Talking about Death - Lenten Devotion 3

As we continue our journey through Lent, let us pause for a moment to consider what it is that we are journeying towards.  Approaching the sacred time called Holy Week, we walk the road of deepest shadows.  Each painful step we take brings us closer to the betrayal, arrest, brutality, mockery, rejection, crucifixion and death of our Beloved.  It is a difficult, intense time to be a part of the liturgical Church.

There is something powerful about this time, though.  It is not something that should be glossed over or forgotten.  We cannot jump to Easter celebration without the difficult days of Lent and Holy Week.

As Tommy shares in the video below, our churches in western society, particularly here in America, have a very difficult time approaching the conversation of death.  Just as in our surrounding culture, we often avoid the topic in our pulpits, our prayer groups and our Bible studies.

Lent opens the door to the topics that can otherwise seem rather taboo.  Betrayal, arrest, brutality, rejection by friends and family, the intentional quieting of women and children, the abuse of power and authority in our spiritual and political leaders, the pain of the dying process, feelings of abandonment and seclusion, and death -- all of this and more are found in the Scriptures concerning the time we now refer to as Holy Week.

What does Holy Week bring about in you?  How do you explore these topics with your loved ones?  How do you talk about death, grief and loss?  Does your faith community speak about such things?




As I cared for and journeyed with my father through his decline, time in hospice and death last year, I had many similar observations as the man in this video. We have much to speak about as a church and as a society regarding the dying process. After watching the movie "Departures" I decided that I wanted to wash my father's body after he died. Washing him, as I had for many months leading up to his hospice time, and feeling the heat leaving his body in the presence of my siblings and extended family was one of the most powerful, therapeutic acts I have ever participated in. It felt incredibly natural and helped me to come to grips with the reality of the death that had just occurred in our midst.

No one had told me to do this. I wasn't taught how to be in the midst of death and grief. It was certainly not something that had ever been spoken about in any of the congregations I have been a part of over the years.

The western church, in general, does not prepare us to walk this part of our journey. Despite the pathway of shadows that we call Lent, we don't often come face-to-face with death in our midst. We avoid speaking about the intensity of our pain while we are watching a loved one die. Our congregations have much to learn from Eastern and Native traditions when it comes to the preparation for dying, burial, cremation and the releasing of our loved ones remains.

I hope that in the years to come, we will be more willing to be in open dialogue about death, loss and the dying process, in our society as a whole, and especially, in our congregations. I believe this will be part of our healing, of remembering who we are. We cannot awaken to New Life if we cannot first honestly experience the pain of death and loss.

Walk the road of shadows with me, dear ones. Let us journey together along this sacred pathway called Lent.

A Service of Ashes

Ash Wednesday is one of the most powerful days of the Christian year.  We remember that we are, indeed, mortal beings in a finite world held together simply through the breath, grace and love of our Creator. On Ash Wednesday, everything and everyone is laid bare.

About a decade ago, one of the little babies that I nannied, (the first tiny infant I had held since my own miscarriages) died on Ash Wednesday. I received the news at the end of my preschool teaching that morning, only moments before the noontide service was to begin upstairs in the church sanctuary. My parents were meeting me at the service. My dad look at me when I walked in and he knew what had happened. The sweet infant's heart surgery that morning had gone terribly wrong.

My dad held me close to his own heart as we remained in the narthex listening to the familiar Ash Wednesday liturgy -- words that had swept over me from my own infancy years. We cried together over the poignancy of those words reflecting on our mortality and the suffering in the world. My parents and I walked down the aisle, an aisle we had walked down together in joy only a few years before as I married my high school sweetheart. I walked that aisle knowing that, for me and for all who loved that little baby, nothing would ever be the same.

Walking down that aisle, I faced mortality head on. As I received the sign of ashes on my forehead, the senior minister and I looked at each other through bloodshot, tear-filled eyes. His voice was a trembling whisper. "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Even in the midst of my deepest shock, those words struck me to my core.

Now, a decade later, the words strike deeply again, as only a couple of months ago, I held my father's ashes in my hands before they were laid to rest on a sunny day in the midst of winter.

On Ash Wednesday, we remember our mortality. We remember the suffering in the world. We acknowledge our fears, our shortcomings and our sadness.

In our remembrance and intentions during the Lenten season that begins today, we speak of death without hesitation. We cry out at the pain, suffering and injustice in our world. We walk the road of shadows, pricking our fingers on the thorns and getting down on our hands and knees in the mud and muck of life. We remember who we are. And in so doing, we open ourselves up to the possibility of breathing in new life.

The joy and triumph of Easter means nothing without the sting of death. So, my sisters and brothers, may we not be hasty to embrace the light. Walk with me along this road of shadows. Let us stumble together along the pathway of Lent.

