Missing

What ELSE have I been missing?


Sniff, Sniff
Rebecca, are you in there?



There is a young man about my age who I see walking his little dog every morning before work. At about 7:10, they round the bend of the street that I can see out my kitchen window as I make tea, and stop at the edge of my neighbor's flower garden. There is always something good to sniff there, since this is also a favorite hang out for one of our neighborhood cats. The young man is usually dressed in khakis and wearing sunglasses. Often I believe his dog is really walking him, since he pays more attention to his cell phone and his text messages than he does to where they are going. Little doggie leads the way, stopping and starting and sniffing and shivering in the cool morning breezes.

They appear again in the evening, at around 6:00. This time they round the corner by the mailboxes, owner dressed in workout gear and headphones, little dog galloping along to keep stride.

This happens every day, morning and evening. I have been living here for just over three years, and I never noticed any of this until very recently.

It occurs to me that often we get so wrapped up in who we think we are or need to be, and in what we're doing, and in what others think we're about or should be about, that we stop looking around and noticing the world outside. It is as though I have been missing from my own life for quite some time now.

It does beg the question... what ELSE have I been missing? Now that I am NOT so wrapped up in my own self-importance, now that I have been knocked flat on my back on the floor with nowhere to look but up, what else is there to see from this vantage point?

I have to admit, I feel a little bit sorry for those who are still so caught up that they won't notice the little dog kicking up dirt in the neighbor's flowerbeds, while on the other end of the leash, his master yawns and sleepily checks his voicemail.

The Circle

Here I am again. I've come full circle. The questions are still the same ones, only perhaps the answers are different.

Two years ago, I hit my own personal Easter about the time the church entered Lent. I remember thinking on Ash Wednesday of 2009 that I had finally broken out of the church's box. Although those sentiments didn't get entirely sorted out on my blog until many months later, I knew it was true--my freedom came in being willing to give it all away for the sake of the gospel. Even my diaconal ministry. Even the church. Once I was willing to give it all away, I suddenly didn't have to anymore.

"Then Jesus told his disciples, ‘If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.'" (Matthew 16:24-25).

I sit here at 13 minutes to midnight on the night of the Easter Vigil, 2011, and I am still willing to give it all away. Last night, in the wee hours of Good Friday, I officially had a meltdown, and the truth came out...

Although for the last 12 years or so I have been able to divide my life into TWO distinct eras--Becca BEFORE Africa, and Becca AFTER Africa, for some reason, when I returned from Cameroon in 2002, I just kept living my life according to the plan I had laid out in college, as if Cameroon hadn't profoundly changed me. In the desperation and signature Rebecca impatience that I had to keep moving forward upon my return, I enrolled in seminary, just as planned. Just as planned... when? While I was still a student at Roanoke College, before I left for Cameroon.

The only problem was... I never counted on the plan changing. Somewhere between August of 2000 and July of 2002, the plan changed. I changed.

In February of 2001, while living in Cameroon, I wrote a short story called "Renaissance." In part, it was about giving up on the misconceptions and dreams of who I was before my love affair with Africa began, and embracing the realities of all that I had experienced... I wrote: "How can a quaint railroad town nestled in the mountains of southwest Virginia exist in the same world as the harsh purity of Africa, where life is defined by birth and death and the cycles of the rain? How could we just have sat there, sipping our beers, totally oblivious?"

My life and my journey were irrevocably altered in Cameroon. I found a new path. And yet, when I returned to the US, I chose not to take it. It has haunted me ever since.

Tonight, now 10 minutes into Easter morning--glorious resurrection!--I find myself in a strange predicament. I no longer have any reason not to choose that path that I once abandoned. The shackles have come off. There is no job, no salary, no call. All of the distractions have fallen away. There appears to be only one path forward.

I am not convinced that this means that seminary was a mistake or that I will eventually have to give up my consecration as a diaconal minister. I may not know the answer to those questions for many years to come, if ever. I'm not saying that I regret those things or the resulting experiences, either. But I do know something right now--it is time for me to do something I should have done a long time ago.

I am going to spend some time gaining the pre-requisites I need and studying for the GRE, and then I am going back to school to gain the knowledge I need to do what I have been called to do for at least 10 years... This would be my dream: http://www.sph.tulane.edu/. 

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Privileged

What does it REALLY mean?

My recent experience with my young friend at my temp job in Norristown has gotten me thinking about what it means to be privileged. "Being able to do what you really feel called to do in life," she told me, "Is a privilege and not a right." 

Image via Wikipedia

Kugel Ball in Railroad Plaza
Lansdale, PA



I often get the impression from people in my church social circles that I have led a pretty privileged life. Among my local colleagues, the main reason for this seems to be that I have served at Trinity Lutheran Church in Lansdale, PA. It was my first call, and I am only 32. I was the youngest person on staff the entire time I was there. Having done that at my age and level of experience is not an honor everyone can attain. I should feel pretty damn special.

On the other hand, I also sometimes get the impression that in the eyes of some of my colleagues, I now have nothing left to live for professionally. Around here, once you've been at Trinity, you've kind of made it. I have heard people ask, "Is there life after Trinity?" Of course there is, don't be silly. I have also had my time spent at Trinity thrown in my face in random unrelated conversations. I think people want me to be angry or bitter about whatever they think might have happened to me there. Perhaps they want me to affirm their own pre-conceived notions about the place. I had a colleague approach me recently and ask me out of the blue, "Don't you feel like you got shafted?" Would it make you feel better if I said yes? Then you will probably be disappointed.

