The pastor who married my husband and me celebrated his baptismal anniversary today. Pastor Chris is an incredible man, and a wonderful pastor. I am so blessed to have him as a brother in Christ. And I am forever grateful to Pastor Chris for what I consider to be my catechumenate. The story of his baptismal anniversary can be found here. Reading Pastor Chris' devotion took me back to May 6, 2007 at Salem Lutheran Church in Glendale, California, which is the date and location of my baptismal anniversary. I was honored when Pastor Kurt gave me the opportunity to preach for the 50th anniversary of the dedication of the church's sanctuary in July 2009. Following is the text from that sermon, a reminder of my baptismal story.
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I’d like to tell you two stories about strangers and aliens. The first story involves a 19-year-old woman. This 19-year-old woman is my mother, and the year is 1970. Disco was all the rage, and fashion was funky. My mom and my dad immigrated to the US in 1970. They were what you could call strangers and aliens. They left their families and all that was familiar to them. They carried $200 dollars in their pocket and had two suitcases. They lived in a not so great area of downtown Cleveland, Ohio. From what I’ve heard, Cleveland wasn’t really the happening place to be in the early 70s. I’m guessing downtown Cleveland wasn’t an easy place to live for a shy young woman who left her home country. My mom was not prepared for the harsh Cleveland winter. To someone from a warm climate, it was a cold you could feel in your bones and to your core. The trees, plants, and flowers were gone; Cleveland was covered in an icy brown slush. In her single suitcase, my mom carried beautiful saris that were among her wedding presents. Her saris represented her status as a married woman in India, but in Cleveland, her clothes were signs of her strangeness. Her saris were breathtaking, delicate fabrics with vivid colors and intricate stitching. The bright reds, blues, and greens were definitely noticeable against a bleak and gray landscape. A lot of her saris were works of art. Unfortunately, the fabric wasn’t thick and warming. My mom and dad had to spend what little money they had to buy clothes to keep my mom warm.
My mom and dad were strangers and aliens in a new land. I can only imagine how scared they both were, but my mom in particular. My mom is a quiet and shy woman. She learned English in India, but she didn’t get to practice speaking it. She was scared of saying something wrong in English, which would magnify her strangeness in the United States. My dad was fine; he spent so much of his childhood around English-speakers. He got to travel the wilds of India with British and American adventurists, easily talking with them in English. Even though my mom lived all over India, she stayed in her home country speaking her mother tongue. My mom came from a large and crazy family, and was close to her parents, her siblings, her cousins, her aunts and uncles. She was now a stranger and an alien in a new land.
My dad became a citizen of the US in 1975, but my mom kept her Indian citizenship. My mom watched people, their traits and customs. My mom observed my older brother and me. Not just in a motherly way, though, but in a way to learn from us. She was learning our actions, speech, and behaviors, so she could blend and not be a stranger and an alien.
My mom finally became a US citizen in 2007. She lived in this country as a stranger and as an alien for 37 years. We had a party to celebrate her new status. In a single day, she was no longer a stranger and an alien. At this party, there were friends there from my mom and dad’s days in Cleveland. Days that were challenging and filled with a lot of emotion. But they were there to celebrate with my mom. My mom even joked about how she didn’t grow up in India; she actually grew up in the US. This means my mom’s childhood started as a 19 year old.
Saint Paul dealt with a similar situation 2,000 years ago. In St. Paul’s time, being an alien was like being a resident alien in the US today. It refers to a person who lives somewhere that isn’t their homeland, and because of this status, this person doesn’t have full rights of citizenship. Paul preached to the Gentiles, who were considered to be aliens; they were considered strangers to Israel, as people who lived in the same location, but weren’t fully accepted. I’d like for everyone to take a moment to think about a situation. I want you to think about a situation where you may have been the stranger. Where you may have been the alien. Maybe you were the new kid in school. Or the new kid on the block. Maybe a new person at a job. But in those situations, were you apprehensive? Maybe even a little scared of the unknown? Or a little nervous because you didn’t know the people around you?
