Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore, MD
September 11, 2022

Remember and Rejoice!
Luke 15:1-10

In 1944, a cartographer named Harold Fiske set out to map the Mississippi River.  Now, the Mississippi is the longest river in the continental US, 2,300 miles long and a mile wide in some places.  So this was no small task.  But Fiske made his work imminently harder, because he made what’s called a meander map – drawing not just the current route of the river, but also the various paths the river has taken over many thousands of years. Instead of showing the river as a single line, Fiske’s map shows a tangle of red, blue, and green squiggles, connoting the path of the river over time.  See, we think of rivers as having a set course, always flowing in a single direction, and predictably stable, when in fact – over time, rivers change course!  They are living, moving creatures that flood, overflow their banks, shift from one place to another, moving their silty selves over miles and years, seeking the most direct route out to sea.

Since the very beginning of a colonial presence in this country, French and then American engineers have sought to restrict the river to a particular course, building levees and locks to prevent flooding and keep the water flowing within set boundaries.  But nature, of course, has other ideas.  As you can see, the maps are beautiful… as one graphic designer put it, “[they] represent the memory of a mighty river, with thousands of years of course changes compressed into a single image by a clever mapmaker with an artistic eye.”[1]

When Jesus tells this story of the lost objects, he’s talking to Pharisees who have criticized his choice of dinner companions.  “He welcomes sinners and eats with them,” they say, grumbling.  In response, Jesus talks about a shepherd who leaves behind his flock of 99 to search for the one who has wandered off.  The woman with 10 silver coins, who sweeps the house until she finds the one that has been dropped into a dusty corner.  These are beloved parables, because who doesn’t know the frantic feeling of having lost something?  Who hasn’t turned the house upside down to find glasses, keys, or cell phone?  We once were delayed leaving my parents’ house after a holiday because I couldn’t for the life of me find my car keys.  After searching through every pocket and drawer, I discovered them half an hour later on a side table, hidden beneath a magazine.  Dary, bless him, has helped me developed strategies to keep track of my essential items – always put keys by the front door, keep wallet and phone in consistent pockets, check for all three before you leave the house.  He’ll be the first to admit that his strategies aren’t foolproof, but they help.

We can relate to these parables, because all of us know the heart pounding befuddlement of being lost – taking a wrong turn, retracing steps, trying to find our way back to the right path, back to what is known and familiar.  And while GoogleMaps and Waze have made it easier to find our way to new places, there have been times over the past few years when I’ve felt more lost than ever.  The before times, pre-2020, feel lost to me, never to be recovered again.  We can’t find our way back there, not as a culture, not as a country, not as a church – no matter how hard we try.  The pandemic feels like lost time, years in which many of us lost relationships, and lost our bearings. Some even lost our sense of obligation to one another.  In a way, it’s been a summer of loss: understaffed and overstretched airlines lost more lost luggage than ever before.  Women in almost half our fifty states lost the right to choose.

Thinking about loss on this day, September the 11th, reminds me of the horrible loss of life brought by terror and war.  Remembering 9/11 also evokes a loss of innocence – a clear demarcation of before and after, irrevocable changes in national identity, foreign policy, transportation security, world order that have come to pass in the decades since.

Yes, we know the feeling of being lost, of losing something or someone precious to us. So often life does not go as planned, things do not turn out as we hope they will.  We make mistakes, we lose our way. And so I notice a few things about this story that I want to point out.  The shepherd and the woman both search tirelessly, relentlessly, until the lost items have been found.  And when the sheep and the coin found, they rejoice.  The shepherd does not give up; the woman does not get distracted, or say, “oh, it’s just one coin, just let it go.”  No.  They search until that which was lost is found again.

It’s as if Christ is saying to his critics, you’ve written off these people as lost, these tax collectors and sinners, but every life has value to God!  These people are worth seeking, worth knowing, worth celebrating with!  These sheep outside the fold, I came for them as much as for anyone!

Also, the coin and the sheep don’t do anything to be found.  They don’t apologize, they don’t admit guilt or confess faith – they are simply sought after and found, and when they’re found, there is celebration.  These two parables are followed by a third, the story of the lost son, the prodigal.  There is a line that stays with me from that story – after he has left home and squandered his inheritance with loose women and dissolute living, when the prodigal son is so hungry he considers eating the slop he’s supposed to throw to the pigs – he comes to himself, and decides to go home.

He comes to himself.  Remembering who he is and to whom he belongs.  And returns home, and is welcomed with joy and celebration.

The author Elizabeth Guilbert says looking at a meander map is like seeing a map of the journeys of her heart.  She writes, remembering, “All the rules and boundaries that I have set for myself over the years, and how often they have failed. I think about the vows I’ve made to myself and others about where I’m going to be next year, or who I am going to be next year. Endless, expensive, stress-inducing efforts to civilize the river of my being.”

She goes on, “I often say that, after a certain age, every woman in the world could write a memoir called: NOT WHAT I PLANNED. We change. Life changes. We often feel shame, confusion and anger about about those shifts and pivots. But what if we just trusted the river? She seems to know where she wants to go…”

If you were to draw a meander map of your life, what would it looks like?  I imagine few of us would be able to draw a straight line from point A to point B, leading up to today.  Likely we all would have a tangle of lines, times when we backtracked and got turned around, and didn’t know which way to go.  Maybe some of those paths cause us confusion or even shame.  But those are the paths that have made us who we are, that lead us back to ourselves!  Think of all we’ve seen and learned along the way!  Think of all we are still becoming.

If we were to draw a meander map of our congregation, the different paths we’ve taken, all the turns and detours and adventures that have led us to this place, what would it look like?  There is much that we’ve lost along the way, it’s true.  We’re smaller than we used to be, in a building that is more than we need.  But I wonder if such a map would help us to trace and celebrate the paths that led to our beautiful diversity, and gave birth to our fierce commitment to justice. I know the map would reveal the ways and times we’ve shown up for each other, and show the many times we’ve answered the call to love and serve our neighbors; wouldn’t this map lead to our vision of an urban forest, and a property in service to our community in new and needed ways?

In our opening hymn this morning, we sang the words, come and remember who you are here.  Come and remember who God is.  Come, and remember you belong here.  All belong here.  To re-member is to put ourselves back together after being scattered, broken, scared and lost.  So today, I hope as we gather at the table we will take a minute to remember.  To look back at the many paths we’ve taken, the times we’ve felt lost, the times we’ve found our way.  And to help us remember this day as one in our journey, when you have a moment in the service – either as we sing a hymn, or when you come forward for communion – or before you leave the sanctuary – come, write your name on the tablecloth.  Because there is a place for you here.  Thanks be to God!