The truth of the matter is, when it comes down to the things in my life that have impacted me the most deeply, that I feel the most privileged to have been able to be a part of, I must be different than most people I know. Because when I make my list, when I think about the things that bring me to tears because I feel so honored to have been able to be a part of them, "Being at Trinity" is not on the list. Don't get me wrong--I am not talking smack about Trinity. It is a lovely place filled with lovely people, it was an important experience, I learned a lot and I will never regret it. It was a time of great growth and learning for me. At the same time, I never really wanted to go there, and although it was an exciting and challenging time in my life, I am not now sorry I am gone. It did, however, provide me the opportunity for something else that does make the list.

Image via Wikipedia

Evening at the Petit Marche
Ngaoundere, Cameroon

There are two things in my life that I feel more privileged to have been able to be a part of than anything else. The first one was living and serving in Cameroon, in Africa. That was truly two years spent on holy ground. To be welcomed into the homes of my students, to hear their stories, to teach them and learn from them, to eat together, to love them and be loved by them--that was truly an honor. To know that I have formed lasting relationships with Nafissatou and Rifkatou and all of those beautiful girls who taught me so much more than I could ever teach them... that is truly an honor. I feel privileged to have even been welcomed into their midst.

The other one is spending my nights in a homeless shelter last winter. What an honor to get to know these men who came to us seeking a warm place to sleep. What courage they had. What a privilege to see volunteers from the congregation and community have their eyes opened and to begin building relationships with people who before this experience were just "those people," un-named others who we could just throw our money at and who we didn't really need to care about. What an honor to be summoned to the hospital bed of a sick, dying, drug-addicted man who had spent his life on the streets, and for whom those volunteers and the other guests at the shelter had become his only family. What a gift, to be called to give your life in service to others... Those nights I was truly in the presence of God, and walking on holy ground.

Many of the things that this world values, and that many of the people in my church value, do not make my list. Trinity is a very privileged place, and yet it does not make my list. Perhaps my idea of what it means to be privileged is messed up. I feel privileged to have been welcomed into the midst of the outcasts, the poor, the forgotten. I feel honored to have known them by name, to have met them on their terms, to have shown them the light of Christ. If this isn't true privilege, then I don't know what is.

And Where Should I Go?

The Assistant to the Bishop of the Southeastern Synod (ELCA) at the time, Amy Onstad, sent me this quote in early May 2007, the week after the Candidacy Committee approved me for consecration as a Diaconal Minister. It accurately expresses what I told that committee that I felt about the church (and they still approved me!), and what I still feel even more poignantly now. I didn't write it, but I find it meaningful. Perhaps it will also help someone else who seeks understand their own struggle.

How baffling you are, oh Church, and yet how I love you!
How you have made me suffer, and yet how much I owe you!
I should like to see you destroyed, and yet I need your presence.
You have given me so much scandal and yet you have made me understand sanctity.
I have seen nothing in the world more devoted to obscurity, more compromised, more false, and I have touched nothing more pure, more generous, more beautiful.
How often I have wanted to shut the doors of my soul in your face, and how often I have prayed to die in the safety of your arms.
No, I cannot free myself from you, because I am you, although not completely.
And where should I go?

Taken from The God Who Comes by Carlo Carretto

Living It...

Let's Talk.

She came and stood behind me at the edge of my cubicle, just on the other side of the filing cabinet. I didn't notice her at first, as entrenched as I was in my email. Eventually, I felt her presence and swiveled around in my chair. I looked at her, but before I could even open my mouth to ask what she wanted, she was already talking.

"You know, Rebecca, being able to do what you really feel called to do in life is a privilege, and not a right."

I kept looking at her. Where did that come from? I wondered. When she didn't say anything else, I put on my young adult ministry hat and I said, "That's an interesting statement. What do you mean when you say that? Please, tell me more."

She sat down on my desk. "I just mean... well, I mean it would be easier to do what I really want to do if I didn't have to worry about money all the time." And with that she hopped off my desk and disappeared around the corner to answer her phone.

And that was the end of the conversation for the time being. Later other little bits of information about this 24-year-old young woman would be peppered in--about how her mother committed suicide, about how her sister is a drug addict, and why her live-in boyfriend converted to Mormonism while he was in prison...

Last weekend at a retreat with leaders and future leaders of the ELCA, my church, someone asked me what I have been doing since I got laid off from my job in a congregation almost 8 months ago. I told her I have been working in the customer service end of a warehouse in Norristown.

"I'm sorry. That must be awful," was the response I got.

"Actually, it's not," I replied. "There is nothing to be sorry about."

She looked surprised. I went on, "I'm living the priesthood of all believers."

This is the life that most of the people in our congregations live. Gritty, real stuff. We preach it, and we tell others to live it, yet we have no idea ourselves what that means. We tell people to go out into the world and be little Christs in all of their contexts, shining their lights into all the dark places--at work, at school, at home. And yet we rarely leave the confines of the church ourselves. And those of us who do are often marginalized by the very church we serve.

And our congregation members have come to believe, perhaps because of who we are and what we do as leaders, that the church is what happens inside the "circle." Many Christians have no room in their hearts for those who are different than they are--Muslim, gay, hispanic, homeless, whatever. It is much easier to remain inside the walls of the "church" where it is safe, than it is to discover the priesthood of all believers, the Church, on the outside.

I always suspected this, but never realized how much it was true until there was no "church" to shelter me anymore. Cast out into the world, I'm living it.

What We Built

When I was in missionary orientation 10 years ago (or, as I like to jokingly call it, missionary "dis-" orientation), our keynote speaker was a guy by the name of Tony Gittins. Tony wrote a book called Gifts and Strangers: Meeting the Challenge of Inculturation. He is a professor at the Catholic Theological Union in Chicago, and was also a missionary in Sierra Leone for many, many years. Tony came to speak to us, as fledgling missionaries, about the things we could expect as we embarked on our new adventures in the name of Christ in the world.

