A conversation with Mary and Martha.

Martha: I love my brother. My brother isn’t perfect, though. He picked on my sister and me when we were younger. He gave us a hard time, but in a way, I think he was preparing my sister and me for our adulthood. Life in Bethany is all right, but in reality, it’s not all that easy.

I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself here. I should really introduce myself. My name is Martha. I live in the village of Bethany with my sister Mary and my brother Lazarus. I’m very close with my siblings. I love them so much I can’t even begin to tell you.

I love my brother and sister a lot. But something tragic happened to my brother, Lazarus. One day, he suddenly became ill. He was really, really sick. Mary and I cared for him as best we could, but he wasn’t getting better. All three of us were really scared. Our brother Lazarus, who picked on us in hopes we’d be strong adult women… our brother Lazarus, who protected us from the dangers of the world… our brother Lazarus, who loved us and cared for us… was dying. Because he was so, so sick, we didn’t know what to do. We tried all of the remedies we could think of, but nothing worked. We asked for elders to come see him and asked for their help. They couldn’t tell us what to do. We even sent word to my brother’s friend, Jesus; the message we sent was “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” We thought Jesus would know what to do; he’s been traveling throughout the land teaching, preaching, and healing. Surely, if our brother’s friend is healing strangers, he can come and heal our brother, or at least tell us what to do to care for him!

Mary: Well, my sister Martha and I got word back that our brother’s friend said that our brother’s not going to die. We heard he told his disciples, “This illness does not lead to death.” I believed my brother’s friend. I thought Lazarus was going to get better and be healthy again. I thought our brother would get better because his “friend,” Jesus, sure took his sweet time getting here. He didn’t come right away. My sister and I heard he was staying two days longer wherever he was. So my sister, brother, and I figured we didn’t have anything to worry about.

And then. my. brother. died. He died. He was so sick, and my sister and I thought he was going to get better. AND HE DIED. I was so angry, so upset. Jesus, who claimed to be my brother’s friend, who can heal a bunch of other people, let my brother die. How could he let this happen? This friend said my brother’s illness “is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” What? God’s glory? What does that mean when my brother is dead and my sister and I are preparing his body for burial in a tomb?

Martha: I’ll admit I was sad when Lazarus died. I didn’t feel the fury or anger my sister felt, but I was devastated with my brother being gone. I knew Jesus loved my brother, but I was comforted with knowing that Lazarus would rise again on the last day, but I didn’t know when the last day would be. I continued to love and miss my brother immediately following his death. I knew Lazarus would rise… someday. Just not soon. Mary and I cared for my brother when we prepared his body for burial. We carefully bound my brother in fabric strips. We needed help, though, carrying him to and placing him in the tomb. That was a difficult day. He was laying in the tomb, covered entirely by strips of fabric. His body was so still. And inside the tomb was so quiet, so dark, so still. I was so sad leaving Lazarus there, my brother who was full of life, was lying dead on a slab of rock. We found some men in Bethany to roll a large stone in front of the cave. Mary and I cried and cried when the stone was rolled, closing off the cave. We wept for our brother, the life he could have had if he got better. But Mary and I had to realize that once the stone was rolled over the front of the cave, we would never get Lazarus back. Our brother was gone to us until the last day, when he and all of us would rise in the resurrection of that last day.

Mary: But Jesus could have come to heal Lazarus. I kept thinking, “This didn’t have to happen.” I didn’t understand what Jesus meant by my brother’s illness being for the glory of God. I just knew that I was devastated when Lazarus died, and I was really upset with Jesus.

We heard that Jesus said that Lazarus fell asleep. FELL ASLEEP? Are you kidding me? I was there when Lazarus took his last breath! Taking your last breath and dying is not like falling asleep! Yeah, I know Jesus has been traveling around preaching, teaching, and healing, but wow, this was the biggest misdiagnosis ever! And he wasn’t even there to look at Lazarus to see what was wrong with him! I wanted Jesus to come as soon as he could to help my brother, but no, Jesus said that Lazarus was asleep and that this was for God’s glory. I didn’t see it.

Martha: I know that Mary was really affected with Lazarus’s death and Jesus not showing up in time. Mary and I were mourning my brother’s loss. And then I heard that Jesus was coming to Bethany. When he was at the edge of the village, I left my home. I ran to meet him. I wanted Mary to come with me, but she said she couldn’t. She was still upset that Jesus had done nothing for Lazarus. Mary did not want to see Jesus because she said it would hurt her too much. But I had to see Jesus. I had to talk with him. I was still mourning my brother’s death, but I had to meet my brother’s dear friend as soon as I could.