[1] Kottke, Jason, “The Marvelous Mississippi River Meander Maps,” written on his website, https://kottke.org/19/06/the-marvelous-mississippi-river-meander-maps, June 20, 2019

Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church
Baltimore, MD
July 17, 2022

Faith Values: Social Justice
Amos 5:12-15, 18-24, Mark 12:13-17

The email came out of the blue one morning, from my husband, Dary: Did I know an immigration lawyer in Atlanta?  His colleague Julia’s friend had been detained, and needed representation.  Flipping through my mental rolodex, I realized that though I didn’t know anyone who did immigration law in Atlanta, I did know an attorney in Birmingham who might, so I made the connection.  Thus began many months of work and waiting, as the young man’s case wound its way through the immigration system, as it existed under the previous administration.  He was held with countless other men in a detention facility outside of Atlanta.  while his wife, who was pregnant, was released on her own recognizance to stay with an aunt in New York.

He was still detained when his daughter was born, hearing the news of her birth on a payphone, the line scratchy, handset cradled against his shoulder as he stood in a florescent lit hallway, surrounded by other detainees.  Like so many other migrants from Central America, he was seeking refugee status, awaiting the trial that would determine his fate.  It was a trial he was likely to lose, despite having fled Honduras in fear for his life after a gang threatened his family should he refuse to pay for their protection.

My lawyer friend would update me from time to time about the case – but I admit, the heartwrenching suffering of detention and family separation were not at the forefront of my mind as I went about my daily life in ministry, or day-to-day with my family.  We compartmentalize to get by, we have to.  Otherwise, we become paralyzed, overcome by the enormity of the disasters unfolding all around us.

I did not know Jose, the man who was detained.  I’d spoken to his wife Catalina only once, to introduce her to the lawyer – but still, however tenuously, our lives were connected.  As a taxpaying citizen of these United States, I was complicit in his detention, complicit in upholding the system that determined he was at risk of failing to appear for court proceedings if he were released, and so locked him away in rural Georgia for more than a year, eventually deporting him to El Salvador.

And so it is that this story from the gospel of Mark and the question it poses, from so many centuries ago, comes alive for us today.  Jesus, teaching in the temple, is approached by an unlikely alliance of religious and civic leaders – who ask: Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?  They’re really asking: Is it faithful?  To whom do we pledge our allegiance?  To Caesar, or to God?  And it’s not a fair question, because there’s no right answer, no safe answer.  Not in Israel, an occupied land, held in the tight fist of Roman rule for almost 100 years at that point.

The tax in question was a head tax, one everybody had to pay – it covered the cost of the occupation.  Nobody wanted to pay it, the community resented it, and of that there is no doubt.  But the question posed to Jesus is a double-edged sword.  See, many Zealots who resisted Roman rule refused to pay it.  If Jesus says, “pay the tax,” he will anger his supporters; if he says, “refuse to pay,” he risks outing himself as a revolutionary, giving his opponents reason to report him to the authorities and therefore risking arrest, and crucifixion.

It’s a trick question, meant to trap Jesus into saying the wrong thing, but it’s also a question worth asking ourselves even today.  Now, don’t get me wrong: I pay taxes. I believe in public schools and fire departments, garbage collection, and well-maintained roads, critical infrastructure and public safety, international diplomacy, and any number of other crucial services provided by our government.  But as people of faith, we owe our ultimate allegiance not to the state or our country but to God.  And our taxes pay for all sorts of other things, not just the glue that holds our government together but also bombs and bailouts, drones and detention centers.  This should give us pause, and why it’s worthwhile to consider this tricky exchange between the Pharisees and Jesus.  Why I’m grateful for his strategic response.  How do we faithfully navigate conflicting demands for our time, talents, and resources?  To whom do we pledge our allegiance?

This Sunday we are considering the Faith Value of Justice – a big umbrella that covers social, racial, economic, environmental, gender and LGBTQ justice, all causes dear to our heart as a congregation.  What is justice?  If we believe Cornell West, justice is what love looks like in public.  Richard Rohr describes justice and compassion ministries as the movement of the holy spirit within us for the sake of others.  He talks about three ways faithful communities respond to the needs around us by telling the story of a river that overflows its banks.  You may have heard this described in other ways – ambulances on a mountain highway, or pulling babies out of a river.  Rohr says, one way our ministries respond with love to the needs right in front of us is through charity.  We pull the people out of the water when the river floods, help them get to dry land, provide clothes, food, and shelter.  Another way we respond is through ministries of education and healing: training people to be lifeguards, paramedics, doctors and nurses, better equipped to respond when the river overruns its banks, teaching skills and helping them to make a life for themselves out of the floodplain completely.  But justice looks upstream, and says – why is this river flooding in the first place?  The work of justice then advocates and builds power through campaigns and coalitions to strengthen the levees, or build a dam, and hold the engineers and politicians accountable for keeping their people safe.   All of these are necessary for thriving and healthy communities.

We can’t do everything, but we can do some things.  It’s why some of us are called to serve as deacons, serving and caring for our community with compassion by providing meals and groceries for the guys at Harford House; visiting our sick and homebound members; praying for our congregation; supporting the CARES pantry; and building affordable housing through Habitat.  And others are called to serve on the SEJC, our social and environmental justice council, inviting our congregation to advocate for an assault weapons ban, electric vehicles for the USPS, full staffing and better service on the mobility bus for elderly and vulnerable people in our city, and an independent immigration court in Maryland to name a few issues we’ve acted on this year.

We do this work out of our conviction that God needs our hearts and our hands, our bodies and resources to share mercy, build peace, and pursue justice in the world.  And it’s a world that is organized by systems of government which we must navigate as faithfully as we can.  While Jesus’s response to the question about paying taxes was a bit oblique, give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s, his ministry and teaching is clear: he heals the sick, serves the poor, and feeds the hungry.  He challenges the rule that oppresses his people and the boundaries that shut people out.  He enacts God’s grace and liberation, and heralds the arrival of God’s reign.

The coin that Jesus asks for was a denarius, which had a picture of the emperor Tiberius and the phrase, “son of the Divine Augustus.”  It was a graven image, and a claim of divinity – two things forbidden by the 10 commandments.  Ostensibly, the coin belongs to Caesar.  But doesn’t all of creation belong to God?  Are we humans not reflections of the divine image?  How can we give to Caesar what is Caesar’s when everything belongs to God?  And so it is that the wise teacher calls us to strategic nonviolent resistance of affirming God’s image in every person that we meet.  Because when we see that, we cannot tolerate their suffering.  We must devote ourselves to their flourishing, putting ourselves on the line for the sake of the world that is becoming.