Tony served in Sierra Leone before the decade-long civil war that ravaged the countryside, killing thousands and turning children into soldiers during the 1990's. He spent much of his time there building much-needed infrastructure--hospital and school buildings that were eventually destroyed during the years of civil war. Tony related to us that many people, in the years following his return from the mission field, would approach him and ask him if he regretted going to Sierra Leone. He had invested so much of his time and energy there, only to see everything that he built later destroyed by war. People would look at him and ask him if he felt bad, because it was all for nothing.

"What they didn't understand," Tony told us, "and what you must understand, is that the work that we do is not about the physical things that we build. The work that we do is about the one thing that neither civil war nor anything else can ever destroy. Everything that we do as missionaries--everything--comes down to building relationships. Relationships between ourselves and others, and relationships between God and God's people. That is all that matters."

I think about this idea all the time. It seems especially pertinent to me now, as I sit looking ahead to a winter where I will be unable to be a part of something very important to me that I helped build. When Code Blue comes around this winter, someone else will be running Trinity's homeless shelter. I have to remind myself that it is not "what we built" that is important, as much as the relationships we knit together through the building of it. Those relationships will continue to exist for me, even when I am no longer a part of what is being built.

I hear school teachers talk about how you never know what effect you might have on a child's life--that years later they might remember how you changed their lives, without you even knowing that you did anything. That's how I am trying to think about the Code Blue Shelter--that lives were changed because of the relationships we formed... changed in many ways that we may never know about. It wasn't as much about "what we built," as it is about who we were... and in whose Name we came. "What we built" only facilitated the relationship-building process. When "what we built" is either gone, or we are gone from it, the relationships and the life-changing effects of those relationships remain.

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Prophet for Hire

This blog is going to be taking a different approach for a while... I was laid off at the end of July after 3 1/2 years of service and ministry as Diaconal Minister at Trinity Lutheran Church in Lansdale, PA. Trinity was my first call as a Diaconal Minister, and I learned a great deal about myself and the promises God has for me during my time there. I was sad to leave there. I am still sad sometimes that I had to go--sad both for myself and what I lost, and also for the place that I grew to love and am now no longer able to be a part of.

Part of the self-identity that grew in me during my time at Trinity actually started when I was in high school. And, so, I am would like to begin this new chapter of my life and my blogging experience with a story from another time in my life...

I was in tenth grade the first time I attended a TEC weekend. TEC stands for "Teens Encounter Christ." TEC was a youth retreat that I attended several times throughout my high school years--once as a participant, and then several times more as a staff member.

The first day of my first TEC experience, a woman came in to speak to us. "You don't know me," she said, "but I know you! I have been praying for each of you by name since you registered for this weekend."

Being a tenth grader, I thought, OK, that's a little weird. She went on...

"When I prayed for you, I asked God to give me a word that represents each of you, and a Bible verse. God gave me what I asked for, and now I am here to pass on to you what He told me about you."

Weirder still, I was thinking. I don't even know this person!

"I have put each of your names on a slip of paper, along with the word God gave me concerning you, and your Bible verse. I'm going to hand them out to you now."

This lady must be nuts! Being a good Lutheran, I did not believe in such nonsense!

Then I got my piece of paper. It said:

Rebecca: Name: Prophet. Matthew 21:11,12,14- "And the multitudes were saying, 'This is the prophet, Jesus, from Nazareth in Galilee.' And Jesus entered the temple and cast out all who were buying and selling in the temple... And the blind and the lame came to Him in the temple, and he healed them."

Then I stuck that piece of paper in my Bible and forgot about it for years.

At some point during my time at Trinity I came across my old TEC Bible on the back of a closet shelf at my parents' house. It was covered in "Jesus loves you" stickers, Bible verses, and an old nail that I had glued to the front at some point. Inside were bookmarks with Bible verses on them, handwritten notes, and butterfly stickers. And then I found this old, type-written piece of paper...

Rebecca: Name: Prophet.... it began.

What could this mean?

I took the Bible and its contents back with me to my office at Trinity and kept them in my left hand desk drawer. Several times over the years I would open that Bible and read that slip of paper. I found it especially meaningful in those times when I was struggling with my own purpose and ministry at Trinity. When one of our young people, my friend Kevin, died, I pulled out the Bible and studied that piece of paper. Before preaching a sermon on "who gets into heaven" (Hitler?) I pulled out the Bible and studied that piece of paper. When we opened our Code Blue homeless shelter and I was spending nights at church and sleeping in my office so these guys could stay warm, I pulled out the Bible and studied that piece of paper.

I found it again, recently, as I cleaned out my office. When it was all over, and my ministry there was history, I pulled out the Bible and studied that piece of paper.

Rebecca: Name: Prophet....

What's next???
I guess now I'm a prophet for hire....

Psalm 46: A Prayer for Haiti

Image by thaths via Flickr

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult. There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High. God is in the midst of the city; it shall not be moved; God will help it when the morning dawns. The nations are in an uproar, the kingdoms totter; he utters his voice, the earth melts. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Come, behold the works of the Lord; see what desolations he has brought on the earth. He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow, and shatters the spear; he burns the shields with fire. ‘Be still, and know that I am God! I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in the earth.’ The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge." --Psalm 46

In the margins of my Bible beside this Psalm I have written in blue pencil: for hope in times of fear, October 2001. Sometime around September 11, 2001, I committed myself to reading the Psalms--at least one a day. When I came upon this Psalm, I was sitting in a foreign country across the ocean in Africa watching my own nation struggle with the aftereffects of a horrible, life-altering, culture-altering, traumatic experience. Although this Psalm does not answer the "why?" question, it does provide hope that God is in the midst of even the most horrific circumstances.

Now it has happened again. Only this time I am sitting in America watching the devastation in another country--a country whose people have faces that look like those I love, those who are members of my family. This was not an act of terrorism, although Haiti has seen its share of that, too (Google Francois "Papa Doc" Duvalier and Tonton Macoute to learn about this). In some ways, this is worse, because at least with terrorism you have someone to blame.