I met Jesus at the edge of the village. I was exhausted, because I ran straight from my house. I was out of breath, but I had to tell Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Yes I was upset with Lazarus dying. But I told Jesus, “But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.”

Jesus told me that Lazarus would rise again. Yes, I knew that Lazarus would rise again, on the last day. Lazarus would come back at the end time. But Lazarus was dead; resurrection would happen much, much later.

Jesus then said something amazing, as Jesus usually does. He said, “I am the resurrection and the life.” He said that all who believe in him and die will live, and everyone who lives and believes in him will never die. Will never die. Will never die. Mary had to hear this. Mary, who was so devastated when Lazarus died, needed to hear that all who believe in Jesus will live even if they die. Mary needed to hear this from Jesus. I ran back to the house to find Mary. I found her sitting on the floor, weeping. People were surrounding her, trying to comfort her. I went up to her and told her that Teacher was in the village. Jesus was there, and he wanted to speak with her. Mary was resistant.

Mary: You bet I was resistant. Jesus, who took his sweet time getting here, well after Lazarus died. Jesus, this preacher, teacher, and healer couldn’t come heal his own friend Lazarus. I wanted Jesus to see my tears. I got up off the floor and didn’t bother wiping off my face. I got up and ran away from the house, away from those trying to comfort me. I wasn’t at a place where I could be consoled. I cried for days straight. I couldn’t stop crying. I missed my brother so much, I felt like part of my soul had been ripped away, taken away from me, something I would never get back. So I ran. Maybe to run away from my pain. Maybe to tell Jesus what I thought.

When I saw Jesus, I stopped. Here was my brother’s friend who arrived too late. Too late to save my dear brother. I was exhausted when I saw Jesus. I was exhausted from running. I was exhausted from my grief. I was exhausted from my anger. I was so exhausted, I went up to him, knelt in front of him. I was at a loss for words. I had so much to tell Jesus, how he was wrong for not coming sooner. How he could have done something if he got here in time. How Lazarus could still be alive and with us, if Jesus got here when we sent that message. But the only thing that could come out of my mouth was, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” I could hear the words echo in my ears, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” My brother would not have died. And as I knelt at Jesus’s feet, I wept. I wept for Lazarus, and all of the incredible things his life could have been if Jesus got here in time. I wept for my sister and me, because I didn’t know what we were going to do without Lazarus. I wept because I was selfish, I wanted Jesus to heal my brother. Instead, I thought Jesus let my brother die.

Jesus was silent as I wept before him. Everyone around us cried. He looked disturbed. Maybe he was feeling grief for Lazarus’s death. Jesus then asked where we lard Lazarus. I was so emotional, crying and mourning, that I could not answer Jesus. The Jews who were with us, weeping with us took Jesus to the tomb. I got up off the ground to follow.

We all stopped in front of the cave where we left Lazarus. Jesus, the Jews with us, Martha, and me. We all stood and stared at that great rock which covered the entrance to the cave. It was so silent. I wanted to place my hand on the rock that covered the entrance to the cave to remember my brother, but I couldn’t. I just stared at the giant rock that separated me from my brother.

Then Jesus did something amazing. He wept. He began to cry. The Jews around Jesus noticed this. I heard someone say, “See how he loved him.” See how he loved him? If Jesus loved my brother, Jesus would have been here earlier. Jesus would have healed Lazarus. Someone else in the crowd said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man kept this man from dying?”

Jesus then went to the large stone covering the entrance of the cave. Jesus leaned up against the stone. Maybe he was trying to remember Lazarus, connect to Lazarus the way that I wanted to? But then Jesus asked for the stone to be rolled away. What??? Martha was really shocked, she told Jesus that Lazarus has been dead in the tomb for days, once the stone was moved, we would be overwhelmed with the smell of death. But then Jesus looked at Martha and said, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”

Glory of God? I wondered to myself, what does Jesus mean by this? It was because of the glory of God he said my brother was ill, then asleep. I wondered if Jesus knew what he was talking about… Some of the men of the village rolled the stone away. Jesus looked to the sky, spoke to his Father, and Jesus wanted us to believe His Father sent him to us. All fell silent. Suddenly, Jesus cried, “LAZARUS, COME OUT!” I didn’t understand what was going on. I had been mourning for days. I was consumed with grief and anger. I was devastated that Lazarus was gone. But Jesus cried, “LAZARUS, COME OUT!”

Lazarus was leaning up against the wall of the cave. The cloths that Martha and I used to bind him were not letting him walk out to us. I stood in shock. I mourned Lazarus, I was devastated by his death, but before me, coming out of the cave, was my brother, alive and breathing. I was in shock, I couldn’t think to move to unbind Lazarus. Jesus then asked for others to unbind Lazarus to set him free.