We cannot do everything.  But we must do something.  I don’t know what it is for you.  Who it is for you.  What issue breaks open your heart and keeps you up at night, what you’ve written about to your legislators and to the President and talked about with those who will listen.  Maybe you don’t know what it is yet.  But we are called into communities of care and accountability so that together we can testify to the truth that God’s will for us is to be whole, to be loved, to flourish.  And calls us to work together until justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.  May it be so.

Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore, MD
June 23, 2022

Faith Values: Stewardship
Romans 12:1-13

 

I follow Corey Booker on Instagram, because of course I do. In addition to being a US Senator from New Jersey, Booker is on a run streak – up with the dawn every morning to run at least a mile, this is a thing that people do. I’ve never done it – but some people do. After his early run, Booker often will post a reel with an inspirational quote or thought for the day. The other morning, he observed that often, when his alarm goes off at 4:45 in the morning, all he wants to do is roll over and go back to sleep. Then he remembers a question that dogs him. Do you want to do what you want right now? Or do you want to do what you want MOST? And he gets up. And runs another day.

It’s impressive. And a good question, one that might help us make better choices about what we do with our time and how we work towards the goals we set for ourselves.

This past Monday evening, members of your session and diaconate met together. We shared lasagna and ate ice cream sandwiches at long tables under the trees out on the South lawn. We laughed and reconnected, and then we came upstairs and thought and talked about our congregation. We asked a question connected to Cory Booker’s question: what do we value? What is most important to who we are and how does that inform what we are called to do in the world?

I believe it’s important to return to these questions regularly – in part because we’re Presbyterians, which means we’re a confessional church: in times of upheaval and change, we reflect and reaffirm who we are and what we believe about God and the world. That’s reflected in our book of Confessions.

These are questions to consider also because it’s fun to envision future possibilities and make space for the Spirit to shape our collective imagination about what might we might do and be together.

And finally, it’s important to consider our core values because the world around us has changed – is changing rapidly.  Politics and pandemic continue to convulse our country.  We are bombarded with devastating news of war in Ukraine, drought in the west, an earthquake in Afghanistan, and the threat of famine; higher than ever CO2 levels in our atmosphere.  Now almost half the states in our union are not safe for women, or for people who want fewer concealed guns on our streets like police officers and Presbyterians.  The ways we form and build community are evolving – patterns of attendance and participation are shifting, too; as are the needs of the neighborhood around us.  It is a lot to hold, to carry, to try to find our way through.

In yoga, in strength training, and even in running – the teacher or coach will often tell athletes to connect to their core, or to brace their core: the muscles that wrap around our trunks to support our lower back and abs, and stabilize our pelvis.  Connecting to your core in a yoga pose helps with balance, in running it prevents injury.  And when attempting a heavy lift, your core can be a powerhouse of strength.  Breathe out, right now – and connect to your core.  Feel those muscles that protect your back and inner organs!  Brace yourself – and now relax.

Reconnecting to what is core, foundational to who we are: as Christians, and as a community of faith – is a way to maintain balance in a turbulent world, to protect ourselves against the unraveling of our sense of connectedness, efficacy and purpose as individuals and a congregation.  Shoring up and bracing our core helps us tap into our strength as God’s people.

And it’s not hard to do!  We just need to look around, and look inward – what brings us here, week after week?  What do our building and grounds say about us as a congregation?  What does our public witness say about who we are, and the world we want to be part of creating?  How do we spend our time?  What does that tell us about what matters to us?

Our Faith Value theme for this morning is stewardship.  The term stewardship conjures up pledge cards and pleas for money. But that’s not exactly what I mean – at least, that’s not all I mean when I name stewardship as a core value.  This past Monday night, after the lasagna and the ice cream sandwiches, around the tables in the Woodmont Room, we named and prioritized some of our church’s core values.  In part of our discussion, we explored what exactly it meant to name stewardship as a core value.  We landed on the definition that stewardship is how we tend to what we have: our faith, our congregation, the practices and property that we’ve inherited as a church.  Stewardship is also how we use the gifts we’ve been given: time, talents, and resources.  It’s investing ourselves in God’s work through Faith Church.

Good stewardship means showing up to support one another: by marching in Pride, like a group of us did yesterday; visiting one another in the hospital and sharing meals in hard times; standing together to proclaim that Black Lives Matter and to advocate for love and justice in the world. Good stewardship also means stepping up to lead and serve, to teach and sing, and more, because we need the gifts you, and sometimes only you, can offer.  And, good stewardship means making use of our building and the surrounding property – to support our ministry as we’re doing now in worship, to serve our neighbors, to host our partners, and to reflect our values.

I’m hard pressed to find a passage of scripture that speaks more clearly to good stewardship than this section of Paul’s letter to the church in Rome.  He writes to a church he intends to visit, but has not yet met in person; a church wrestling with conflict and working out how best to live together in community.  And he offers instructions to guide their common life, as they attempt to be church together.

Consider yourselves living sacrifices – that your whole lives might be a testament to the goodness and glory of God.  All that we have and all that we are belongs to God – so we are called to live and give accordingly.

If together we are the body of Christ in the world, and individually we are members of it – each with different gifts to bring and offer – good stewardship is knowing what we have to offer, what gifts we’ve been given, and finding a way to give back… or to receive when that is needed.  We don’t have to do everything, because we have each other: for encouragement and support, different parts with a variety of gifts to carry out God’s work in the world.

As we move forward, the session and I need your help and input to shape and inform our understanding of who we are as Faith Church: what are our core values?  How do we live them out?

Here are each of our 10 core values as discerned this past Monday.  Come forward, get one of the values that speaks to you.  And write on it one way you’ve seen it lived out in community, or a way you’d like to see it come to life.  And in the spirit of stewardship: you can also make a commitment to help carry out one of these values in the months ahead.

There’s also blank paper if you want to add another value that’s not listed here.

As the music plays, come, help us strengthen our core!

Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore, MD
May 15, 2022

Something, Something… Holy Spirit?
Acts 11:1-18; John 13:31-35

When I was preparing to leave town last Sunday, I was copying pages from Biblical commentaries to read on my travels – by the way, a good way to be sure your seatmate doesn’t strike up a conversation with you is to carry a stack of New Testament commentaries – and I couldn’t quite remember the chapter and verses from Acts for this Sunday.  I knew it was a story about Cornelius, with a vision of a blanket holding all kinds of animals – just wait, it’s going to be good – and I ended up copying all of chapters 10 AND 11!  Because the story we’re about to hear is told twice! In a book that follows the movement of the Holy Spirit as it races around the Mediterranean setting hearts on fire and planting seeds of faith and starting churches hither and yon – This story is so important it’s told twice!  First it’s narrated as it happens, then it’s told again by Peter in the section I’m about to read – Peter’s telling early church leaders something amazing that has happened to him, defending his decision to baptize Gentiles.  Listen for a word from God…

(read Acts 11:1-18)

When I was in college, a friend invited me to worship at their Pentecostal church and, out of curiosity and a little bit of FOMO I went, along with a couple of other friends from Model United Nations.  The sanctuary was familiar, not unlike the one I’d grown up in – curved wooden pews and soft turquoise cushions, pretty windows and a pulpit.  The content of the service I’ve long since forgotten.  What has stayed with me is a moment about ¾ of the way through the service, when the entire congregation started speaking in tongues.  Like the preacher flipped a switch, and people began to rise from their pews around me, hands in the air, alight with the Holy Spirit.  Everyone, that is, but me, and another friend who came with us.  We sat in a mixture of awe and incredulity, hearing the waves of prayer rise and fall around us as the ecstatic worshippers called out in a language no human ear could understand.  After a few minutes, it faded away; people fell back to their seats, wiping sweat from their brows, and the room was quiet again.

It was a strange experience, one utterly unlike the orderly, predictable worship I’d grown up with.  The Spirit fell, apparently, on everyone but me, raised by God’s frozen chosen, and my friend Jose.  Looking back, the rational part of my brain wants to say – God doesn’t work like that.  But this story from Acts makes me think twice.  Who am I to say to limit the work of the Holy Spirit?

In Bible Study on Wednesday mornings, after checking in with each other and reading the text, we always begin by asking – what part of this story stands out to you?  Without fail, there is a word or phrase that catches our ear or captures our eye.  In the story Peter tells about his encounter with Cornelius, what was it for you?  For me, a phrase flashes as if lit in neon lights – It comes after the Judean leaders criticize Peter for sharing the good news with Gentiles, and he tells the story of what happened that led him to baptize Cornelius.  As he describes how he saw the Spirit poured out in front of him, how he felt inspired to share the waters of baptism so that Cornelius and his family stood dripping with grace in their living room, Peter asks: “Who am I that I could hinder God?”  Who am I to limit God?

At this time, the early church was trying to decide who was in and who was out, forming its criteria for belonging.  Who could be a Christian?  What makes a person a follower of Christ?  Did you have to be Jewish, and follow Jewish customs and law?  Or could you be a pagan Greek, a Gentile?  The disciples and Jesus’ first followers were all Jewish, and their communities were intentionally separate from the Roman world.  But clearly, the Spirit had other plans – because the good news is meant to be shared with everyone!

Here’s how it happens: Peter has a vision that tells him to eat whatever he wants –a sheet falls from heaven filled with non-kosher foods – just as Cornelius is instructed by an angel to call for Peter and listen to him.  When he arrives, Peter can tell something is up – Jews like him and Gentiles should not be speaking, much less chatting in each other’s living rooms – but Peter knows enough to realize that the vision of animals in a blanket means the Spirit is at work here.  He tells Cornelius about Jesus, and when Cornelius begins praising God.  And there, in the living room, Jews and Gentiles together, as he is preaching, Peter can see that Cornelius has received the gift of the Spirit, and so Peter baptizes him.  Because who are we to limit God?

Richard Rohr has said, “God is always bigger than the boxes we make for God, so we shouldn’t waste too much time protecting the boxes.”[1]  In a conversation with Brene Brown recently, he said – God is infinite love!  But we humans have a very hard time comprehending infinity – so instead of leaving space for the infinite mystery, we bring God to our level and anthropomorphize so that God loves like we do, which is conditionally – with threats and punishments.  We mistake certainty for faith.  But that’s not how God is!

There are a lot of people in our world who claim to know the mind of God.  Who is blessed and who is not.  Who is right and who is wrong.  In Texas, in Florida, in Alabama, and elsewhere, the legislatures are seeking to prevent children who identify as trans from getting age-appropriate gender-affirming medical care, competing in sports, or even using the bathroom that corresponds with their gender identity.  But laws like this further dehumanize and harm people who are already made vulnerable by having to spend their lives challenging false binaries the world tries to divide us with.  If we truly believe that each person is created in the image and likeness of God, and we are called to love one another… we will work for communities where all can flourish and safely live as the people God created them to be.  We will find a different way.

In her book God Gets Everything God Wants Katie Hays tells the story of her congregation of spiritual refugees, the Galileo Church.[2]  They are a community of folks who thought they were done with church, who have created a place of love and belonging in which they worship, learn, and serve.  She says when something happens they can’t explain in their community, when they stumble on a solution to a particularly vexing problem – and the solution redirects them in a way they never expected, or comes from a surprising place or person, they describe it as “something something … Holy Spirit.”  She says, “…God has been inviting people into new understandings of God – where God is, what God does, who God loves – for as long as people have been telling stories about God, and … the Bible… invites us to look for God everywhere, recognize God wherever we can, even if we find God in places (people) that are guaranteed to disrupt what we already think we know for sure…”[3]  Like Peter sees the Spirit poured out on Cornelius, and realizes he’s gotta baptize him, right then and there in his living room.

Because who are we to limit God?

So today I wonder: what are the “something, something… Holy Spirit” moments here at Faith?  In our own life and work and ministry?  The way I felt when Dary and I came to meet the PNC and see the church and neighborhood here in North Baltimore certainly felt like something bigger than us was at work, something something… Holy Spirit.  The way the little free library came to be here with the help of neighbors in Rodger’s Forge, and now the Story Walk with its many supporters who want to share a love of books with kids in this area was something, something… Holy Spirit.  The way that Christa’s care and the leadership of the session were able to help our congregation heal after pastor Robin’s departure, and the way we came to more intentional ministry of welcome as wide and inclusive as God’s love out of that painful experience – that, too, was something, something Holy Spirit too, wasn’t it?  And now, our vision of an urban forest instead of an expanse of concrete, the willing partnership of Blue Water Baltimore and interfaith partners for the Chesapeake to plant trees to help us and our neighbors breathe easier feels like the Spirit just blowing through this place.  Something, something, Holy Spirit.

My prayer for us this week is that we will open our hearts and minds to the work of the Spirit in and among us.  In our church, in our living rooms, in our learning and growing.  That we will follow the leading of the spirit in our advocacy, in our outreach, in our service, as we plant trees and share books and live life together.  And in all these things, we will act out of love: our love for one another, and our love for God.  May it be so!

