Churches should update their websites for summer time changes unless...

... you're a doofus like me who seems to delight in committing many a social faux-pas. I would normally recommend that a church change their website to reflect a change in worship time. It's usually how visitors find out when worship starts. Only once did a church not updating their website for summer hours work in my favor.

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One of my preferred modes of transportation is using my own two feet. I usually have no qualms about walking unless I'm in certain areas of San Francisco or parts of the Echo Park neighborhood of Los Angeles (situations that usually require a form of jet-pack transport). I was visiting my childhood friend in Denver for a week in August and decided to visit a nearby church for Sunday worship. I did what any visitor with the Internets would do; I Googled the nearest ELCA church and found that it was within a walking distance of my friend's house. I then went to that church's website to check on worship times. The website listed two services: I cannot recall the exact times, but it was something like 8:30AM and 10AM. I decided on the latter service so I could sleep in a bit. The church was only a little over a half mile away, so I didn't feel compelled to ask to borrow my friend's car. It would be an easy stroll on a flat and level surface.

Because I was in Colorado in August, the weather was dry and warm. I decided to wear a cute skirt and matching top. I looked at the Google Maps app on my phone and saw that the church was only a short walk, five blocks north on Emerson Street. I left my friend's house early, just in case I got lost in my wanderings. As I was walking north on Emerson, a couple of cars honked as I walked by on a quiet Sunday morning. I thought the honking was odd, but I didn't really stop to think about why they were honking. Maybe they were cut off by another car behind me? Maybe something fell in the road? It really didn't matter to me because I was enjoying the stroll and the start to a gorgeous summer's day.

The church on Emerson Street.

I arrived at the church to discover that worship was already taking place... which left me, the complete Type-A perfectionist planner, completely confused. I stood in the narthex checking my watch and checking my iPhone, desperately wanting to affirm that I had everything right. I must have looked incredibly distressed, because someone came to the back of the church and handed me a bulletin. With an urgent and hushed whisper, I asked, "When did service start? I thought it started at 10?" They responded, "Because it's summer, we're only doing one worship service. It actually started at 9."

My poor Type-A brain went into overdrive with its internal monologue: WHAT.DO.YOU.MEAN.WORSHIP.STARTED.AT.NINE.AM?!!??
WHY.DIDNT.ANYONE.UPDATE.THE.FREAKING.WEBSITE!?!?!?!?

Because this was all an internal monologue, I politely smiled as I took my bulletin from the nice person and then entered the sanctuary. Maybe I heard the nice person gasp; maybe I didn't. Because the rhythms of worship were similar to my home church, I realized that the service was nearing the meal. The Offertory was taking place as I saw the offering plates moving down the pews.

I eased myself into the back pew up against the wall. I put down my purse and bulletin. As I smoothed my skirt when I was getting ready to sit down, I noticed something odd. Very odd. Very, very odd.

As I attempted to smooth my skirt as I prepared to sit down, I realized that my skirt wasn't actually there. This made me very, very, very confused. I looked down to see that yes, my skirt was actually there in the front, I did put it on in the morning before heading out the door. My mind went into a panic... I see the skirt, but WHAT IS GOING ON? Did the back part of my skirt disappear? Was it raptured? Because it if was raptured, I was going to be seriously upset. I felt pretty sure that all of the folks sitting in the sanctuary that morning would be pretty upset as well if the rapture did indeed take place. But they weren't freaking out; no one seemed to have suddenly disappeared from their midst; no one was in a panic madly searching for their loved one (or any item of clothing, for that matter). As the panic within me grew, my heart raced incessantly as I tried to figure out in my confused brain, ''WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE BACK OF MY SKIRT???"

If I had taken the time to calmly investigate, I would have found the solution much sooner. After what seemed to be an eternity of panic half-standing, half-squatting in the back pew trying desperately to figure out this complete mystery of what happened to the back part of my skirt, I discovered that I had caused my own wardrobe malfunction. This wardrobe malfunction traveled with me as I strolled north on Emerson Street, entered the church, walked through the narthex and into the sanctuary.

It all seemed to compute at that very moment.
The couple of cars that honked their horns as I walked north on Emerson Street.
That gasp that I may (or may not) have heard as I entered the sanctuary.

The discovery? The hem of my skirt was caught in the waistband of my underwear. It seems that I flashed a good bit to drivers heading north on Emerson Street. Not to mention the nice person who greeted me in the church's narthex. I tried not to flash even more people as I tried stealthily to find where exactly the hem was caught in the waistband of my underwear. Thank God I decided to sit in the pew at the back of the church. Thank God there were no other people in the very back pew that morning.

Thank God I discovered this before walking up the center aisle to the altar for communion.

So yes, normally, I am a proponent of keeping your church website up-do-date, especially if there is a change in worship times during the summer months. But in this one time, thank goodness it worked out in my favor. Sort of.

The hour is a mystery

As I was bounding down the stairs in my in-laws' house thinking that I was late to meet with their pastor, their grandfather clock chimed five times. Those five chimes indicated that it was the hour of five; I checked my watch, which told me that local time in St. Louis was actually 8:45AM. I still had 15 minutes to make it to the church to meet with the pastor. The grandfather clock could tell me the quarter hour, but not the actual time itself.

The concept of time hadn't really registered over the past few days. Much of the days have been more task-oriented as opposed to time-oriented. The concept of time has focused on arrivals and completions. Time has been doled out in increments to orient ourselves to and for particular actions.

Making sure my father-in-law is comfortable.

Making sure that medications are given in a timely manner.

Making sure that the appropriate number of hours have passed with the arrival of the home health care aids, who have been absolute gifts from God.

Making sure that my mother-in-law makes it to her health appointments.

But in the day-to-day, many in my in-laws' house found themselves restless. My sister-in-law and her husband would find themselves awake at ridiculously early hours. I would find that I couldn't go to sleep even though my body was trying to tell my brain that it was exhausted, but yet there was time and energy enough to write. My mother-in-law would awake with the arrival of the home health care aid who would arrive in the extremely early morning hours.