New Life for a Frozen Brain

Grace to you, dear ones ~

I have spent much of the last couple of years adjusting to a new life here in Portland, Oregon.  Although it was my childhood town, I had been away for over seven years pursuing the last part of my BA and then my MA at seminary in Seattle.  The majority of my time back home was devoted to caring for my dear father as he prepared to pass from life to Life.  That transition happened this summer, the day before my birthday.  We have just passed three months since he died.

In the time since his passing, I often felt much like the walking dead.  No purpose.  No dream.  No hope for the future.  All was simply numb.  These effects of shock - which is our normal human response to the trauma of death - has only in recent weeks begun to dissipate.  My brain and emotions, it seemed, were in a cryogenic state - frozen in time at my Daddy's death bed.  Both have begun to thaw.  The time of healing has now begun.

For those of you who may be experiencing the loss of a loved one, or the deep shadows of grief as you care for an ailing parent or sibling, I write to offer you companionship.  New life, I am convinced, can be found when we tend one another's hearts.  I am here to walk beside you, accepting you with your permafrost brain, erratic emotional swings and physical aches that are a manifestation of your grief.  We will get through this together.  We will learn to live again.

"I have come that you might have life and have it to the fullest measure." -- Jesus says.

We have a promise from the Living Christ that new life is coming.  I am convinced that this is a deep, cosmological truth.  All life, from the smallest fruit fly to the greatest mammoth and basilosaurus, and everything in between, will all find newness and resurrection in the time to come.  For now, I am thankful to be receiving a small preview of this new life with the slow, gentle resurrection in my frozen grief brain.

I will do my best to write here once a week, both to walk with you and to record my own journey of resurrection.

Photo by Trista Wynne - Zombie 5K -- Dayton, OR -- October 2013 

What's in our Eyes?

I've been writing more often in my prayer blog lately than on here, but today's awful events bring me back into the realm of violence, theology and questions.  I posted in the prayer blog about a shooting that happened in the nearby Clackamas Town Center earlier this week.  Now, only a few days later we hear about a terrible tragedy in Connecticut.

Images, sound clips and heart-breaking accounts of today's events leave us feeling numb and hopeless.  A steady stream of political posturing and religious rants have been flooding my Facebook news feed all day.  It is sad how quickly we can manipulate a tragedy into a tool for our own agendas.  We have violence towards one another in our eyes.

We have a hard time simply sighing as a nation and grieving together.  We are immediately looking for someone or something to blame.  (Yes, I include myself in this.  I said, "we".  Although I refrained from posting throughout the day, my mind went all over, too...)  We have destruction in our eyes.

Tonight, though, as the reactions begin to simmer down and the soul searching begins, I am reminded that perfect love casts out fear.

In the Day of Trouble: A Psalm for Zombies

While reading the office for this evening at DailyOffice.org I found myself highly intrigued by Psalm 27.

Imagine yourself surrounded by a hoard of walkers or zombies and clinging to life by a hair's breath.



Smell the stench of rotting flesh.  Hear the moans of hungry foes.  See the flickering candle, your only source of light in the deep night.  Taste the salty sweat dripping down your face from your brow line.  And then read the psalm below...

The LORD is my light and my salvation;
whom then shall I fear? *
the LORD is the strength of my life;
of whom then shall I be afraid?

When evildoers came upon me
to eat up my flesh, *
it was they, my foes and my adversaries,
who stumbled and fell.
Though an army should encamp against me, *
yet my heart shall not be afraid;
And though war should rise up against me, *
yet will I put my trust in him.

One thing have I asked of the LORD;
one thing I seek; *
that I may dwell in the house of the LORD
all the days of my life;
To behold the fair beauty of the LORD *
and to seek him in his temple.

For in the day of trouble
he shall keep me safe in his shelter; *
he shall hide me in the secrecy of his dwelling
and set me high upon a rock.

Even now he lifts up my head *
above my enemies round about me.
Therefore I will offer in his dwelling
an oblation with sounds of great gladness; *
I will sing and make music to the LORD.

Can you imagine, dear ones, what it must have been like for the psalmist?  When they composed this song of love and trust they must have been in the midst of a terrible war!  Yet even in the midst of crisis, they raise this song of praise knowing that God is truly the One who will deliver them.

Are we, in the midst of our daily struggles, able to offer such praises?  Can we sing songs of trust and love while we are surrounded by terrors of the night?  I desire with all of my heart to say yes.  I want to stretch my hands up in the air and trust that God will deliver me from the pains and struggles of this life.

Let's pray, dear ones, that we might experience the uplifting of our minds so that we, too, can sing with joy in the midst of the trial.  Let us run to the holy places where the Spirit of God is magnified, so we might feast on our Maker rather than one another.  Let us gather in the sanctuaries and be renewed by the Living God who enters into our midst and brings peace to us - body, mind and soul. 

Let us sing and make music before the Lord.  And then, dear ones, let us go into the hoard and do our best to offer the antidote of Christ to our zombie brethren, for we all know what it is like to have a hunger for flesh.  But we know the One who can fully satisfy this hunger and bring us (and all to whom we minister) peace and life to the fullest measure.