[1] Rohr, Richard, in conversation with Brene Brown on Unlocking Us, “On Spirituality, Certitude, and Infinite Love,” part 1 of 2, April 20, 2022, https://brenebrown.com/podcast/spirituality-certitude-and-infinite-love-part-1-of-2/#transcript.  This paragraph and the following connection with dehumanizing legislation grew out of their conversation. I commend it to you!

[2] Hays, Katie, God Gets Everything God Wants, Eerdmans Publishing Co: Grand Rapids, MI, 2021, pp. 71-78

[3] Ibid. p. 78.

Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore, MD
April 17, 2022

Dare We Believe It?
Luke 24:1-12

Mr. and Mrs. Watson live at 54 Deckawoo Drive with an enormous pink pig named Mercy.  Their neighbors are Eugenia Lincoln, and her sister Baby Lincoln, and down the street live two children, Stella Endicott and her brother Franklin.  Mr. Watson drives a pink convertible and the whole Watson family loves to eat toast with a great deal of butter on it… especially Mercy.  These quirky characters sprang from the mind of author Kate DiCamillo, who writes children’s books with almost universal appeal to the inner child in all of us.  Because of Winn-Dixie, about a girl and the dog who helps her through a tough year, was my niece’s favorite book, and Maddie’s favorite breakfast to this day is… toast, with a great deal of butter on it, thanks to the Mercy Watson series.

Di Camillo’s books are loved by many, including another children’s author, Matt de la Peña.  He won a Newberry award for The Last Stop on Market Street, and also wrote Milo Imagines the World, and other wonderful picture books that are in our Prayground.  In his book Love, there is a page that suggests a violent family argument, a picture his publisher pushed back on, wanted to soften or edit out of the book.  As he grappled with what to do, he wrote an essay online in which he posed the question, rhetorically, to DiCamillo: what is the job of children’s book authors?[1]  Is it to shield children from the world, to protect their innocence?  Or to tell the truth?[2]

I’ve been holding that question, and Kate’s response to it, in my heart the past few weeks of Lent.  Because we might ask the same question of our faith, and of this story – the story many of us have drawn close to again this past week, the story of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.  Does it shield us from the world?  Or does it tell the truth?  Because it’s a difficult story.  A brutal one, really.  A story of deception and betrayal.  Fear and courage.  A story that shows the deadly violence of empire against one who dared to challenge it.  A story of suffering and death, silence and abandonment.

It’s a story that shows up again and again in our newsfeeds and papers – we find it everywhere… from a subway car in Brooklyn, to a shopping mall in South Carolina where broken glass glitters on the ground, yellow caution tape flutters in the wind.  We hear it in the shouts of protesters and a mother’s grief piercing the cold air in Grand Rapids, Michigan, as they say his name: Patrick Lyoya, son, friend, refugee fleeing war in Congo, another black man dead with a knee in his back.  It’s there, this story, the anguish, the senseless suffering in the ashes of a maternity ward in Kyiv, where a man with blistered hands digs graves for his neighbors, fellow Ukrainians, killed by Russian soldiers.

Deception and betrayal, fear and courage.  The deadly violence of empire.

Happy Easter!  We started this service with brass fanfare, with trumpets and triumph because that’s not the end of this story. The story we’ve entered into again this morning tells us also of hope, and love – love that withstands and outlasts even death.  It ends with good news: new life in community.  Resilience.  Redemption.  Resurrection.

I cannot help but wonder what it must have been like for the women that day, as they made their way to the tomb in the early morning darkness, spices clutched close to their chests.  Their breathing was shallow because they were afraid, I’m sure of it.  He was dead, but it was still dangerous to associate themselves with Jesus, the rabble rouser, the revolutionary so recently crucified.  The soldiers who killed him might harm them, too.

They must have walked quickly, quietly, footsteps softly crunching across the rocky ground, as the dawn sky brightened around them.  I’ll bet they didn’t hear the birds beginning to sing their morning songs, their hearts were so heavy with grief, their bodies bent down from the weight of it.

When they noticed the stone was gone, rolled away, the grave open for the world to see – they surely froze, fearful, wondering: Who could’ve done this?  had it been robbed?  It’s amazing to me that they didn’t run away right then, but steeled their nerves and entered the tomb, feeling their way through the dark, looking for the body – but they found none.  The tomb was empty.

The text tells us what happens next: suddenly, out of nowhere, two men appeared beside them in dazzling clothes – surely they were angels – and the women fell to the ground right there, in the mouth of the tomb, terrified. The dazzling ones spoke to them, saying: Why do you seek the living amongst the dead?  He is not here.  He is risen.  Remember, he told you this would happen.  And hearts pounding inside their chests, the women remembered.  They remembered, and something unfurled inside them, hope began to bloom…so they got up, and ran to tell the others.

You’ll notice, there is no resurrected Jesus in this part of Luke’s story.  They do not see him, or speak with him, or touch his wounded hands.  That part comes later, at a table in Emmaus, behind locked doors in Jerusalem.  But still, here, in the mouth of the empty tomb, the women remember and believe, and it doesn’t matter that they came looking for a body, expecting death, because now they understand that what he said was true, and somehow, he is not dead, but alive again.

The disciples don’t believe them – it seems to them an idle tale… women’s hysteria, so cruel a dismissal of women’s proclamation of the gospel that it stings even now.  Peter, at least, is curious enough to go and see for himself, so he finds the linen wrappings lying in the empty tomb, and is amazed.  What about us?  Do we dare believe it?  Could it possibly be true?  Is that why we tell this story again and again, why we remember and reclaim its power year after year?  What difference does it make in this Good Friday world, where violence and suffering are still so real?

When Matt de la Peña asked whether authors should protect childhood innocence or tell the truth, Kate di Camillo responded.  She wrote about her best friend in childhood, who loved the book Charlotte’s Web so much she would read it over and over.  She would get to the last page, and then turn back to the first and begin again.  Di Camillo remembers asking her friend why she would read and re-read it.  Did she hope each time it will turn out differently, better?   That Charlotte wouldn’t die?  Her friend said, no, “It wasn’t that. I kept reading it not because I wanted it to turn out differently or thought that it would turn out differently, but because I knew for a fact that it wasn’t going to turn out differently. I knew that a terrible thing was going to happen, and I also knew that it was going to be okay somehow. I thought that I couldn’t bear it, but then when I read it again, it was all so beautiful. And I found out that I could bear it. That was what the story told me. That was what I needed to hear. That I could bear it somehow.”[3]

I believe we return to this story, the story of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection, this mystery of life out of death year after year, because it tells us the truth.  Terrible things will happen to us, and do happen each day in every corner of the globe, from Baltimore to Brooklyn to Bucha.  One day, we, too, will die.  We know for a fact that this is true, but this story tells us that it is all going to be okay somehow.  God is present even in the terror, and the suffering… even when we feel most alone in the tombs that we make for ourselves, God finds us even when we are so weighed down by grief we think that we cannot bear it.  God’s love for us is so strong, it withstands even the worst thing that can happen to us.  It makes new life possible, and when we remember that truth, and we claim it together, when hope unfurls within us and begins to bloom, my prayer and why we gather this day is that we find that we can bear it.