The five chimes of the grandfather clock that morning told me that time was a relative concept. It was able to chime on every quarter hour; anyone in the house could tell time in fifteen minute increments if they heard the clock. Only the hour remained a mystery.

Time has made less and less sense. I feel like I have been catapulted into the previous year, being told that my father's cancer has invaded that tender space of the abdomen, the space where the body takes in and processes nourishment. But I thought, my father already died from this, why are you telling me again? I had to look at my watch and realize that it is indeed 2016 and not 2015. I had to realize that the diagnosis was not just tied to my father, but now also my father-in-law. I have to look in the hospital bed and realize that it's not my father, but my spouse's father.

Time doesn't really make sense; not only the hour, but even the year seem a mystery to me. It's as if someone hit a "rewind" button on the tape player of my life, and somehow, it has rewound itself to the previous year but in an alternate universe. Getting ready for a synod assembly not immediately close to home. Anxious with anticipation about the news contained in the next phone call. Not knowing if there is enough time to make arrangements for a last-minute flight to a destination that is not just a couple of thousand miles away, but that seems to be of another space, another point in history.

The concept of time contained and ordered... Not like real life.

There was usually one amazing marker of time, an achievement to be unlocked: the arrival of the next day. No one in my in-laws' house may have been aware of the actual date or the day of the week, but everyone was aware when a new day arrived. Everyone was somehow aware of that new day when we would wake up, tentatively look down and delicately tip-toe down the stairs into the living room, and to see my father-in-law looking back at us, breathing, comfortable, and alive.

The hour continues to remain a mystery.

Tweeting Dichotomy and Risk

Last night, I participated in the Twitter conversation (#ELCAWebcast) tied to the third ELCA webcast concerning racism within the denomination. I noticed something interesting concerning a couple of tweets.

I sent out a thought in two tweets.

The first tweet was: “What I wonder is what are we really willing to risk being a "welcoming" church?”

1/2 What I wonder is what are we really willing to risk being a "welcoming" church? #ELCAwebcast #decolonizeLutheranism

— Tuhina Verma Rasche (@tvrasche) May 26, 2016

The second tweet was: “because [sp] Christians all over the world are risking life & limb to praise Christ.”

2/2 becuase Christians all over the world are risking life & limb to praise Christ #ELCAwebcast #decolonizeLutheranism

— Tuhina Verma Rasche (@tvrasche) May 26, 2016

I noticed an interesting dichotomy taking place between these two tweets. The first shows that I can spell; the second shows that I cannot. But there were other things to notice... Maybe because with an electronic conversation in two parts, some are more apt to remember and see the first part of the conversation? Maybe I am making something out of nothing? Maybe I’m asking this particular series of questions because I myself cannot speak truth?

About the dichotomy between the tweets... The first tweet is a question. I’ve discovered that when tweeting a question to the Internet ether, it doesn’t necessitate a response. Maybe it’s a question that is merely “food for thought” on which to gnaw? Maybe it’s a question that no one wants to answer. It’s also a question, that at least in a general group discussion in the Internet, no one has to answer.

The second tweet is a statement. People around the world are not only risking their lives and limbs to raise their hands in worship to praise Christ, but they are dying.  They are risking the ultimate risk, putting their lives on the line, nailing their lives to the cross.

After a webcast, I find it frustrating that this is the level of risk offered. Some can tweet, "Great conversation!" I really have a hard time accepting that some felt that they had a difficult discussion on racism, good job, bravo! now back to our regularly scheduled programming is risk enough. When it comes to conversations about racism and identity, I don't get to change the channel. I don't get to turn off the television. If we are going to have honest conversations and take action about the racial makeup of our denomination (however awesome or flawed that may be), much more risk-taking needs to take place. 

I’ve been thinking about “welcoming,” intersectionality, and risk for awhile and in conversation with trusted friends and conversation partners. One of those beloved sisters is Alisha Gordon, who asked me, “What are you willing to give up for the liberty of all people?”

Damn. Damndamndamndamndamn. Nothing quite like a question that gets me to think... as a follower of the crucified and resurrected Christ, what would I myself be willing to risk?

Let me be entirely honest and transparent with you: I am struggling to answer that question. I am willing to risk things that personally, I deem to be big... but globally, people are risking far, far, far more.

But as a follower of Christ in the United States, do I really and truly understand the concept of risk? Do I really and truly understand what our forebearers of the faith in those early days risked to profess a crucified and risen God? In thinking about last night’s Twitter conversation and accompanying webcast, I think what I really want to ask is: what are members of the ELCA willing to risk to truly be a welcoming church? Maybe a greater yearning is to search for an answer...

What are you willing to risk as a follower of the crucified and risen Christ to truly be welcoming of Christ’s church? If the ELCA is to truly take heed, much risk-taking must take place. But what risks? What must we do, risk, and give up to #decolonizeLutheranism?

Feeling uncomfortable in an awkward conversation?

Having someone being mad at you and having a fractured relationship?

Your status? Your title? Your identity?

Your life?

Time seems to fold in upon itself

Time seems to fold in upon itself.

It felt like it took the work of a small army to get my father-in-law out of the hospital and back home under home hospice care. There was a very orderly and regimented schedule that occurred yesterday. Members of the family divided and conquered the list of tasks that needed to be completed.

Like getting my mother-in-law to her designated appointments.

Or receiving the hospital equipment at the house.

And coordinating with the doctors and nurses at the hospital to make sure that my father-in-law’s transport would take place in a timely manner.

Then being at the house to receive the initial delivery of prescriptions.

And timing the arrivals and departures of the nurses and home health aides.

Time has now shifted. Instead of shuttling back and forth to the hospital, we’re all now gathered at the home of my in-laws. We’re trying to find new rhythms of medication schedules, nurse and health aide rotations, prescription deliveries, visits from friends and family, generous food deliveries so we don’t have to take time to prepare meals, and waiting. We’re gathered at the house finding things to do in the meantime, because we’re simply sitting and waiting for what will come to pass. We’ve set the table well before mealtime. We’re outside trimming the hedges. I spend my time writing obsessively. We’re finding ways to fill the time, because watching and waiting is twisting and wrenching our hearts. If we stop to watch and wait, I fear our hearts may be obliterated.