My second story starts when I was 19 years old. The same age my mom was when she came to the US. My sophomore year of college was just okay, but one day, something magical happened. My friend, Leigh, invited me to dinner. Really, it was a magical event, especially to a college student. There was home-cooked food, and lots of it! My friend invited me to a Wednesday night supper at her church. The student lounge was filled with people and with food. This was something new to me. Not just a Lutheran’s love for food and fellowship, but something else that felt new and unfamiliar. Dare I say I might have felt like a stranger and an alien? I was used to eating and worshipping with three people: my brother, my dad, and my mom. Worshipping and sharing with other people was strange and alien. But that invitation changed my life. She reached out to me, witnessed to me, and was a friend. I want you to know that Leigh is sitting in this church today. She flew in from South Carolina, and she’s here to hear my first sermon. I want everyone to know that a simple invitation to dinner was the start of an incredible journey. A journey that started 10 years ago in a Lutheran Church in South Carolina. A journey that will continue at a Lutheran Seminary in Berkeley.
That incredible journey reached its crescendo here. Right here, in this very sanctuary. When my husband, Karl, and I started attending Salem, we may have started as strangers and aliens, but that didn’t last for long. You wouldn’t let us be strangers and aliens. We started participating in the life of this church. We started worshipping with you on a regular basis in this sanctuary. But there was still a part of me that was strange and alien. I wasn’t baptized yet. In participating in Salem’s ministry, I didn’t want to be a stranger and an alien any more. I wanted to be a citizen with you in the kingdom.
The crescendo! It was amazing. It was scary. It was intimate. It was so intimate because I died. I drowned in a shallow basin. Using Martin Luther’s words, my drowning “signifies that the old self and the sinful birth of flesh and blood are to be wholly drowned by the grace of God.” In this drowning, I died in sin, before many of you. I wasn’t a stranger and an alien anymore. Through baptism, I became a member of a large and diverse family. I became a member of a great household.
A wonderful book called “Baptized, We Live” talks about what we gain from baptism. Much of that gain comes in relationships with God and with one another. The book states, “His yes (God’s yes) becomes our YES.” (7). Part of that YES is being incorporated into Christ and the church. Part of that YES is being adopted into God’s covenant people. And part of that YES is that everyone who is baptized is “ordained, set aside to be a minister” (7). Not just the seminary student, but children, confirmation students, church council members; everyone who is a member if this church is set aside to be a minister. And this sanctuary is filled with so many dedicated ministers.
This sanctuary is a wonderful place. Like at my mom’s citizenship party, she joked about how she didn’t grow up in India, but that she grew up at the age of 19 in the US. I’m experiencing a second childhood as well. Through the firm foundation in this house, and through the firm foundation of faith from my brothers and sisters in Christ, I’m growing
Fifty years ago today, seven passages were read from the Bible to celebrate the sanctuary’s dedication. These passages are beautiful descriptions of God’s house, and of those who live in God’s house. These passages describe the foundation of not just this beautiful building, but also a foundation of faith, and sharing that faith with others. The bulletin from fifty years ago had a note to preach and baptize the nations. Thank you for listening to your parents, and those in that congregation fifty years ago. Thank you for sharing your faith with someone who was once a stranger and an alien. Thank you for accepting a new sister in Christ, filled with grace and love from her church family. There is proof in these pews that Salem’s ministry is a success.
A stranger and an alien. Remember how I asked you if there was a time you were a stranger and an alien? About feeling nervous and uncomfortable? I want you to keep this in mind. I was a stranger and an alien, and through you, brothers and sisters in Christ, I’m now a member of a joyous family. As we celebrate the anniversary of the dedication of this sanctuary, I want to be brash and charge the people of Salem with a mission. The mission is this: reach out to our neighbors and make sure that they are welcome in this sanctuary. There may be a stranger and an alien in this house. Invite a friend to come with you to worship. They may feel like a stranger and an alien, but with a friend close by, the barriers that make people strangers and aliens are broken down. I want Salem to continue to welcome the stranger and the alien, remembering St. Paul’s words, “So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God.”
I am thankful for my friends and family that have guided me on this journey, but in particular, I have to thank Leigh. Leigh gave me the blessing of an invitation. She asked me if I wanted to have a meal with her. Now it’s my turn to invite her to a church meal.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Reminders.
Yesterday Christa and I were preparing the seminary's chapel for the Ash Wednesday service. We replaced the white and gold paraments from Transfiguration to the rich purple paraments for Lent (and also Advent, for any liturgical fans out there). Christa and I decided on the sole purple parament for the main altar, which is purple with a circle of thorns. We decided not to place paraments on the high altar and the ambo, as we were hoping to be as minimal as we could in using paraments for chapel during Lent.