DiCamillo says she thought and thought about why this was so, and what she came to was love.  “E. B. White loved the world,” she writes. “And in loving the world, he told the truth about it — its sorrow, its heartbreak, its devastating beauty. He trusted his readers enough to tell them the truth, and with that truth came comfort and a feeling that we were not alone.”[4]

We are NOT alone.  We are held by this community which God has called us into, a community which, in turn, is upheld by the love and wonder-working power of God, who pulls life out of death, and makes each new day possible.  And so we return again and again to this story of Easter.

One of the gifts of parenthood has been reading books that I loved as a child with my girls, and discovering new ones, nestling down together at the end of each day, side by side, to share stories.  The stories we tell shape us into who we are.  They help build our understanding of the world, they impart a love of places and people, and sometimes of hot buttered toast.  And so I hope we will tell this one – this very good news of the time when death did not win.  When the violence of empire was undone by the tenacity of love.  When the darkness of the tomb was actually a womb that brought forth new life.  This story of the resilience and courage of the women and men who heard and believed and shared the truth of resurrection.  And in their stories, I hope we find the courage to live it, again and again with the dawn of each new day…. May it be so.  Thanks be to God.  Amen.

[1] I learned of this exchange through the On Being podcast, an interview Krista Tippett did with Kate DiCamillo in which she referenced and read from Kate’s response to de la Peña.  On Being Podcast, 3/17/22, https://onbeing.org/programs/kate-dicamillo-for-the-eight-year-old-in-you/

[2] De la Peña, Matt, “Why we shouldn’t shield children from darkness,” Time Magazine, 1/9/18, https://time.com/5093669/why-we-shouldnt-shield-children-from-darkness/

[3] Di Camillo, Kate, “Why kids books should be a little sad,” 1/12/18, Time Magazine, https://time.com/5099463/kate-dicamillo-kids-books-sad/

[4] Ibid.

Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore, MD
April 10, 2022

To the Streets!
Luke 19 – Palm Sunday

Holy Week in Guatemala is an experience not to be missed. The whole country takes vacation to celebrate.  People pour into the cities and towns for the occasion, to commemorate the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Much like in other parts of Latin America, the festivities revolve around processions: people dress up and carry huge icons depicting saints and the Stations of the Cross through narrow, cobblestone streets. Young men in hooded purple albs carry censures before the processions, burning incense that hangs in the air, a fragrant fog hovering over the festivities. Tinny brass bands play hymns and mariachi music between the platforms. And a crush of people lines the streets to observe the processions as they shuffle along. With food vendors and games in town squares, Holy Week is a carnival of epic proportions.

But the most striking part of the celebrations isn’t the food or the icons. It’s not the number of people who come to witness and participate in the parades. The most striking part of Semana Santa in Guatemala are the carpets!

In the day or two leading up to the parades, artisans work until late at night to cover the streets in beautifully ornate sawdust carpets. They remind me of Tibetan mandalas – detailed works of art, painstakingly prepared, but temporary. But instead of sand, these carpets are made of vibrantly colored sawdust, flower petals, pine needles, even fruits and vegetables laid out in intricate designs. Men accustomed to working in the field repurpose their pesticide/fertilizer sprayers to spray the carpets in a fine mist of water, to keep them from blowing away. After the parades pass by, the cobblestone streets are a wash of color, the designs scattered to the wind and petals crushed underfoot, the bright stones offering a silent testimony to what has passed over them.

The carpets are special – I’ve never seen anything else like them. Their beauty enhances the festivities, and honors the memory of Jesus in this week which commemorates his life and death. They also evoke the palm fronds, the branches his followers waved and the cloaks they threw in the road, to show him honor as he made his way into Jerusalem…the road strewn with palms led him into the city, into conflict with the authorities…and into death.

I remember Palm Sunday as a celebration – a break from the norm with palms waving in worship, a processional, and shouts of Hosannah! And it is. But it’s a multivalent event, provocative when you have eyes to see it. One could call it street theatre, a public demonstration that challenges Roman rule by calling Christ the King.

This particular week, Jerusalem was overflowing with people, peasants who poured in from the countryside to celebrate Passover, to make their sacrifices in the temple. Remember that Israel was an occupied land, so there would’ve been a lot of Roman military presence for the festival, to keep order, to prevent a revolt.

But that doesn’t stop Jesus from continuing with his plan. Christ’s followers line the street down from the Mount of Olives, they shout and stand on tiptoes in the dust just to catch a glimpse of him. Their hope nearly crackles in the air – Hope that Jesus would save the people from Rome, end their suffering, and rule as King over Israel. So strong was their longing for salvation, it rose like the smoke of incense and cast its own shadow over the crowd, intoxicating to all who breathed it.

Jesus’ parade wasn’t just festive, it was downright dangerous. It mimicked the victory marches of generals who would ride their chariots into Rome with throngs of people cheering their return. He was entering Jerusalem as a conquering hero  But Christ was different than others who vied for power in Jerusalem. Instead of riding a chariot pulled by prancing white horses, he rides a humble donkey. There is no crown of laurel on his head, but he will soon wear a crown of thorns. Rome ruled through military power, oppressing the people through taxation and the threat of violence. The kingdom Christ heralds is altogether different than that.

The power he wields is the power of love, of solidarity. He works through nonviolent resistance, submitting to the violence of empire to reveal its futility, and to show us God’s power to transform death into life.

The people thought he was their messiah, the one to lead an uprising to overthrow their oppressors and reign as King in Israel. But Christ’s kindom, the family and reign of God is much bigger than that. It knows no boundaries because it exists within our hearts and that’s why it has the power to change the whole world.