--

Time seems to fold in upon itself.

I feel as if I’ve been here before. Holding vigil. Watching. Waiting. Knowing that the inevitable will arrive. I have been here before. It hasn’t even been a year since I saw my own father slip from this side of the eschaton to the next. And between those moments of moving from one side of the line to the other, I remember finding ways to fill the time. Reading books. Singing hymns. Praying fiercely.

--

Time seems to fold in upon itself.

The sacraments show me that time folds in upon itself. I was struck by this thought the day before my spouse’s father returned home from the hospital. The pastor who came to visit communed the family around the hospital bed. He then anointed my father-in-law’s forehead and proclaimed, “Child of God, you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.” Those words took me back to the previous week, a week of tongues of fire and the pouring out of the Holy Spirit, words I proclaimed in a sermon to the congregation I serve over two thousand miles away. Those words took me back to numerous times at a font, proclaimed at the baptism of babies and adults. Words proclaimed at death and resurrection. Words, water, and God’s promise proclaimed that tie us to Christ’s death and resurrection.

Sacraments are a way to recognize that time folds in upon itself, that they are a way of showing us God’s kairos time in the midst of the linear chaos of chronos time. The sacraments are a glimpse into God’s concept of time within our own concept of time. The sacraments give us a chance to see that God “is, was, and is to come.”  

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Time seems to fold in upon itself.

The sacraments connect us to what is, what was, and what is to come. Baptism and communion tie us to those who have died and to those communities who are to come. The most stark example of this is the half circle communion rail; as we commune on one side of the circle, the communion of the saints commune on the other side, literally and figuratively. At one point, we too will join in this holy communion of the saints. The sacraments show us that God’s grace abounds. The sacraments are always for us, ways for us to see that God’s kairos time breaks into our chronos time. The past, present, and future collide and intertwine in a trinitarian dance.

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Time seems to fold in upon itself.

Communion and the stirring of memory

What do your communion practices say about your community?

My father-in-law is dying of cancer, and we’ve been taking rotations in the hospital to keep vigil. As I type, I’m sitting across from my spouse as my father-in-law sleeps. This afternoon has been quiet.

But the question on what communion shows us and tells us has been resonating deeply with me today. I was struck by this question today as my spouse’s family gathered together in the hospital room. We entered into the afternoon hours when a family friend, who is also a phenomenal pastor, came to commune the family. We stood in a circle around my father-in-law’s bed and heard the words of death and resurrection, and that the risen Christ comes to meet us in this simple meal. We partook of the risen Christ’s body and blood on this Trinity Sunday, this Sunday that can go beyond the confines of doctrine and proclaim a God of deep and abiding relationship. We wept as we communed together, that we weren’t united just as a family, but as the body of a resurrected Christ and partaking in this meal with the communion of saints. We were met by the risen Christ who meets us in death and life.

Thoughts on life and death can stir one’s memory. The question of communion practices also made my mind wander... back to the practices of my internship parish and first call. The people of my internship and first call concluded the meal by pouring all of the wine back into the chalice and having the pastor and assisting minister finish the wine out of the chalice. When I first arrived to the congregation in 2011, I simply thought that this was a good practice of treating the elements with reverence and respect. It was later in my internship that the drinking of the wine at the end of the meal communicated something else along with the reverence of treating the elements.

In the 1980s, the people of the congregation created an HIV/ AIDS Task Force. So many in the Bay area were dying in this epidemic. The church held services of healing that were picketed. They flung open their doors as a place of welcome for people who were being turned away by their families and institutions, who were stigmatized, and who were dying. The Task Force also visited patients at the AIDS ward at one of the Easy Bay hospitals (and that ministry continues to this day). Members of the community that had nursing and medical experience became caretakers for their fellow brothers and sisters in Christ.

This ministry was also brought into the sanctuary into weekly worship. The senior pastor I served with was a solo pastor at that time. He wanted to communicate that this welcome was a serious welcome that did not come with any conditions, and this was communicated at the Eucharist. 

The consecrated wine imbibed by congregants on every end of a multitude of binaries was poured into a chalice at the conclusion of communion. The pastor then drank the wine, communicating to the congregation that HIV/ AIDS could not be transmitted in the sharing of the meal. The gathering of the body of Christ also communicated that death does not have the final say over our lives.

Communion is a powerful sacrament that can communicate so many things. What we do at communion can also communicate something powerful to the body of Christ.

The body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ strengthen you and keep you in his grace.

Amen. 

Adventures in "exotic" pastoring and #decolonizeLutheranism

Said to me when I was in my first call in Oakland: “The people of your congregation must love having an exotic pastor at the pulpit.”

The external reply? “Why yes. The congregation loves having Pastor Ross at the pulpit.” (FYI: Ross was the senior pastor at my previous congregation, a delightfully wise, snarky, older, white, gay man)

At that moment, the external reply was nowhere near the internal reply. I’m not going to lie; there are times that I wish my internal response could be an external one. Kind of like this:

My internal reply involved a lot of yelling, wild and flailing arm movements, obscenities, and in general, freaking out in front of this individual at a delightful Easter dinner celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and Savior. What pains me even more was that the individual who made the comment was an ELCA seminarian. He was studying to be a leader in a church. 

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Exotic (adj.): very different, strange, or unusual; of a plant or animal: not living or growing naturally in a particular area: from another part of the world  
(definition from Merriam-Webster Dictionary)
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Exotic, in this context, was nowhere near a compliment. This was a microaggression bordering on a macroaggression. Calling a person “exotic” is othering; this is a result of having whiteness be the norm in the United States (and within mainline Protestant churches). Anything that is not white is therefore “other” and can be deemed an object and not quite human.