The connection between Africa and Haiti is unnerving for me. What I want people to know is the legacy that Haiti shares with Africa, and perhaps inspired in Africa. That Haiti did not make a deal with the devil, as Pat Robertson has so foolishly and ignorantly claimed. In fact, Haiti, under the leadership of Toussaint L'Ouverture, became the first independent former slave state in the Americas, and the second independent republic in the Western Hemisphere. The Haitian Revolution shook the foundation of the slave trade in the Americas, and eventually contributed to its undoing.

Haiti's experience speaks to the resilience of the African people in times of extreme, unfathomable hardship.

Now I sit at home in front of the TV, wondering if my $50 is enough. Knowing that there is much work to do. Seeing my people, bodies piled high, suffering from this tragedy. Hearing the broken French on the TV. Watching dark skin marred with white dust and red blood try to make sense of it all. I heard what Presidents Bush and Clinton said to our nation today during their press conference--the best way to help is to send money. We are doing everything we can.

The hardest part for me is knowing that I can't be there. We have work to do here. There are people here who need us. I knew that on September 11--I had to stay put and keep serving--and I know that now, too. But that doesn't make it any easier.

And so I say this prayer for Haiti from Psalm 46, which comforted me then, and comforts me now: "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult... ‘Be still, and know that I am God! I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in the earth.’ The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge."

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Happy Birthday, Kevin!

Today is the birthday of one of my friends, who died tragically of cancer last May at the age of 37. Happy birthday, Kevin! I miss you.

My September 11 Story

September 11 is an eerie day for me, as I assume it also is for most Americans in the post 9/11/2001 era. What it must be like for most Americans to remember the happenings of that fateful day, however, and to have it define their consciences and their very beings, is not something that I am familiar with or can understand from experience.

The truth is that my September 11 story is one of life as a missionary in a predominately Muslim town in Central Africa. On September 11, 2001, I was living in Ngaoundere, a bustling town on the central plateau of Cameroon. I was teaching English and Bible at a Protestant High School where many of my students were Muslims. When those planes hit the World Trade Center, it was a little after 3 p.m. in my part of the world. I had just finished teaching for the day and had gone out to the market to buy rice, milk powder, and cheese.

My 9-11 story is that on that afternoon I walked into a shop for ex-patriots that is owned by a prominent and beloved Muslim family in our town. Madame Alizar and her husband are originially from Lebanon. They have made a good living opening their shop selling things that Africans don't eat (like cheese) to the many missionaries and foreign buisiness people that come to Ngaoundere.

On that afternoon the TV was on in the back room. When I came into the shop, Madame Alizar saw me and came out to the front counter. She grabbed my arm frantically and said, "What are you doing here?" Something was obviously wrong. She told me that I had to go home (to my home in Ngaoundere) at once, that something horrible had happened in America.

By the time I got back to my home, it was all over, and the other missionaries were looking for me. They had CNN International on and we all sat down and watched. We knew that this was REALLY bad. Perhaps some of us even knew what it might mean for our country. I can't speak for anyone else, but I know that I did not.

My experience of 9-11 is not one of fear. I don't understand what it was like in America in what must have been those horrible days following the attacks. I hear stories of the eerie quietness of the skies. I hear that the churches were full that following Sunday, and that people stopped each other in the street and remembered their humanity for a while. I have heard those stories.

I have also seen how much 9-11 shaped our consiousness as Americans into something that I didn't recognize when I finally came home to U.S. soil in July of 2002.

On September 12, 2001, I awoke to another average school day. Life just went on. And then there was a knock at my door. A Muslim woman who was my neighbor had come to offer her condolences for what had happened the day before in the U.S. I told her it was OK; I appreciated her kind words, but she didn't have any responsibility for what had happened. Then she told me something that I believe sets my 9-11 experience apart from probably just about every American I know: She said that she didn't have any personal responsibility for the violence, but she was sorry anyways. She talked about how disgusting it was that this horrific act of violence had been done in the name of her religion. She told me that this is not what Muslims believe, and that the Prophet Muhammed would not have condoned this.

This might not have marked me so deeply except that over the course of the day, it happened again and again. Muslim people who I knew, and ones I didn't know, came to me again and again, all day long, to tell me they were so sorry that this had happened and that it had been done in the name of a religion that they espoused. These people, my Muslim neighbors, were truly grieved by the violence that had been committed in the name of Islam, the Prophet they love, and the God they love.

When I came home to the U.S. I began to realize how different my 9-11 experience was from others' experiences. September 11, 2001, changed the face of America in ways that I do not believe are all positive. And, it seems to have been the defining moment of my generation, like the way the Kennedy or the MLK assassinations shaped my parents' generation, or the Great Depression and World War II shaped my grandparents'. And, strangely, I find myself being left out of that defining moment. I missed it--I missed the defining moment. That makes me incredibly different. I believe it also makes me incredibly lucky.

I have been given a gift. For many years, I was afraid to tell people about how the Muslim community cared about and supported me and my fellow missionaries in the days following September 11. It is a very unpopular message, but a true one. I know now, as I did then, that it is a story that needs to be told. I just haven't been able to tell it until very recently.

I know a very different Islam than the one that was portayed here in the days after 9-11. Don't believe everything that a too-liberal media tells you that you should believe about the events of that day and its aftermath. Don't believe everything the government tells you, either. The politics of fear have encroached on our lives and controlled us for too long. Propaganda was not just used in communist USSR or Nazi Germany to control the people; it has been used here in America, too, by our government and media over the last 8 years, and used well. Don't buy in to the idea that Islam is evil. "Islam vs. the West" is something that we have blindly accepted without really knowing what that means.