Feeling Dry?

Grace and peace to you, dear ones!

At several points this year, while clambering to and from various gatherings and trying to push myself through the final quarters in my seminary career, I have found myself feeling a little dry, (I wrote a little earlier in the summer about this very thing) and wondering where our Beloved was.  I felt as though I was in the midst of a terrible storm of thunder and lightning but was lacking the refreshing, cooling downpour of grace upon my thirsty soul.  As one born and raised in the pacific-northwest where rains are quite abundant, this is saying something!

On account of my geographical location, I don't often identify with the imagery of desert sands and arid places; the landscape surrounding me is usually quite lush and green.  However, during certain points in my life, and particularly poignantly in the last few months of seminary, I have had very strong sensations of being unceasingly thirsty, dry and in a time of waiting for our Beloved to come and take some powerful action.  In these times, this vision of Ezekiel is particularly profound:

"Feeling Dry" - Photo by Trista Wynne

Zombie Brains Contemplate Relationship

I can't believe it's been so long since I've posted here!  My goal was to be on top of posting at least once a week, but it turns out this was only the case during the summer, and it is an unrealistic expectation during seminary study time.  So, perhaps once a month will be my new goal.

Since posting last, we've meandered through the season of advent, celebrated Christmas, closed out a new year and begun a new one.  I've also begun a new term and come to the realization that my time in seminary is drawing close to a wrapping up point.  Only four classes and a part-time practicum stand between me today and the zombie wearing a grad cap and gown with velvet stripes.  I'll be a Master of Theology & Ministry then.  How's that for brains?

Mmmm, braaaaiiiiinnnssss!

Ahem.

Sorry about the drool.

This is my Body - Given for You

As my neighbor and I observed the weather two days ago, we were thrilled to see sunshine!  Cabin fever had hit us both.  I was particularly ready to get out of the apartment since I have been in school for over a month.  With all of my classes online, I spend much of my non-working hours in the same room(s), and in the autumn and winter months, the darkness begins to wear on us here in the Seattle area.  So, when the sun broke through the clouds and it seemed to be likely that we would have sun the rest of the afternoon, my neighbor and I hopped in the car and drove eastward.

After a delicious lunch and a stop by a small town market for fresh veggies, we noticed a creek flowing freely nearby.  So, we slid down the slopes towards the creek, muddying up our walking shoes, and we looked around.  What beauty!  With the crisp autumn air, the vibrant hues of crimson and goldenrod above and the swiftly flowing creek just a few feet away, we began to maneuver over the stones. 

We passed a bridge.  Then, a funk rose to my nostrils.  A few feet later, my neighbor stopped in her tracks and turned towards me. "Doesn't it smell like fish to you?" 

Just before she had spoken, my eyes landed on the rocks near her feet.  Oh my!  She hadn't even seen it yet.

There at her feet lay a huge, moldy salmon with its eyes gone and most of the meat rotted out.  "There's a reason for that," I said, hardly containing my laughter, "look at your feet."

Her own eyes nearly popped out of her head and she shrieked, jumping backwards.  I nearly lost my balance and fell onto the fish from laughing so hard at her comment timing and response to our discovery.  Quickly, I whipped out my camera and snapped a photo.

As we continued our walk, adjusting to the smell and our surroundings, we realized this was not simply the remains of someone's lunch.  We were witnessing the end of the salmon life cycle.  Only a few weeks ago, we had seen a neighboring river nearly overflowing with salmon preparing to lay their eggs.  Now we were seeing the results of that life-giving effort.

Someone less interested in the macabre probably wouldn't have snapped a picture of the rotting salmon corpse.  But I was captivated by its beauty.  I still am.

This simple fish is willing to give everything in hopes of new life sprouting forth.  There are no guarantees.  Even if their eggs are fertilized and sheltered until they mature, the little ones must survive the treacherous journey downstream where predators lurk around every corner.  Still, knowing all that the little ones must go through and aware of the probability of failure, the salmon gives up its own life so that others may have the hope for new life.

This image of the salmon carcass gives me new eyes to encounter the Eucharist.  This is my body, given for many; this is my blood, shed for all. -- Jesus' willingness to give himself so that others may know the meaning of life -- this is a holy mystery embodied today in a salmon returning to the earth.

Pride & the Apocalypse: Are Zombies Better than the Living?

"Night Life" - Photo by Matt Wynne

When I am in school from September through halfway into June, homework sometimes (fairly often, actually) takes over my night life.  This leaves very little time for television.  When shows that we're intrigued with are on, they're usually recorded and saved for later.  The summer is "later" for me, and my husband and I are catching up on the AMC series The Walking Dead.  We're taking it one episode at a time and allowing each one to percolate a bit and fuel our evening banter and creativity.