I never really thought of myself as exotic; I mean, I’m from Denver, Colorado. A beautiful place to live, but not what I would deem as “exotic”. I am, however, a second-generation Indian-American who was born and raised in the United States. What leads to a person calling me “exotic” is when a person sees is my skin color, which is obviously not white. That automatically deems me as other, as not American.

But an exotic pastor? This is a realm that I never thought I would write about. I am quite aware of the leadership statistics within the ELCA (I previously wrote about it here). I well know that I am far outside of the “norms” of church leadership. But those “norms” should not be what defines church leadership. Our church leadership should look like the Pentecost event: we should be from the ends of the earth proclaiming the Gospel to the ends of the earth. We should do this in the fullness of who God created us to be, comfortable in our skins, our orientations, our personalities, our languages, our cultures. Our churches should be the Pentecost event, welcoming the diversity of languages, cultures, personalities, and orientations. It is a place where in the fullness of what Home with God can be, no one is objectified. No one is othered.

This is why I am passionate about #decolonizeLutheranism; it is a community that wrestles together, that loves the church, that loves the depth and breadth of Lutheran theology, and that believes that the Pentecost event is leading God’s church be that place where the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit is with us all.

Also, Christ was never about the norms.

What my Hindu father taught me about the resurrected Christ

Sola Gratia.

God’s grace is a gift, and that grace is ridiculous. We don’t get to choose who receives that grace because it is God’s to give. I experience that grace weekly in the sacraments. I really get to experience that grace daily in the face of my neighbor, created in God’s image. Even when that neighbor may not be a follower of Jesus. As the first year anniversary of my father’s death approaches, I have often thought of resurrection as the earth has journeyed around the sun in these days. I needed resurrection in those days when I saw my father, who I knew as a force of nature, wither down to skin and bones as cancer ate him alive. I needed resurrection because a part of myself died when my father departed this earth. I needed (and continue to need) resurrection to get to the next, new day. Little did I know I would actually experience resurrection in the face of death. I saw the resurrected Christ in my Hindu father and I found God’s grace in his death. My dad died in the middle of a vicious rainstorm. The power went out, and my mom, brother, my spouse and I had to yell at each other because it was raining just that hard. We were in a panic because the breath of life was no longer in my father’s body. We were in a panic because in one minute, my father went from alive to dead. We were in a panic because we had to now live in a new reality where my father’s incredible and overwhelming presence was no longer. I remember screaming and crying into the phone, trying to get the on-call hospice nurse to return to the house to do the impossible; restore the breath of life into my father’s body. Logically, I knew my father died. But emotionally, I had this insane hope that resurrection could happen at that very moment, that my father would rise from his deathbed, be cured from his cancer, and continue to overwhelm our lives in the best way possible.

Resurrection happened on that day, but not the way I expected. My father was not Lazarus, who was unbound by the cloths and stench of death. My father was bound by a dhoti; he told me that he entered this world as a Hindu, and he would die as a Hindu. He wanted to be clothed in a simple dhoti upon his death. The on-call hospice nurses arrived. They bathed my father and bound him in his version of his shroud. As my family was entering into the complex and confusing emotions of a new reality, the pounding rain slowed. It cleared to a drizzle to reveal a magnificent double rainbow.

If the double rainbow wasn’t striking enough, a bright red-orange fox was running through the clearing in front of my parents’ house, headed straight for the rainbows. All I could think at that moment that the Spirit was ready for a new adventure.

My dad’s final wish was also an act of God’s grace. It also involved a bunch of Lutherans. It was quite the cast of characters. It was the assistant to Bishop in the Sierra Pacific Synod, Pastor Katy Grinberg, who contacted the assistant to the Bishop in South Carolina who contacted a member of the Christian Action Council in Columbia, South Carolina who contacted my campus pastor, Pastor Chris Heavner, from my college days at Clemson University to help my family in a profound way. That chain of brothers and sisters in Christ working together found the Hindu priest my dad desperately wanted before he left the house for the last time. That Hindu priest lives in Columbia, South Carolina. But because the Spirit does what She does, somehow this priest, who rarely traveled away from his home, was at the Vedic Center (the Hindu house of worship) near Greenville, South Carolina the day of my father’s death. Another miracle that occurred that night was that my mother, who kept vigil at my father’s bedside in his last months and rarely left his side, somehow had ALL of the materials needed to perform the puja. The flowers to offer to the Deities and my father came from an African violet, a Mother’s Day present of years past. Dried flowers from a tulsi plant that somehow survived months of neglect. Long forgotten whole betel nuts, miraculously found at the back of my parents’ puja space. Atta flour to create mounds of offering. All of these people, all of these things needed for ritual, came together at that time and that place.  I am led to believe that it was because of the Holy Spirit at work through all these people that, by the grace of God, my dad received the biggest gift, his greatest desire on his last day on this earth; to have his body blessed, to have the Hindu ceremony that released his soul from his body before leaving his house and his family for the final time.

I was re-formed by my dad’s death. It was a visceral re-forming, but God was there. It took his death to solidify my belief in the Holy Spirit at work in the world today and to solidify my belief in Christ’s resurrection. The last article of the Apostles’ Creed screamed out to me on that day and every day after:
    I believe in the Holy Spirit,
    the holy catholic Church,
    the communion of saints,
    the forgiveness of sins,
    the resurrection of the body,
    and the life everlasting.
Amen.

The Reformation is more than Martin Luther nailing something to a church door. It’s definitely a part of it, but really, the reformation is still happening. We’re living that, experiencing that, in so many ways. The Holy Spirit is still at work in the church, in all of us. We’re the body of Christ to proclaim Christ into the world. Psalm 139 says, “We have been fearfully and wonderfully made...” formed by a God who is still at work in the world. How then does God continue to re-form us...?

And Papa, I miss you. Every damn day. 

#DecolonizeLutheranism and a question on leadership

As the Sierra Pacific Synod Assembly is fast approaching there is an opportunity to send questions to Presiding Bishop Elizabeth Eaton. My friend and colleague, Jeremy Serrano, wondered... if we had an audience with Presiding Bishop Eaton, what would we ask?

