus loves all the children of the world, then that means you and I are in this together whether we like it or not. It doesn't mean I keep the peace for the benefit of the status quo while people continue to suffer. It means that I lean into the chaos of our present time and see what's possible for all of us so that we all may live.*

Peace,
Caitlin

*Paraphrase of Jesus' words in the Bible (John 10:10) - "I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly."

Symptom: Coffee (or lack thereof); Diagnosis: A Week

Coffee is my job in our marriage. Rob handles a ton of practical details too. But coffee is mine. This past week, coffee served up humble pie. On Wednesday morning, I discovered we were out of coffee. This never happens. NEVER. Until now. Mom arrived later that morning from the West Coast.  Mom brought coffee.  Thursday we moved our daughter her first college dorm with our crack team of her dad, her grandmother, and me.

Friday, I took off to a quasi-remote mountain spot with Mom and my sister.  During the evening chit-chat, it dawned on me, no coffee; forgotten at home. With sheepish lack of eye contact, I broke the news. Not a problem. Mom had brought special coffee for my sister too.  Resourceful types that we are, we filled a baggie with beans and pounded out some grounds.  Not too long after that moment, my husband texted to see if I had stashed back-up coffee filters anywhere. Nope. No back-ups. Telling my mother and sister the latest, and third, coffee mishap, I started to laugh until I couldn't speak. We laughed until our stomach muscles couldn't take it.

Why am I sharing this coffee tale?  Because it's a symptom of the last week. With my daughter's move, we've experienced a season change in our home. One I know that will be fine but feels surreal in the happening. Her move alone would have been enough. Way bigger is the march under Nazi flags in Charlottesville and the response from the White House. Many of us are not surprised by the existence of racial hatred. What is appalling is the explicit display of white supremacy - that white people and their agenda is the ultimate and only agenda that is worthy.  Appalling, not surprising.

Angry on behalf of my black friends and Jewish brother's family, I've spent the week in conversation with them and thinking about their own shock, anger and worries.  My response to this moment in time and my self-assessment of how I consciously and unconsciously participate in a white-people-first agenda is also on my mind.  I've written elsewhere that my faith tradition allows for this kind of self-examination. We say that we are saint and sinner at the same time. It makes sense that this would be as true for me individually as it would be for a country that imported its first African slave 400 years ago, passed the Civil Rights law in 1964, and now incarcerates a much higher percentage of black and brown people than whites per population.

It's tempting to extend the coffee metaphor into poetry about racial hatred and more subtle forms of white supremacy. I'd rather lay down the challenge ahead more explicitly. Listening to people of color, their experience and their leadership, is paramount and THE place to start. I also need to look deep inside myself to weed out racial bias and how I benefit from white-people-first agendas.  This goes for city, state, and national policy as well as bias built into implicit social codes.

This morning in worship, my faith community begins with confession and hears a word of God's good forgiveness. The forgiveness is grace. It isn't earned or deserved. Receiving God's grace inspires and strengthens me to take the hard next steps into consequences for my actions and a reset to live as Jesus teaches us to do so. May grace abound so that all people may have life and have it abundantly.*

Peace,
Caitlin

* Paraphrase of Jesus' words in the Bible, John 10:10 - "I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly."

E Pluribus Unum (The KKK Doesn't Exist in a Vaccuum)

I'm furious with the KKK. They threaten what I hold dear - my Jewish brother and his family, my black friends, and my colleagues of many faiths and races. The KKK is an egregious legacy of chattel slavery in America. But they are not the only one. As much as the US Constitution and Christianity had to do with advancing civil rights in this country, the same could be said in the other direction. The US Constitution and Christianity keep the 400 year legacy of racism alive and well with embedded racial biases. I have no trouble claiming that paradox because I see myself as a microcosm of it.  One of the confessional claims of my faith tradition is that I'm saint and sinner at the same time - imperfect and beloved by God.  Why wouldn't it be so when it comes to racism as well?  

'There's always a scapegoat' goes the theory of Rene Girard. There's always someone to blame. For the KKK, the scapegoats are black, brown, Jewish, and Muslim people. For other white people like me, the KKK can be an easy scapegoat that absolves us from the ways we perpetuate racial bias in government, law enforcement, religion, real estate, education, and commerce.  There is more work to do while also righteously denouncing the KKK in Charlottesville, VA.  Let it begin with me.

Two Weddings and a Funeral

Friday, a wedding; Saturday, a funeral and a wedding rehearsal, and Sunday, a wedding. It's a wonder that these rituals happen and the rituals themselves are a wonder in a world where meaning is elusive. I've been noodling on this time spent with other people's family and friends. Here are some initial gleanings...

Guiding people through ritual rocks. Finding a sweet spot in the midst of hope, reality, and the work that follows the celebrations is an epic puzzle. My people will tell you that I love a good puzzle.

Raw emotion is tapped. Joy, grief, love, hate, and everything in-between. Weddings are blinding joy bombs. Standing with a couple whose family and friends are pouring big energy toward them defies description. Weddings also scratch at grief in the absence of family and friends who have died. Funerals ache with unresolved tension as life is celebrated through the pain of loss, the promise of good news, and the reworking of family relationships among the living.

Family is a complicated mix of dependence, independence, and interdependence. I'm especially struck by this truth on a global scale as we in the U.S. celebrate Independence Day while struggling to live well in the actual interdependence of the human family.

A hummingbird made a prolonged appearance in the trumpet flowers at Sunday evening's wedding. Some things that happen during weddings and funerals are pure poetry with multiple interpretations. More pieces to add to the epic puzzle. I'll keep working on it...