Remember September 11 for what it was. It was a tragic day in a world full of tragic days. Remember those little glimpses of humanity that you saw in the days following that tragedy. I know I do. I often think about those faithful Muslims who ministered to me in the aftermath of what has become an identity-altering day in the life of my nation. Pray that unity and new birth will arise from the ashes of that day, and that that unity and new birth will include a new identity where people of all faiths can be seen as valuable.

Incarnation as Revolution

It is with much fear and longing that I have been visiting my blog in the last few months. I come here and haunt it, needing to write, but not knowing what to say. And then I end up saying nothing. As someone who tends to bare all when I write (and speak), I have known these last few months that the things I am thinking about are not things that I could write down in a blog without raising some eyebrows. I also don't know what to say--when your feelings get so jumbled up inside that you can't even explain them, then how do you go about sharing them?

Six months ago, I wrote a blog called "Breaking Up and Breaking Out" about my difficulty with a church that struggles to affirm my gifts for ministry as a Child of God, much less in my role as Diaconal Minister. I came to understand that the only way I was going to be able to come to terms with God's call as deacon was to be willing to forsake everything to follow the call--even if it meant forsaking the church. I came right to the edge of that place. I stood at the precipice and looked over the edge. I was ready to jump. I knew I would always be a deacon. I knew that God had called me into God's service and had so many wonderful things in store for me as a part of our great love affair. I just didn't think the church was ready for me and what that call might mean. And I wasn't at all sure that I was ready to fight for it. God was calling me to serve and not fight, right? I didn't need the church in order to be able to serve. Maybe it was just better to leave.

And then, all of a sudden, perhaps because I was finally able to say I would leave, it became OK not to. Maybe I needed to be willing to walk away, forsaking all others--including even the church--for God to really be able to use me. There is Biblical precedent for that: "Then Jesus told his disciples, ‘If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.'" (Matthew 16:24-25).

One of the things that I have come to realize in these last few months is that the call is still the same. It is a call to service. And, the call to service, and actually living into that call as a member of the Body of Christ, is one of the most radical ways in which transformation occurs within us, and outside of us. I don't have to "fight." The Holy Spirit is blowing in this church, and in my life and in the lives of the people around me. The Holy Spirit is reforming the church and reforming me, in all the wonderful and scary ways that happens. All we have to do is be "in the flesh." We have to be real to those people around us. Loving them. Hurting for them and with them. Rejoicing with them. Being the face of Christ to each other. It does make me wonder if being "incarnate" will ever be anything less than revolutionary.

One of my friends recently asked me how we go about changing the injustices in the world. He was particularly referencing racism, but it could have been anything. I told him the only answer I know--which is to lead by example. Revolution happens when instead of fighting, we serve. Revolution happens because through service, we fight for something worthwhile.

And there is more. So, so much more. But, I think I'll hold on to that a while longer, until I can get it sorted out enough to write it down.

Breast Cancer 3-Day

I have decided to do something "crazy."

I have never been much of an athlete. I call myself a runner, but I must admit that I am certainly not hard core. I will run 2-3 miles a day when the weather is nice, and only in the summer (coldness and darkness do not encourage exercise!).

It is probably surprising, therefore, that I have just signed up to walk the Breast Cancer 3-Day.

The Breast Cancer 3-Day is a 3 day, 60 mile walk supporting breast cancer awareness, research, and education. 1 out of every 8 women in the U.S. will be diagnosed with breast cancer at some point in her lifetime. According to Susan G. Komen for the Cure, approximately 200,000 American women will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year, and nearly 40,000 will die from the disease.

But it doesn't have to be that way. Together, we can make a difference. I am one of those people who firmly believes in the power of ONE--one person helping, serving, touching, educating--to make a difference. If we all do a little bit, then it begins to equal A LOT.

My committment to walking the Breast Cancer 3-Day includes a fundraising goal to help in the efforts to STOP breast cancer. My fundraising goal is $3,500. I MUST raise $2,300 in order to walk. Please visit my personal fundraising page to learn more about why I am walking and what this is all about. I hope you will consider supporting me financially. I also covet your encouragement and prayers.

Click here to visit my personal page or click on the link at the top of my blog to donate on my behalf.

Breaking Up and Breaking Out

I almost dropped out of seminary.

The reason for my "almost break-up" with the church, the "straw that broke the camel's back" is, at this point, mostly unimportant. I credit a good friend of mine for convincing me to stay. He told me I only had two options: I could leave and let the church stay the way it was (break up), or I could stay, and exact change from the inside (break out). I chose to stay, because at that time I could never see myself as being anything other than a Lutheran. Maybe the idealist in me really believed that this is still a "reforming" church, and not just the "reformed" church of Martin Luther's Reformation.

My blog has been silent for a long time. The last few months have been filled with wonderings and wanderings as I struggle with a church that falls so short of my expectations, and a call to ministry that even I don't entirely understand.

My struggle is with a larger church (i.e., not a specific congregation, but the wider church) that preaches the "priesthood of all believers" but doesn't live it. My struggle is with a church that doesn't know how to affirm my gifts for ministry not only as a church leader but also simply as a Child of God. I struggle with my own ability to be a diaconal minister (deacon, or servant) in this world and in a church that I feel has let me down. It has told me my service is important and then turned its back on my call in so many ways. In the semantics it plays between "ordination" and "consecration" and in the inequality in pay and responsibility between clergy and deacons, the church has made its stand. My call did not come out on top. I wasn't really hoping it would--equality would have been nice.

I could go on, but I won't. I am writing this blog so that others who struggle with questions of faith might know that you are not alone, and so that you know that even the people who "work in the church" are often plagued with doubt and misgiving. I also wish for something better for my church, and for myself.