Christa and I were finding kneelers for the service. The odd yet cool thing about PLTS's chapel is that the "pews" are actually wicker seats. The space is open, so there are multiple ways to set up the chapel for worship. It's a wonderfully flexible space. Anyway, we were searching for kneelers to place with every seat when Christa gasped. She found a dead bird in the chapel. We heard from a couple of students that a bird may have nested itself in one of the pipes of the chapel's organ. Christa and I were trying to figure out how to evacuate the bird without hurting it. But in looking for kneelers for a service that reminds each of us, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return," we saw firsthand of the mortality of the day. Yes, while we may have joked about the dead bird in the back of the chapel, it was also a stark reminder that we will return to dust. But the ashes will clear away, looking forward to a new creation. Little bird, I'm sorry you met your demise in PLTS's chapel. But you have returned home.
Christa and I were finding kneelers for the service. The odd yet cool thing about PLTS's chapel is that the "pews" are actually wicker seats. The space is open, so there are multiple ways to set up the chapel for worship. It's a wonderfully flexible space. Anyway, we were searching for kneelers to place with every seat when Christa gasped. She found a dead bird in the chapel. We heard from a couple of students that a bird may have nested itself in one of the pipes of the chapel's organ. Christa and I were trying to figure out how to evacuate the bird without hurting it. But in looking for kneelers for a service that reminds each of us, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return," we saw firsthand of the mortality of the day. Yes, while we may have joked about the dead bird in the back of the chapel, it was also a stark reminder that we will return to dust. But the ashes will clear away, looking forward to a new creation. Little bird, I'm sorry you met your demise in PLTS's chapel. But you have returned home.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Ashes to ashes
I attended my first Ash Wednesday service in 2006. My husband and I started attending a Lutheran church a few blocks from our apartment, and since I never attended an Ash Wednesday service, I expressed to my husband that I wanted to go. We walked to the church, and on that walk, I remember asking him what happens at an Ash Wednesday service. He stated it was similar to a regular Sunday service, except the pastor made a cross of ashes on peoples foreheads.
It was not like a regular Sundays service. It was quiet and somber. I remember when I approached the altar, the pastor lightly touched my forehead. I could feel the cross being made on my forehead. And I remember the words, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." I remember returning to the pew, thinking of the gravity of the words "... to dust you shall return."
To dust you shall return. I remember walking home after the service. I immediately went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." I continued to stare at the cross of ashes on my forehead, thinking of my life and the finality of it on this earth. The finality struck me, particularly since at the time, I was a Hindu attending a Lutheran church. What did such a finality mean?
Fast forward to 2008. I was the lector at the Ash Wednesday service at my home congregation. The same congregation where I went to my very first Ash Wednesday service. I was assisting the pastor with the imposition of the ashes, telling my brothers and sisters in Christ, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." I was struck making the cross on peoples foreheads. I broke down during the imposition of the ashes, realizing that all of us are living a life in anticipation of the resurrection. It was with the imposition of the ashes that we will return to dust, but we are not forsaken by God. We are loved and cherished children of God. The juxtaposition of ashes and God's grace and love were startling to me that Ash Wednesday.
There is sad news for tomorrow's Ash Wednesday service. One of the church matriarchs of my teaching parish passed away this morning. And in light of tomorrow's service, I couldn't help but return to the words "... and to dust you shall return."
It was not like a regular Sundays service. It was quiet and somber. I remember when I approached the altar, the pastor lightly touched my forehead. I could feel the cross being made on my forehead. And I remember the words, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." I remember returning to the pew, thinking of the gravity of the words "... to dust you shall return."
To dust you shall return. I remember walking home after the service. I immediately went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." I continued to stare at the cross of ashes on my forehead, thinking of my life and the finality of it on this earth. The finality struck me, particularly since at the time, I was a Hindu attending a Lutheran church. What did such a finality mean?
Fast forward to 2008. I was the lector at the Ash Wednesday service at my home congregation. The same congregation where I went to my very first Ash Wednesday service. I was assisting the pastor with the imposition of the ashes, telling my brothers and sisters in Christ, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." I was struck making the cross on peoples foreheads. I broke down during the imposition of the ashes, realizing that all of us are living a life in anticipation of the resurrection. It was with the imposition of the ashes that we will return to dust, but we are not forsaken by God. We are loved and cherished children of God. The juxtaposition of ashes and God's grace and love were startling to me that Ash Wednesday.
There is sad news for tomorrow's Ash Wednesday service. One of the church matriarchs of my teaching parish passed away this morning. And in light of tomorrow's service, I couldn't help but return to the words "... and to dust you shall return."
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