I wrestled with the prompt because it is a good prompt to get me thinking about synod assembly and what we can do and the conversations we can start (and continue to wrestle with embodied words) as being church together. I actually have a lot of questions with topics ranging from the current status of theological education to administering the sacraments (what can I say, I’m curious and have a broad array of interests in the world of the church). As synod assemblies are taking place, I am noticing information that is not at all new: white males are the majority of synodical bishops within the ELCA. But what has piqued my interest are synods currently holding elections for the office of bishop. In the three elections that have recently taken place (Northern Texas-Northern Louisiana Pacifica, and Northwestern Ohio Synods), white males are now the position of bishop-elect. I will pray for the bishops-elect, their synods, and how they will live out being “Church Together” (the thread of the Sierra Pacific Synod Assembly this year, I mean no jest or discrediting with the quotation marks).

I truly believe that the Holy Spirit moves as she will, but what happens when the moves of the Spirit crash into and against cultural norms? I’m led to wonder, are there scales on our eyes? Could we have hearts of stone? Are we comfortable... and complacent? Or are those currently in power uncomfortable when that power is handed over to under-represented, oppressed, and marginalized populations? 

Council of Bishops at Presiding Bishop Eaton's Installation, October 5, 2013

The current statistics are as follows: out of a total of 65 synodical bishops, three bishops can identify as race other than white. Nine of the synodical bishops are women. Looking at these numbers as a woman of color whose family has a history on the not-so-nice-side of colonialism, these numbers are disheartening.

Don’t get me wrong, I get that good order needs to happen for good ministry to take place. But sometimes, good order is not enough to bring about prophetic leadership. Strong and effective leaders are needed... but I am NOT convinced that all strong leaders are white men. I wonder what has led to our demographics within the population of synodical bishops? Is it that our church leadership also reflects the statistics within the most recent Pew Research Center report naming the ELCA as the whitest mainline protestant denomination? (A rhetorical question, because yes, the math says so).

My question for Presiding Bishop Eaton is a personal one, especially with the recent dialogue taking place around #DecolonizeLutheranism. It’s weird to think that the first woman of color within the ELCA I witnessed preaching a sermon... was myself. On a video cassette. To review my sermon for my homiletics class in seminary.  

This is not okay. Within our denomination, we continually say that we strive for diversity, yet it seems that our actions do not reflect our words. Also, speaking about the desire for diversity within the ELCA is a whole other blog post (I encourage you to read Elle Dowd’s blog post, “The problem with‘diversity’ as #ChurchGoals” ).  As a denomination, wrestling has recently taken place on how to talk about racial issues in the church. LSTC has been having intentional conversations. My alma mater, PLTS, has wrestled with such conversations after painful events on campus. Yes, these conversations are uneasy and awkward. They are wrought with tension. They deal with identity, a very personal, embodied, and incarnational issue. But these conversations must continue if we are to profess what we preach. These conversations must continue if we are to respond to our neighbor in need. These conversations must continue if we profess that all are created in God’s image.

There have been two webcasts from Churchwide, “Confronting Racism” with Twitter conversations (#ELCAConfrontRacism). A third webcast is going to take place later this week. My question for Bishop Eaton came from the Twitter conversation that took place in January. While the tweet was liked and retweeted fifteen times, it is a question that has entered into the Internet ether. My question, “How can the church lift up leaders of color and not tokenize them?” is a question that does not come with a simple answer.

How can the church lift up leaders of color and not tokenize them? #ELCAConfrontRacism

— Tuhina Verma Rasche (@tvrasche) January 15, 2016

But as a leader in the church, I believe it is a question worth asking again and again. I believe it is worth wrestling as the body of Christ to seek out the moves of the Spirit in exploring the answer(s).

Anatomy of a Photograph: Synod Assembly Edition

It is synod assembly season in the ELCA!

That means there will be a lot of people speaking at a podium on a dais. Yes, exciting, I know! With all of these opportunities to speak at a podium on the dais, I expect there will be many a Facebook profile picture rocking the podium. (I could also make a joke about rocking the dais à la Falco’s “Rock Me Amadeus,” but I am not crafty enough with my words on a Sunday afternoon to pull off such a feat).

I noticed the Facebook podium profile picture spree at the 2014 Sierra Pacific Synod Assembly. It was quite the year as the election for bishop was also taking place. Conference deans were at the podium, welcoming synod voting members and guests. Candidates for the office of bishop were giving impassioned speeches. The podium profile picture spree showed people with decorum, dignity, grace, and an air of authority.

Then I got to the podium.

Because the Holy Spirit is a wily one and in conversation with one of my mentors, I was encouraged to run for Synod Council that year. Mind you, it was the last day of assembly. I hadn’t slept but a few hours in the course of three days. As an introvert, I was completely out of extroverted energy. In the madness of lack of sleep and lack of extroversion, and a commitment to serve the church and explore my vocational and pastoral identity, somehow I ended up at the podium at Synod Assembly. And rather unfortunately, someone took a picture.

Here is that glorious picture (taken by Cary Bass-Deschênes):

Yes, this is the appearance of someone who has clearly not slept in days and is quite wild-eyed (you decide if it’s from sleep deprivation of the moves of the Spirit). What’s even better is that this picture is slightly out of focus.

The best thing about this picture: it’s totally me. If it is one picture that could define the course of my life and my ministry, it is this one photograph. I think it represents my shock of who I am today.

Because my spouse loves me so, the picture became this:

A meme! A meme to represent this insane faith journey that has many a twist and turn. A meme to show others that I do (and don’t) take myself seriously. A meme to show that the Holy Spirit... she’s a wily one.

Unattended Baggage

I wrote this short essay at the airport on December 3, 2015. I was headed to New York City to take some time to reflect on change and newness during the season of Advent. I needed the time to reflect as I just left my first call.

But the mass shooting at San Bernadino happened.