The question that faces me today is the same one that has faced me for months, perhaps even years. It was 2003 when I almost dropped out of seminary.... in many ways my questions today are still the same....

Should I "break up" with the church, or "break out"? Is my role the role of a leaver or a reformer? I know that I want something better, but I'm not sure I have the heart to make it happen. I'm not sure I'm a reformer. All I want to do is be a diaconal minister (deacon, servant) in the truest sense of the word. I just want to serve... I don't want to spend my time convincing people it's a good idea. I'm not sure the church knows what this call to diaconal service really means. What about the preisthood of all believers? If we're all priests, then who says diaconal service needs to happen within the context of a "call" or a "consecration"? Isn't God bigger than even the church's box?

Homecoming

Have you ever noticed how love songs on the radio could just as easily be about God as about a lover (or maybe God is your lover)? They could also just as easily be about something or some place you love, instead of someone.

There's a song out recently by Chris Daughtry called "Home." I know you've probably heard it. The chorus goes like this:

"I'm going home,

Back to the place where I belong,

And where your love has always been enough for me.

I'm not running from.

No, I think you've got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me.

But these places and these faces are getting old,

So I'm going home."

It is difficult to adequately explain to someone who has never had the experience what it was like for me to return to the African continent this month after FIVE years away. The last time I was in Africa, I was unmarried, was living in Minnesota, and hadn't yet graduated from seminary. My grandfather was still alive, and a life in Pennsylvania with my future husband was something I hadn't yet conceived of.

The last time I was in Africa (Cameroon) was five years ago, but the last time I was in Tanzania was NINE years ago. That was the first time I was ever in Africa. That was the trip that changed everything. At that time, I was still in college. My best friend Yulia, a summer fling, and a research project I was working on were the most important things in my life at that time.

Life has changed. Nine years ago I never would have imagined that today I would be in Lansdale, Pennsylvania, married to a Cameroonian, and working for one of the largest Lutheran churches east of the Mississippi River. Like the song says, I don't regret this life I chose for me (much of the time that's true, anyways).

Yet one thing has remained constant. A little less than three weeks ago, on August 7, when those airplane doors opened and I stepped out into the cool, evening Tanzanian breeze, I knew I had come home. The smell of wood smoke and sweat and history came into my nostrils and I kissed the ground. I had come home.

I was surprised this time around by how normal it all seemed. It seems like every other time I have ever been in Africa, there has been so much wonder associated with the experience. Naturally, every time you go somewhere new, there is discovery and wonder to be had. This time, the wonder was still there, but it was more an experience of experience. I had reactions like "I've been here before," and "That doesn't surprise me." Not that I knew everything or learned nothing... I was just surprised by how un-new everything seemed to me. For example:

1. When we arrived in Moshi, Albert, the diocese driver from my trip nine years ago, was still working at the hostel where we stayed.
2. On our way to Lushoto our car broke down and we had to disembark in the middle of nowhere while the driver and mechanic pieced things back together.
3. The police stopped us for vehicle inspections in hope of some extra cash.
4. The voices of children on the side of the road singing "Wazungu" ("white people" or "foreigners") were strangely reminiscent of my time as a "Nazara" in Cameroon.
5. Even the school where we stayed in Mlalo, the students and the teachers, reminded me in so many ways of our dear College Protestant in Ngaoundere, Cameroon.

There were many differences, too, and I would be the last person on earth to tell you that all of Africa is the same or that all Africans are the same. That is just not true! But I was amazed by how at home I felt. In many ways, it was as though I had never left. It truly was a homecoming.

This whispers to me about my future. Our future--Pierre's and mine together. Although we have returned to Lansdale, Tanzania, Cameroon, and Africa are not our past. They are not just some places we visited that we will look back at in photographs and say, "What a nice time we had," never to return again. This is not a Roman Holiday. This is our life. God is calling us onward in a direction that is ultimately pointing back across the ocean. Eventually, we hope to be home for good.

P.S. You can view photos from my trip to Tanzania by clicking here.

People Who Get It

Can I just say something?

I spent last week with an amazing bunch of young adults. Four of them were from my congregation, and six of them were from a Methodist church in Hamilton, New Jersey. We spent the week in Wyoming County, West Virginia, serving with Appalachia Service Project (ASP). We didn't all go together. Heck, we didn't even know each other before last week! But when we were placed at the same work site together, relationships were formed and magic happened.

I just want to say how easy it is sometimes to get frustrated with people who don't get it. Many Christians don't understand what it means to be Christian. They don't understand that the call to Christian life is the call to service. Day after day I constantly wonder how I am supposed to empower people to live out their Christian call to service when they think service is synonymous with "serve us."

I was really proud to be a part of our little band of four who embarked on a journey to serve in West Virginia last week. And, I was really honored to get to know the six from New Jersey. I felt like I had come home... I was really in my element, in service, hands (and just about everything else) dirty. And, I was surrounded by people who get it. Granted, we all had our moments of insanity. But I know that at the end of the day, these were ten devoted people who understand the meaning of Christian service. I needed to be reminded of what that feels like.

Thank you.

Running On...

You know, blogging can take a lot of time, which is something I haven't felt like I've had much of recently.

Part of the reason I have titled this blog "Running on..." is because sometimes I feel like that's all I do: running from here to there, working, taking care of household chores, going to the gym, keeping up with friends and family, and so on and so on. Sometimes I feel literally like I am running on "empty," but I just have to keep going because there is no other choice.

The other reason I have titled this blog "Running on..." is because it describes something I have been doing a lot more of recently; namely, running.