Set him free. Lazarus was set free. Not just from the strips of fabric that bound him, but Lazarus was freed from death. Jesus did come to heal Lazarus. It didn’t happen the way I wanted it to, I didn’t want Lazarus to die, but I believe. I believe in Jesus, who said, “I am the resurrection and the life.” I believe that from this whole experience, we are freed from death, but not on our own time, and not on our own terms. I know that now. we are freed from death by a loving God, but we are freed from death on God’s time and on God’s terms. My brother did rise again. I saw what Jesus did, and I believe.

Washed Anew

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.

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.

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."

Trying to answer "Why?"

Something that stayed with me during Clinical Pastoral Education was Jesus' words during the Eucharist. "This is my body, broken for you..." These words spoken in the Eucharist took on an entirely different meaning in the halls of Stanford Hospitals and Clinics. I visited incredibly sick patients. Some patients had an incredibly strong connection to their faith tradition. They would speak of the Divine coming into their lives, particularly at times of great need. I would meet with other patients that would ask, "Why is God doing this to me?" It was that last question, of "Why God, why?" that I had the hardest time addressing.

I was asked "Why is this happening?" by one of my mentors this week. "Why is this happening? How could this happen?" A professor that challenged me during my time at Clemson became extremely ill. She entered the hospital at the beginning of January. She was removed from her respirator and passed away today.

This professor challenged me, at times tested me, but genuinely cared about her students and served as a mentor. While this professor and I didn't have an easy relationship, she genuinely cared about my work and my progress. When I left the Professional Communication program in 2006, I told this professor that I needed to reanalyze my priorities, and that my graduate education needed to be postponed. She sent me an understanding yet encouraging message, acknowledging that life happens and my master's thesis could no longer be the priority. She also encouraged me to keep my options open. She also said, "Keep in touch."

I kept my options open. I kept them so open, I found myself attending seminary. But I failed at the last part. I did not keep in touch. I told myself that part of my life was over and I needed to start over. Part of starting over was to let go, and sadly, cut contact with friends and mentors from my Professional Communication program. But for some odd reason, I kept that last email that continued to encourage me, no matter what my path.

This professor, who encouraged me in spite of myself, was a mentor to so many. And I come back to the words I struggled with during my chaplaincy internship. "Why did this happen?" I don't know why. Why did this professor pass away at such a young age? Why did she leave behind a loving husband, a young daughter, so many students, a brilliant career...? Part of me can theologize some weak explanation, but ultimately, I don't know the answer to the question. But I continue to return to "This is my body, broken for you..." God's son, broken on a cross. But not broken without reason. God's son was broken on a cross so that we may live life eternal.

Every moment is precious. Every relationship is precious. These are gifts from God which we are to treasure.

Excited Baby Voice

I have come to a stunning realization over the weekend. I cannot do "excited baby voice." I was sitting with a colleague's eight month old child, and realized that I was speaking to this child like he was a little adult. One of my friends remarked, "Can't you do 'excited baby'?" I seriously had to sit and think, can I? I scoured my brain for any bit of information and came to the stunning realization that no, I cannot seem to do "excited baby." But I also came to the realization that I may have been conditioned to react this way by my own family. My parents didn't speak to me in child-speak; they spoke to me like I was a young adult, even though I was toddling around the house as a small mass of destruction.

Does the lack of "excited baby" worry me? Sometimes. I wonder how I will speak to my own children. I want to be a loving parent, but I also want to be who God created me to be. Not everyone can do "excited baby" and I am a member of that population. But you know what? That's okay. Because God created me to be who I am, and I am also willing to let God mold me and use me. Maybe I can't do "excited baby" at this point in my life... but that doesn't mean that the Spirit cannot move within me.

Amen.

This was my favorite devotional someone brought to my Old Testament class. This version is found in The Little Book of Prayer.

I want to be saved... and I want to save.
Amen.
I want to be set free... and I want to free.
Amen.
I want to be born... and I want to give birth.
Amen.
I want to hear... and I want to be heard.
Amen.
Sweetness dances. I want to pipe; all of you dance.
Amen.
I want to run away... and I want to stay.
Amen.
I want to make you beautiful... and I want to be beautiful.
Amen.
I want to join with you... and I want to be joined.
Amen.
I have no house... and I have houses.
Amen.
I have no ground... and I have ground.
Amen.
I have no temple... and I have temples.
Amen.
If you look at me... I will be a lamp.
Amen.
If you see me... I will be a mirror.
Amen.
If you knock on me... I will be a door.
Amen.
If you are a traveler... I will be a road.
Amen.
This is my dance. Answer me with dancing.

--The Acts of John