Love is Risk

Dorothy Day, 19^th century Catholic social activist, is quoted as saying, “I only love God as much as I love the person I love the least.” Dr. King said, “Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.” Vincent Harding, friend and occasional speechwriter to Dr. King, said to a colleague on a panel of speakers in one of my seminary courses, “I am going to disagree with you in love,” and then proceeded to do just that. In Christian scripture, Jesus commands love of God, self, neighbor, and enemy. 

I’m personally challenged by these stalwart leaders in my faith tradition and the moment of leadership we faith leaders across traditions find ourselves in. Mockery is the name of the game today. Critique over connection is often the first move. I’m just as guilty as the next person indulging in laughter over and against another person’s humanity just to blow off some steam. But I keep asking myself, how are we going to lead through this moment in time if all the sides are indulging similarly? Will there come a time when higher ideals prevail to ground our connection and critique? Is there a critical mass of people needed to risk leading in love for the planet and its people to make it through this time? There is no crystal ball. There is only the next right step. 

For me, the next right step is continuing to risk connection across differences of race, faith, and politics. Robert Frost, in his poem “Servant to the Servants (1915),” writes, “I can see no way out but through.” Maya Angelou made a similar observation. For me, the way through this time means risking love as the highest ideal. Loving the earth, loving vulnerable neighbors and obnoxious ones, loving colleagues, and loving national and world leaders that I’m least inclined to love. Love is neither capitulation nor sentiment. Love connects over and against withdrawal. Love is powerful. Love is risk. Love is the way through.

[Written to multi-race, multi-faith leaders for Together Colorado Faith Voices, June 13, 2017]

4 Year of Ordination...

February 2^nd marks my fourth year of ordination and call as a pastor with Augustana Lutheran Church in Denver. It is weird, sacred, fun, hard, unpredictable, mundane and amazing work with people I've grown to love. It doesn't get much better than that.

February 2^nd is also church festival called Presentation of our Lord (Luke 2:22-40).  I was delighted to discover this tidbit as my ordination was scheduled for that day since picking Bible verses was simple.  Mary and Joseph bring their new baby to the temple. The elder Simeon scoops up the baby Jesus, celebrating the promise of God, while Anna the prophet preaches redemption to all who would listen. This story resonates for me in so many ways - the faithful elders proclaiming good news, the new parents trying to figure out what it means, and the child who IS hope. 

So that people may live...

This evening, January 17th, I'm part of a meeting with the goal of strengthening relationship between the community, law enforcement, and elected leaders. After 16 years as a pediatric cancer nurse and now as a pastor, I’m involved in this process because I’m committed to relationship that values everyone at the table…ALL of us – people from the community, law enforcement, and elected leaders.  That is clear.  What isn’t clear, are issues like Lawful Order (state level) that can lead to your detention by law enforcement and Use of Force (local) once you're detained.

The lack of clarity means that people get hurt. And, disproportionately, our black and brown brothers and sisters are at higher risk. People who I know and love.  People who you know and love. Doing this challenging work together as people in the community, law enforcement, and elected leaders means that people will live.  Now, there’s the challenge of sitting through the tension of a public meeting.  And there’s the challenge of figuring out how to do the hard work ahead.  But those challenges pale in comparison to the painful challenge of being someone who is devalued, injured, killed, or grieving someone who’s been killed. 

Tinted Purple

The church congregation I serve is tinted purple.  This is also true of my personal friends if I were to bunch everybody together in one place. People are all over the map on all kinds of issues including who should be president.  People I love. This is a push-me-pull-you experience revealing idealism of all kinds.  While I'm known to hum a tune of optimism on occasion, I'm fairly clear-eyed when it comes to people.  Maybe it comes from having a brilliant, loving dad whose mind imploded in a haze of schizophrenia even as he exploded in violence against my mother, the woman he loved.  I was 4 years old. Regardless, I'm clear-eyed as much as that's possible in the shadow of being human.

So, here's my plan over the coming days and weeks. I'm going to continue to do the hard work of loving people - distraught people, jubilant people, and everyone in between.  I'm going to speak up when someone hurts someone else. I'm going to celebrate when someone loves someone else in selfless ways.  I'm going to do these things because I'm a Jesus person which also means that I'm a person of the cross. The cross and Jesus' death on it means that we're inclined to hang out in dark places, saving ourselves as we dehumanize someone else.  I dare say that this is true for all of us including me.  I hear it in the ways people ridicule the Clinton supporters and the Trump base.  I hear it in people's fear for themselves, other people, the country, and the world.

And so, my friends, I will love you through your biography, not your ideology. And I will love others in the hard, bitter, purple-tinted shadow of the cross. Because I have a God who did not raise a hand in violence against the people God so loves. God who loves people, each person, and asks us to do the same.

"No one has great love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends." - John 15:13

A Glimmer of Unity...

I've been craving a bit peace this voting cycle.  With so many divided about so much, there is a glimmer of unity in Colorado.

100% of the Colorado legislature, both houses and both parties, voted unanimously to place Amendment T on the ballot. Voting Yes on Amendment T removes the slavery exception from the Colorado State Constitution, Article II Section 26.  Right now, slavery is forbidden "except as a punishment for a crime..."

That’s right, there is full agreement among Republicans and Democrats to remove the slavery exception from the State Constitution. Now it is up to Colorado voters.  From my intermittent work at Denver Women's Correctional Facility, there is no doubt that offender work and training programs are necessary for self-worth and successful reentry into community.  However, there is unanimous agreement that the language of slavery is neither an acceptable starting point nor a Colorado value. 

It will take 1.7 million Colorado votes to pass Amendment T.  I'm hopeful that voting "yes" will be a no-brainer for our state as the word spreads.