Let me backtrack a little bit. Last November when Trinity's pastors and I attended our annual Bishop's Convocation, we had a conversation with Tammy Devine, who (like me) is a diaconal minister, and is also a registered nurse and the ELCA Board of Pensions' Wellness Coordinator. Board of Pensions (BoP) is the church organization that provides health and pension benefits to leaders in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA) like me and many other staff members at Trinity. Through that initial conversation and many after, Trinity came to be involved in BoP's new Wellspring Pilot, which is a program bringing BoP's messages of health and wholeness previously reserved only for those insured with BoP to the greater public through use in congregations, church organizations, etc.

Because of the Wellspring Pilot, Trinity's staff and congregation are becoming much more actively involved in many different areas of health and well-being. According to the Wholeness Wheel model, there are six different aspects of wholeness and wellness, all of which are integral parts of the whole person: physical well-being, emotional well-being, social and interpersonal well-being, intellectual well-being, vocational well-being, and spiritual well-being. Each of these areas of wholeness and well-being spring out of our baptism into Christ, through which we become "new creations in Christ" (2 Corinthians 5:17). Click on the Wholeness Wheel link in this paragraph to learn more information about the Wholeness Wheel and each of these areas of well-being.

Fortunately, Trinity has many very talented congregation members who are putting their heads and gifts together to help us all become more well. We are educating ourselves about being whole and well, and we are doing something about it. For example, one of our congregation members, Dr. Chris Cianci, is working with staff on a 12-week training program to help us reach our fitness and physical well-being goals, whatever they may be. Mine is to run again.

All of this is background to say that I have started running again. I ran quite a bit when I was in seminary, but then my Master's thesis hit me and I have never quite been able to pick it up again since. It is hard to remember that I ran 13 miles Easter weekend of 2004 and not want to pick up right where I left off. The truth is a no-brainer--after not running for 4 years, I can no longer run 13 miles. I was lucky when I started again if I ran one.

This is not just about physical well-being, however. It is also about all those other aspects of wholeness. My world is a busy, complicated world (much like yours is, I'm sure), where no one will take care of me if I don't do it myself. This world will abuse me as much as I let it. It is time to slow down and take back some time for myself. I need to stop running on empty, so-to-speak, and start running for myself. That includes taking time out to be physically well. That's what the running part is about. But, it also means taking care of myself in those other areas. It means saying no sometimes. It means not letting my job or my family or my chores eat away at my personal time. Sometimes it means staying home and vegging out on the couch with a bag of... potato chips? (I am more into granola these days than potato chips). Whatever. It means continuing education and personal devotional time and nurturing my relationships. It's a lot more complicated than just running. And yet, I feel like running is a good place to start. An added bonus is that I feel better physically than I have in years.

I will be running the Tex Mex 5K in North Wales on June 25th with Dr. Cianci and several other Trinity staff and congregation members. If you live in the area, come out and cheer us on! This is a great way for us to rally around people in our congregation who are living out their call to be more "wholly" stewards of themselves, and servants of God and community.

Zimbabwe

Please pray for the people of Zimbabwe as they work toward peacefully freeing themselves from a tyrannical government. I was almost a missionary there once.

And please read the post below that I just posted yesterday, if you haven't already.

Her Story: My Story

Nafissatou

This weekend at Trinity's annual spring women's retreat our topic was Her Story: My Story. We studied biblical women and their legacy for us as 21st-century inheritors of their stories. The first night we were there we all shared about the women in our lives who have most influenced our own faith. For me, there have, of course, been many such women. My mother and grandmother are very important parts of my own faith journey. But the women I chose to talk about this weekend are Hadja, Hanizou, and Nafissatou.

These women are three very faithful Muslim women who live in central Cameroon. Nafissatou was my student when I taught English there. Her mother is Hadja, and her little sister is Hanizou. I know it may seem strange that I would name three Muslim women as important influences in my Christian faith journey, but there it is.

I have many stories that I could tell you about Nafissatou and her family. What is important to know for this story is that her mother and father took care of me, loved me, and treated me like I was their own daughter. To this day, I am Hadja's daughter, and I am sister to Nafissatou and Hanizou.

The Thanksgiving after I left Cameroon, Nafissatou's father, Sadou Daoudou (or as we called him, Baaba Sadou, or "Daddy Sadou") came in from his morning walk and fell down and died in the middle of their living room floor. He was 74 years old, and had lived a very rich and fulfilling life. He served as Minister of Defense in the Cameroonian government under President Ahmadou Ahidjo during the early years following independence. This had made him and his family very worldly people, which I think is one of the many things that so endeared us to each other.

Anyways, the summer following Baaba Sadou's death, I was back in Cameroon for a visit. Pierre and I went to visit Nafissatou and her mother and sister after church one Sunday. Hadja was still very sad over the loss of her husband. We came and sat in their living room, drinking tea and talking. When we left, Pierre forgot his small blue Gideon New Testament that he had placed on the side table. We never even remembered we had left it.

Three months later, I was standing in our kitchen in St. Paul, Minnesota, at lunch time when the phone rang. I picked up the phone and heard the familiar delay we often get on calls from Africa. "ALLO?" I heard a voice say from far away on the other end of the line. It was Nafissatou.

"Hello? Rebecca, I am calling to tell you something important," she told me.

"Is everything okay?" I was a little worried. I slumped back against the kitchen counter. It was snowing outside.

"Yes. Do you remember that Bible you and Pierre left at our house last summer when you visited us?"

I admitted to her that I did not.

"Ever since the day you left it, my mother has been reading it."

This was one of those missionary moments where your breath catches in your throat. "And?" I croaked. I wasn't quite sure I wanted to know the rest. Will these people still be the people I love if they become Christian? Part of why I love them is because of their heritage and family life that center around the practice of Islam. The selfish part of me wanted them to remain exactly the way they were.

"And, I am just calling to tell you that Muslim people love Jesus, too. We love Jesus."

I started to cry.