I don’t know about you, but some days I find this difficult to believe. Two years of pandemic have made us weary and wary, aggrieved yet determined to rebuild our communities more equitably in this new normal. The devastation wrought by Trump revealed fault lines and divisions that I fear may never be overcome in this country. Putin’s war in Ukraine has caused massive suffering, as Afghanistan starves and Ethiopia remains in the grip of civil war. Here in Baltimore, more than 300 people were killed by gun violence in the past year – three of them safe streets workers commissioned as violence interrupters. If Christ reigns, why does the suffering continue?

The truth, of course, is that sin and evil still exist. The work begun in Christ continues in and through us – his body, at work in the world.  I heard a political scientist interviewed on the Hidden Brain podcast recently, and what she said gave me hope.[1] Erica Chenoweth has studied the power of nonviolent resistance to create change. She said she’d been taught that violence was often a necessary evil, the blunt instruments of war were the most effective in challenging despots and bringing stability. This compelled her to research nonviolent resistance over the past 200 years – when has peace come not from guns and tanks, but through concerted noncooperation, demonstrations, and peaceful resistance? She discovered that nonviolent resistance movements were twice as likely to have succeeded in their efforts to create change than violent ones. And they only had to mobilize a fraction of the population, 3.5%. Writing recently in the Washington Post, she lauds the efforts of Ukrainian citizens to resist the onslaught of the Russian army.[2] Ordinary people have been removing road signs, blocking streets, marching and demonstrating. The Odessa Opera held outdoor performances, defiantly singing Verdi and waving a Ukrainian flag in the cold March air.[3] Russians, too, have showed tremendous bravery in publicly standing in opposition to the war, risking arrest, kidnapping, and even death. And even here in Baltimore, people are demonstrating for peace – raising money, standing together again in Patterson Park at one this afternoon with the Ukrainian Orthodox church there. These demonstrations do work she says – to slow and sometimes even to stop the violence. To demand action from politicians. To preserve the spirit of the people, enliven our collective defiance, to protect our common humanity.

When they objected to the ruckus of his procession, Jesus told the Pharisees that if his disciples were silenced, even the stones would shout aloud. I wonder…if the stones in our streets could talk…well, wait, let’s just say the concrete – if the concrete could talk, what would it say? What would it say about God at work in Baltimore? What would the stones in these walls, the bricks say about us, about our witness and work, about Christ whom we love and serve? Would they shout aloud that God’s kingdom has come near?

You know what? I believe these stones DO shout – they tell the story of a family of people seeking to be the beloved community here and now. A congregation with a welcome as broad and expansive as God’s love. A congregation not afraid to speak truth to power, and to tell the truth about who we are and to whom we belong. I think if we look closely, we can glimpse the kindom right here: in the love we share as a church family. In our advocacy, in our common witness for peace and justice in our city. In our work to care for the little piece of Baltimore with which we have been entrusted, to pull weeds and plant trees and cultivate beauty. In our support for the students, teachers, and families at Walter P. Carter, and our investment to build decent housing in Woodbourne McCabe.

Gillian, Maddie and I had a habit at the beginning of the pandemic of making kindness rocks – painting stones and leaving them places for others to find. A bright spot in an otherwise anxious time. We’ll paint some more at the Easter egg hunt this coming Saturday, hoping to leave them as a reminder of love and sparks of joy for whoever finds them, or as small testimonies to carry in your pocket.

To continue our prayer project, you’re invited to find the origami paper in your pew, to write one way you commit to prepare for the week ahead. Will you lay a carpet in preparation, some beautiful symbol to honor Christ’s sacrifice this week? Will you commit to pray, to participate in our worship, to serve? Write down your commitment, or the name of a person or place for which you pray so that on Easter, our prayers can bloom into a beautiful garden!

[1] Vedantam, Shankar and Erica Chenoweth, “How to Change the World,” Hidden Brain podcast, April 2022, https://hiddenbrain.org/podcast/how-to-change-the-world/

[2] Chenoweth, Erica, “People around the world are protesting the Russian invasion.  Will their protests work?”  The Washington Post, 3/14/22.

[3] Cited by Erica Chenoweth, ibid, viewed at https://www.ansa.it/sito/notizie/mondo/2022/03/12/ucraina-franceschini-posta-video-lopera-di-odessa-canta-verdi_58a79ef3-6755-4158-baa9-a2251c3511c5.html

Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore, MD
March 13, 2022

The Wings of God
Luke 13: 31-35

As we sit here in the calm, quiet of this sanctuary, it is hard to forget that across the Atlantic, on the other side of Europe, throughout Ukraine, there are churches that have been reduced to rubble by Russian bombs; still others have disassembled their sacred objects and hidden them away in bomb shelters, shaken by the rockets that have pummeled their cities and towns for the past two weeks, with still more to come. The tragic horror of Russia’s invasion of the sovereign nation of Ukraine has brought the terror of war again to the forefront of our psyche; thousands have been killed, millions uprooted, countless families torn apart. NATO and the West have united in a way many thought impossible just a month ago. A turning point for the West’s support for Ukraine was President Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s heroic response when his nation was invaded. When America offered to airlift him to safety, he retorted: “The fight is here; I need ammunition, not a ride.”

Zelensky’s determination to stay and defend his nation, despite the clear risk to his own safety and his family’s security – is heroic. He inspired his European allies to go much farther in their military support for Ukraine than they’d previously indicated they were willing to go. A staff writer for the Atlantic wrote, “it is hard to think of another recent instance in which one human being has defied the collective expectations for his behavior and provided such an inspiring moment of service to the people, clarifying the terms of the conflict through his example.”[1]

I cannot help but think of Zelenskyy when I read this passage from Luke. The Pharisees warn Jesus of Herod’s murderous intent, but Christ will not be dissuaded from his ministry. Given the socio-political realities of war, and the widely divergent historical contexts, there isn’t a direct parallel, of course.  The Ukrainian President is responding to the violence of Russian forces with Molotov cocktails, and a defiant willingness to, apparently, fight to the death to defend democracy.

Jesus is responding to the violence of Herod, the threat of Rome, and he responds quite differently. He, too, is willing to die for his cause. Similar defiance, different strategies. After all, Christ came to proclaim good news, to bring sight to the blind, to uplift the downtrodden, to let the oppressed go free. To teach and to heal. To stand against evil. Not to fight fire with fire, but to turn the other cheek. Not to seek retribution, but to work for restoration.

Christ’s defiant determination to subvert violence in the face of deadly opposition takes shape in this image of the mother hen protecting her chicks.

One day at rest time, before our hens came to live with us, Gillian called out excitedly from her room: a fox! There’s a fox! In the backyard! We crowded around her window to look down and sure enough, there was – a dusty red fox, curled in a patch of sunlight, napping on the grass. Needless to say the first order of business when Rosita, Lola, and Goldie came was to patch holes in our fence, so that the fox couldn’t find its way into the henhouse. You have to appreciate the brilliant wordplay of Jesus the mother hen protecting her brood from Herod the fox.