Because I felt paralyzed by fear of making someone upset or suspicious, I decided to sit and write to calm my nerves.

I'm sharing this short essay today because Donald Trump won the Indiana primary last night. He will likely become the Republican candidate for President of the United States of America. This man has built his campaign on racism, xenophobia, and hatred. I share this short essay because I do not want the story of my life to be reflected by these words.

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I always feel uneasy the day following a terrorist attack. Part of it is because of personal safety and whatever, but there is this deep, dark, secret part of me that after a tragedy or violent act, I say a list of prayers.

I pray for the victims and their families.

I pray for peace.

Then there’s that deep, dark, secret part of me that prays that the act wasn’t committed by a brown person.

My nerves are cranked up when it is a brown person. That means I get to be even more aware of the skin I inhabit.

As I was sitting at the gate of my very delayed flight, I took notice of three teenagers who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be white. Their carry-on luggage was strewn about on the floor at their feet and they were either talking to one another or absorbed with the iPad game in front of them. An announcement came from their gate with the news that their flight to San Diego had been cancelled. There were a series of groans and a "Really?" that came from their area. They wandered off to the gate agent to get rebooked on new flights. But their luggage remained on the floor, unattended. Unaccompanied.

I stared at this unattended luggage for a bit and realized the privilege that is attached to it. These young and unaware people walked to the gate agent and left their bags unattended. I don't know if the automated message, "Please report any unattended luggage" played over the loudspeaker, but it echoed in my mind. If I were to walk away and leave my luggage unattended to check with the gate agent, I fear that there could be hell to pay. I fear not for my luggage, but for myself, for my being, for my person. I fear that I will be questioned, interrogated because my skin is of a particular color.

If I were to be bitter and even spiteful (because these emotions come up during a time such as this, God forgive me), I could report the unattended luggage. The young, unaware people could claim the irresponsibility of youth to departing their strewn bags at the seats. If I were faced with a similar situation, I couldn't claim the irresponsibility of youth even though I look younger than my years. I could claim the sin of sloth, but even then, as a brown woman at the airport the day following a mass shooting committed by two brown people, my being, my nationality, my loyalties would be called into question because I will somehow always be "other." I will always be a "modified" American; my South Asian otherness will be brought up, never mind my birth and seventeen years of residence in Colorado, my decade of education in South Carolina, my current domicile in California, my role as an ordained minister of Word and Sacrament in a mainline Protestant denomination with Western European roots. I will always be other due to a complicated history of brutality, of lines drawn, of glass ceilings, of being a "model" but also a "minority."

This is why I must be aware of the skin I inhabit, especially in particular places. This is why I behave. This is why I don't raise my voice. This is why I am polite. Even when people are rude. Even when I am pulled aside in lines for additional security. I was once pulled aside when traveling with my white husband. He is a quiet and calm man, but when I was pulled aside in a security line and being treated "unfairly"; he became angry. I told him that he needed to calm down; his anger wasn't going to help me get through security any faster. It was odd to see him angered; I wondered if he knew I that moment that his outward expression of anger was also a privilege?

I behave. I am pleasant on the surface. I don't leave my luggage unattended.  But I certainly do carry around some baggage.

Three Stories about Mentors

Formation cannot happen in a vacuum. In order for formation to happen, community needs to happen. Relationships need to happen. The willingness to learn something new... to take risks... being willing to fail can all happen. Mentors are those guides, those wise and experienced individuals, those who have been around the block, perhaps participated some in the “school of hard knocks” to accompany us on fascinating, adventure filled, joyful, sorrowful journeys. It can take just one person to plant a seed. It can take just one person to water a seedling. It can take just one person to nurture a plant. Learning and growing is a rich experience in community; learning from the diversity of members of the body of Christ can enrich our faith lives and faith journeys in such amazing (and challenging) ways.

The Forum for Theological Exploration is inviting people to share their stories of mentors. Having one mentor is life-giving; I don’t know what to call it if you have three. I am extremely fortunate to have three mentors who have accompanied me in my faith journey. One of the biggest aspects of mentorship in my life was that they were able to see something in me that I couldn’t, or that I was just discovering. These mentors accompanied me in this journey of exploration that led to a baptismal font, and ultimately, as an ordained minister of Word and Sacrament in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.

At some critical point, I have written letters to these three people. In the links below, I share those letters here and a brief story of how these mentors have accompanied me to the place I find myself today. I am sad at the brevity of the stories, though; writing the entirety of the journey would take days and months.

The Reverend Chris Heavner

The Reverend Marcus Hess

The Reverend Ross Merkel

Mentor Story One: Chris Heavner

September 19, 2013

Dear Chris,

How do you start a letter to someone who has so changed the course of your life? How can someone offer something more than thanks and gratitude for giving me the space to discover that I am a beloved child of God, even with all of my faults, my imperfections, my issues? It seems that mere words will have to express the emotions and experiences I have with your life and celebrating your 30 years of ordained ministry.

Chris, I thank you for living up to the meaning of your name, of being a bearer of Christ to those around you. I thank you for extending to me grace, mercy, and the open space to be myself as I was traveling along in my faith journey. I thank you that on the first of those weekly meetings all those years ago, you said, “I’m not out to convert you. I just want to share this time with you.” I am grateful that you took the time to walk with me as I had questions about Christianity. I appreciated the questions you asked me about Hinduism. The time that you, Karl, and I spent together talking about faith is precious to me; I now define that time in my life as being a catechumen.

But as we both know, God does surprising things with unexpected people. Little did I know that God was reaching out for me, and I was not at all expecting to have that experience within the walls of University Lutheran Church in Clemson hearing the words to “I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry.” You continued to support me as I was baptized, and especially when I was exploring what God’s call was on my life. I knew somehow that God was calling me to a life of service, but I was still discerning what that service would look like. I am grateful also for those conversations as I was exploring going to seminary.