That is why Nafisstou and her family have had such a profound impact on my faith. I am pretty sure now that they will never become Christians, and that is OK. They don't need to. In many ways, the greatest Christian love I have ever experienced came from this close-knit family of Muslim women. Their openness to understanding my story, to having an experience with my God, and to loving me all the same has had a profound impact on how I live my life today as a Christian.

They are also a great example for me of what it truly means to be a missionary. Mission is about relationship. Hadja never would have read that Bible in the first place if we didn't have such a deep love for each other. Nafissatou never would have shared what she did with me if we hadn't already been bonded together as sisters. In so many ways, this family has ministered to me more than I could ever care for them.

Nafissatou is the reason that I have a Master's Degree in Islamic Studies. She and many of my other female students--Aissatou, Mairamou, Hadjijatou--they made me want to know more about who they are. The practices of Islam are so intimately bound up with their everyday lives that I couldn't know them without knowing about what they believe and practice. In many ways, we made an exchange... Nafissatou got that Gideon Bible, and I got a Master's thesis on Modern Women in Islam.

I wish that more Christians could show our Muslim brothers and sisters grace and godliness like Nafissatou, Hanizou, and Hadja showed (and continue to show) me. Nafissatou and her family are some of the most faithful, godly people I have ever met.

Early Easter Trivia

As we enter Holy Week, I have been thinking about how crunched this season of Lent has seemed. Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, and Easter Sunday are all happening in the course of a little under 3 months! This is quite unusual. Below you will find some interesting facts about this year's early Easter. This information was researched and compiled by Eric Gombert, Trinity's Director for Music.

As you may know, Easter is always the 1st Sunday after the 1st full moon after the Spring Equinox (which is March 20).

This dating of Easter is based on the lunar calendar that Hebrew people used to identify Passover, which is why it moves around on our Roman calendar.

Based on the above, Easter can actually be one day earlier (March 22), but that is pretty rare. This year is the earliest Easter any of us will ever see the rest of our lives! And only the most elderly of our population have ever seen it this early before (95 years old or above!). None of us have ever, or will ever, see it a day earlier.

Here are the facts:

The next time Easter will be this early (March 23) will be the year 2228 (220 years from now). The last time it was this early was 1913 (so if you're 95 or older, you are the only ones that were around for that!).

The next time it will be a day earlier, March 22, will be in the year 2285 (277 years from now). The last time it was on March 22 was 1818. So, no one alive today has or will ever see it any earlier than this year!

College Culture Shock

I have thought about this for a long time, and comments I have received on my last blog, Moving On, have prompted me to write about it...

When I went away to college, I was really ready to get away. In know many young people feel this way, and others dread the day when they will finally have to make that move out of their parents' house. But I was ready. I couldn't wait.

I think the thing that surprised me so much about my Freshman year in college is how hard it was. I was ready to be away, but I had no idea exactly what that meant. I was unprepared for the culture shock of college.

I don't know what your experience during Freshman orientation was like, but at my school, we spent a lot of time talking about what was going to happen next. We talked about expectations for class. We talked about responsibility. They talked to us a lot about consequences for underage drinking, partying, sex. We saw slides of genital herpes. Honest.

We also spent a lot of time bonding, making friends, and participating in large group building activities. In all of this, however, I missed something. I didn't even know I missed it until years later when I was attending another orientation, this time as a fledgling missionary to Cameroon. What I missed at Freshman orientation, and in some way what would have been the most helpful, was a discussion about culture shock.

Cuture shock is the phenomenon that happens to you when you leave behind a place and people that you know and enter an entirely new situation that you are totally unfamiliar with. Oh, you may think you know about it... I thought I knew about Cameroon, for example. I had read about it , studied its history, been in other parts of Africa, and had even talked to other missionaries. But, I didn't know about it. How could I? I had never been there before.

That's the way it was with college. I was ready. I thought I knew about it. But I didn't because I had never been there before. I wasn't prepared for the fact that I would miss my parents (I would never tell them that!). I wasn't prepared for leaving so many of my personal belongings behind, or getting rid of them. I wasn't ready to miss my friends. Some of those friendships will never exist again; they were only for the small time and place I was in during high school. Oh, I was ready for college... except for the fact that I had no idea what that meant.

Cuture shock has some very interesting symptoms. Despite the fact that I had chosen to be there, I spent much of my first months in Cameroon mourning the world I had left behind. Much the same was true for me when I went away to college. I really wanted to be there. And yet... I was mourning my old life and busy trying to find a new one all at the same time. This led to some interesting experiences. For example...

• What is it about Freshman year relationships? Many of the friendships I made during that time did not last beyond that year. The ones that did are the ones that I will probably always treasure the most. Those people saw me at my ugliest and still loved me. And they still love me today.
• There must be a connection between finding yourself and throwing up after drinking WAY too much... not something I would promote, by the way.
• Things were very strange in general. Take church, for example. I wanted to go, but not really. And, I didn't have to. My mom wasn't there to make me. She also wasn't there to make me eat well, do my laundry, or finish my homework. In fact, I could pretty much do anything I wanted, as long as it wasn't illegal or got me expelled. I did some of those things. Some I regret, and some I don't.

The reason I am sharing this is because I don't think our college students are often prepared for what it really means to go to college. Oh, most of us find our way. I turned out OK despite those things I did. And, I still remember my college years as the most fulfilling, envigorating, educational, wonderful, magical years of my life.

But I never had a name for the difficult parts of it until I went to missionary orientation. That was when someone finally told me that it was OK to be in between worlds, mourning your old one while celebrating your new one. No one had ever put a name on it before. Naming it made a huge difference in my perception of what had happened my Freshman year.

All this to say that no matter how excited we may be, going away from home isn't always easy, no matter where we go. But, that is OK. It's got a name. And, it won't last. Chances are, you are just experiencing a rough patch at the beginning of what is going to be a life-changing, incredible, memorable experience.