I am also so, so, so grateful and thankful that you came to the west coast for my ordination on such short notice. At times, I wanted to pinch you to make sure that you were really here, that you were really at my ordination, that you were really giving me one of my charges as I was getting ready to begin my life as a minister of Word and Sacrament.

Your ministry has impacted so many. Your ministry as a campus pastor has certainly changed my life, and I still marvel at how God has the paths of people intersect in amazing and astonishing ways. I continue to be amazed and astonished on the impact you have in my life, and I am forever grateful to God for you.

Your sister in Christ,

The Reverend Tuhina Verma Rasche 
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When I met Chris, I knew little about Christianity. My initial exposure was from the greater culture: I knew to expect presents on December 25^th and I could wear a pretty dress and gorge myself on hard boiled eggs sometime in the spring months. When I moved to South Carolina, I was exposed to the Bible Belt of the American South. Some of that exposure left me with a bad taste in my mouth; if people claimed that they were going to hell because they were friends with a Hindu, I didn’t want anything to do with that god. Because of that god, I didn’t think too favorably about Christianity. I didn’t need Jesus to “save me.” If anything, I thought I needed to be saved from a god who encouraged narrow-mindedness.

I met Chris in the fall of 1998; I was a sophomore at Clemson University. Leigh Roberson, a dear friend, invited me to a student meal. Every part of my body screamed “NO” at the invitation as I had previously been offended by people professing a Christian faith... but when she mentioned that the meal was home-cooked and (best of all) free, I quickly changed my mind and asked when we were going to be headed out. There’s something to be said about hunger; I had a physical hunger that evening, but with Chris, I also discovered I had a spiritual hunger as well.

I was introduced to Chris and the students of Clemson’s Lutheran Campus Ministry. Chris and the other students were kind and invited me into their fellowship; I didn’t feel the oppression of having to be someone I was not within this Christian setting. I could be my entire Hindu, hungry self.

Chris gave me the space to ask a multitude of questions. Some of the questions were fairly simple, but could lead to a paradoxically complex response. Questions such as

“Why do you sit down and stand over and over again during worship?”

“Do all churches have Bibles in the pews?”

“Why is Good Friday called a ‘good Friday’?”

Chris also asked me questions about my faith life at home as a practicing Hindu. The time with Chris was not a pressured sales pitch on Christianity, but it was instead an amazing and earnest dialogue of beliefs and experiences. Because Chris and I had a relationship where we valued and respected one another, we felt comfortable in open and honest conversation. We were able to hold our differences and love and respect one another. Because of our relationship, I was able to learn so much about the church... and about myself.

When I was discerning if I should go to seminary, Chris was one of the first people I called. I’m assuming he was surprised at this point of my journey, but he was one of the best conversation partners in my discernment process. When I hit a rough patch in seminary, Chris was present with a cup of coffee, a listening ear, and a pastoral presence when I visited South Carolina. We ended up in Chicago at the same time in 2011. I had the opportunity to see the city through his eyes as we walked around the city where he received his seminary education. I asked him so many questions about parish ministry. I still recall what he told me that day about what he learned in parish and campus ministry: “Love your people.” I took those three words with me when I started my internship at St. Paul Lutheran Church, Oakland and Lutheran Ministry to Nursing Homes. It sounded like a simple lesson, but in this broken world, it was one of the most beautiful and complex lessons that Chris passed on to me. Love your people, even if one of them grabs your ass while distributing communion in a nursing home dining room (yes, that happened). Love your people, even if there is a situation of intense conflict. Love your people in their sorrows and their joys. 

Internship concluded. Seminary concluded. “The Draft” (otherwise known as the assignment process) concluded. Waiting... concluded. The people of St. Paul, my internship site, further affirmed my call to ministry by calling me to be their pastor alongside their current pastor. Even though there was a schedule conflict, Chris rearranged his schedule so that he could give me one of the charges at my ordination. Having the opportunity to serve communion while he was present cannot be put into words.

Chris has become more than a mentor now; he is family.

Mentor Story Two: Marcus Hess

Dearest Marcus,

I wish I knew what to write. There’s a flood of thoughts that don’t really have words that can really express what I feel. Ultimately, I am so, so thankful and grateful to God that our paths crossed in such an incredible way. In the midst of this grief, I continue to give thanks to God for your presence in my life and in Karl’s life. You have journeyed with us to places of joy, but also to places of deep sorrow.

Much of my grief comes from expectations that I had that may not be met. I was hoping that you would stand with Ross Merkel, my internship supervisor from St. Paul in Oakland, for my ordination service. I was hoping that if Karl and I were ever to be blessed with children, that you could serve as their godparent and walk with them in their faith journey. But part of this grief comes from my heart turned inward on itself.

I turn outward with God’s love and grace. With that abounding love and grace, I write this while weeping with a joyful heart. The joy comes from your presence in my life, and this is evidenced in the photographs that are included in this letter. Photographs of you, Karl, and me during your ministry at Salem. Photographs of us as you became more than a pastor to me, but a close friend and colleague. Then there are the photographs of seeds planted by the Holy Spirit through your ministry. I desperately want you to see the seeds the Holy Spirit planted through your ministry. I wanted you to see Karl and me after the first time I preached at Salem, standing at the font where I died and became anew. I wanted you to see me take on the yoke of ministry, distributing the sacrament of Holy Communion. I wanted you to see that the Spirit was on to something when you told me that I should go to seminary. I don’t regret telling you, “You ought to take that and shove it up your ass.” I don’t regret it because I see how the living God comes to surprise us in the most unexpected of places. Little did I know that when you invited yourself to Karl’s and my apartment back in 2006, our lives would never be the same. I will continue to be grateful to God for that.

We will continue to commune together, wherever and whenever we are.

All my love,

Tuhina  

I truly believe Marcus saw something in me that I could not see. We were both new, in a way. He was the new interim pastor at Salem Lutheran Church in Glendale, CA. Karl and I were also new; we were sort of transient church-goers and would show up at church from time to time. At a church event, Marcus came to sit with Karl and me. When he discovered that my mother had stacked up our pantry with new and fresh Indian spices, Marcus invited himself over to dinner. Sadly, Marcus did not know that I am actually an awful cook (he professed much later in our relationship that he had a hard time eating dinner that night. He felt obliged to eat the very subpar Indian food I cooked that evening because we had just met and he invited himself to our apartment).

Because I was so curious about this man who invited himself into Karl’s and my apartment and our lives, we would get together over a cup of chai often. It was over a cup of chai that I had my “Ethiopian eunuch” moment with Marcus (yeah, I realize a lot of people cannot claim a moment as such. That’s why I want to own it). I told Marcus that I wanted to be baptized. He presided over my baptism on May 6, 2007. The day was an absolute blur. Some moments I remember with great clarity, while I am grateful for pictures taken that day because I could not recall some of the events. On May 14, 2007, Marcus and I met for a cup of chai; he told me that I should go to seminary. I thought he was crazy. I told him as much. Years later, I angrily yelled at him, told him he changed the course of my life on that day and I was upset because I wanted to have “control” over my life. He told me that it wasn’t just some nifty idea; he was following the moves of the Spirit.

Marcus was my John the Baptist. He was the voice that cried out from the wilderness. He had the voice that told truth, even if that truth was hard to hear. He was a beautiful man, and a damn fine pastor. Marcus taught me that the Gospel, that the risen Christ, can radically change a person’s life. He showed me how to live joyfully. He also showed me how to die gracefully. If I learned anything from Marcus, it is that in baptism, we are tied to Christ’s death... and to Christ’s resurrection. He taught me that Christians are a people of both Good Friday and Easter Sunday. He taught me that the risen Christ not only appears in the breaking of bread at the altar in a sanctuary, but also in fellowship over a poorly cooked meal.

Mentor Story Three: Ross Merkel

Dear Ross,

I don’t really know what we thought of one another when we first met. I find it pretty funny that our first meeting was immensely uneventful, something that can be easily forgotten... except for my bit of kleptomania in stealing your pen. I recall that I found you to be odd; you really, really, really wanted that pen back.

Honestly, I still think you’re odd, and I mean that in the best way possible.

We met again when I came to interview at St. Paul for my internship placement in early 2011. I remember leaving your office excited and terrified of the possibilities of having you as my internship supervisor. I continue to be grateful to God to this day that I was at St. Paul for internship and that I have you as a mentor. You became my supervisor during a point where I was still trying to discern my call; I was frustrated with the injustices within our denomination and I was ready to call it quits and return to being a housewife eating bonbons all day. You were open and honest with your struggles with the ELCA; you taught me that while the easier thing may be to quit and walk away (and eat delicious bonbons), following God’s call is not the easier thing to do. If I really wanted to enact change, you taught me that I had to be within the structures and systems of power because within the walls, I can still have a say.

God places people where God needs them at points in our chronos existence, thereby transforming our chronological lives to get a glimpse of what God does in kairos time. I truly believe that is how you came to be at St. Paul and why your ministry has not only endured, but also flourished. You have shown so many people time and time again how the resurrected Christ is at work in the world, especially when we respond to our neighbor in need. You have also formed and shaped a new generation of pastors to challenge the church and the status quo for the sake of the Gospel.

There are not enough words to convey what I want to say about the impact of your ministry in the greater church and the world. There are not enough words to express what I want to say about our relationship... but will there ever be enough words? Will there ever be enough time? I know that come September 15^th, when the Pastors’ Study becomes the Pastor’s Study, life at St. Paul will be incredibly quiet and I will very much miss you. God be with you and Bob as you venture into the next part of your journey.

Your brown sister in Christ,

Pastor Tuhina Verma Rasche

Ross taught me about being a shepherd. He taught me about being a resident theologian. He also taught me about loving my neighbor, and what a glimpse of the Kingdom can look like when an entire community can come to love their neighbor.

In all honesty, when I came to Ross as an intern, I was a bundle of sad and angry emotions. I felt that as a brown woman and a convert to Christianity, I didn’t have a place within the church. I felt that I was hitting my head against a wall. I was tired of being nice to people when they gave me backhanded compliments. I was tired of not speaking up for myself. I told Ross on my first day of internship that if “the experience sucked,” I would quit. He told me that his wish for my internship was to have a formative experience in building my pastoral identity. He told me that he had high expectations and that he was not likely to back down. That first day of putting everything on the table set the tone for our relationship.

I didn’t know much of Ross’s story with the greater church when I came to him as an intern. I came to learn it through the people of St. Paul Lutheran Church in Oakland (I still think that I am the only intern [or at least one of a very few] in the ELCA who started their first Sunday of internship at a Pride festival). I continued to learn about it when I was called to St. Paul to be Ross’s colleague in ministry. I learned from Ross that living out the Gospel is far from the easy; the Gospel calls us into uncomfortable places. The Gospel calls us into places where we can be persecuted. But it is also the Gospel that sets us free. We are to live out the fullness of who God created each and every one of us to be. We are to love our neighbor in the fullness of who God created our neighbor to be, and that call to love can be complicated. Ross preached, taught, and proclaimed that God’s people were to feed Jesus’ sheep through agape love. Ross showed me that through the Living Word, through our own hands and feet as the risen Christ in the world, we (God’s people) are to feed Jesus’ sheep. He taught me so much about agape love; that self-pouring out, the self-giving love of one’s self for our neighbor in need. Sometimes that agape love brings joy; sometimes it was accompanied by heartache. Ross taught me this by living it out in his ministry, that he shared joys and struggles with the congregation, and in the midst of many events both good and bad, he continued to tell us and show me where the Holy Spirit is at work in the midst of our elation... and in our scars. Ross taught me that the Gospel has something to say in every. single. aspect. of our lives. I learned that this is tied to liturgy. Liturgy is not just some thing that Christians do on Sunday; liturgy is living an entire life of worshiping God. Liturgy is the “work of the people.” I learned from Ross that everything we do in social justice, worship, and the entirety of our lives is to proclaim the Gospel.