Writing on this passage, NT scholar NT Wright observes every parent’s instinct to protect their children from harm.[2] To risk everything to get their child to safety. Picture the trains filled to overflowing with Ukrainian mothers and grandmothers, children on their laps – leaving everything they’d known behind to escape the terror of war. Stories of the children sent overseas in the Holocaust, families migrating north to escape gang violence in Central America.

When a hawk flies overhead, a hen will shelter her chicks under her wings, saving them while risking her own life. By offering the image of himself as a mother hen with wings outstretched, sheltering her chicks from danger, I believe he’s inviting us to expand our idea of who God is and how God works. This is a beautiful feminine image for God: nurturing, powerfully protective, but vulnerable. and it matters that we are able to conceive and embrace images like this of the sacred feminine. It matters because representation matters. It changes how we see ourselves, the world, and our place in it.

In the memoir The Dance of the Dissident Daughter, Sue Monk Kidd chronicles her journey from patriarchal Christianity to the embrace of the sacred feminine. She writes, “The core symbols we use for God represent what we take to be the highest good…These symbols or images shape our worldview, our ethical system, and our social practice.” When we only imagine and utilize male images for God, God as King and all-powerful ruler, God as Father and covenant maker – we have an incomplete picture that resigns us to the same old patterns of patriarchy. We can draw a direct connection between “repression of the feminine in our deity and the repression of women.” “…Including divine female symbols and images not only challenges the dominance of male images but also calls into question the structure of patriarchy itself.” [3]

God, is of course, both male and female, and neither male or female – these are limited, human examples we use to try to explain the inexplicable. Words are simply tools to help point us toward truth. Our evolving human understanding of gender identity and expression as existing along a spectrum instead of between a false binary frees us to imagine new possibilities for who and how God is. Expansive imagery of God – the Hebrew concept of el Shaddai – the mountains that give life; Jesus as the narrow gate, the living water, the bread of life. Or the good shepherd; the prince of peace; the living Word of God to us; the first Word spoken; Spirit as wind or breath – the animating life force. What do you picture when I say God? What do you envision or imagine? Does it matter to you? Does it matter to the world? Who has helped expand your image of God? What women have gone before to help challenge and transform your worldview?

You each should have gotten a piece of origami paper when you came in, or there is one in your pew or in a pew in front or behind you. Find your paper – In a little while, while the choir sings, I invite you to write the name of a woman who has helped expand your vision of God; an image of the sacred feminine that resonates with you; or the name a person or place for which you pray this day. Leave these papers in a basket at each door when you leave today, and they’ll be folded into origami flowers to adorn the cross on Easter. And if you’d like to help fold, come to Jackson Lounge after worship and we’ll work on it together for a few minutes.

Christ longed to shelter and save the people of Israel from the violent oppression and destruction threatened by Roman imperial power – and he would continue his work to save and to heal, to reconcile and make new – despite rejection, despite doubt, despite death. May we all seek to emulate this kind of loving defiance today, and trust that his wings are open to enfold and embrace us, to shelter us and keep us safe.

[1] Foer, Franklin, “A Prayer for Volodymyr Zelenskyy” The Atlantic, February 26, 2022, https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2022/02/volodymyr-zelensky-ukraine-president/622938/

[2] Wright, N.T., Lent for Everyone: Luke, Year C, Westminster/John Knox Press: Louisville, KY, 2009, p. 23.

[3] Kidd, Sue Monk, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter A Woman’s Journey from Christian Tradition to Sacred Feminine, HarperOne, 1996.

Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore, MD
February 27, 2022

Encountering Radiance
Exodus 34:29-35

When I moved to Boston for seminary, a whole world of possibilities opened up to me. Not just new and challenging academic frontiers, a new city and culture to explore – but also a wide expanse of new outdoor adventures, thanks in part to Dary: the White Mountains and Presidential range in New Hampshire; the foothills of the Catskills out in Western Mass, and of course – endless wilderness in Maine to paddle, camp, and hike through. I was used to well marked, well trodden trails in North Carolina’s Blue Ridge, with clear blazes, relatively safe ascents and gradual descents. So I was surprised to find myself clinging to metal rungs on the side of a mountain, ducking through caves, balancing on a knife’s edge, trying not to look down. New England introduced me to a different kind of hiking. I’m still shocked by how cold and windy it can be above the treeline, on top of a mountain– Dary always packs a fleece, sometimes even a hat and gloves for the summit, even in summer. I remember huddling next to him, buffeted by wind and freezing in shorts on Doubletop mountain in Baxter State Park, looking over at Katahdin, and thinking, without the right gear, this could be dangerous.

As, of course, it is. Any search and rescue team can tell you that – you all probably have a few tales of your own to tell about being caught out in the elements.

I can remember gazing out at the landscape with awe – torn between not wanting the moment to end, but feeling eager to dash back down the mountain to warm up, or at least to the safety of tree cover.

The mountaintop is often a beautiful place, with stunning views – but it is never a fully safe place to be. There’s always a risk up there – you might fall, get lost, or suffer from hypothermia, windburn, sunburn, exposure. Psychological risks, too: it changes you to actually see yourself in proper proportion to the rest of the world – tiny, and maybe even meaningless in the grand scheme of things. It’s magnificent, yes- but it isn’t safe.

Moses certainly discovered this to be true. Peter, John, and James did, too. The mountaintop proved to be a revealing place for all of them. Transformational. A little frightening. Moses met God up there, as he was pleading for guidance and mercy for his wayward people. This wasn’t Moses’ first mountaintop encounter with the deity – and this time, Moses was so changed by his time in God’s presence, he came down glowing. His face was shining with the splendor of the divine, and as you might imagine, it was terrifying. His own brother couldn’t even look at him – maybe because it was so strange, maybe because to look at Moses was to be reminded of their own betrayal, worshipping the idol of the golden calf which is what sent Moses back up to the top of Sinai to bargain with God in the first place.

On the front of the bulletin is Michelangelo’s sculpture of Moses – can you see he has horns? There are several classical images of Moses with horns, and the tradition comes from a fourth century mistranslation of this passage! The word for shining could also mean horn – and so we find these images of a truly terrifying leader. Some scholars wonder if there wasn’t some intention to this wordplay – drawing a parallel to the golden calf, such that to look at Moses was to be reminded of your own disobedience.

So Moses wore a veil, the text tells us, covering his face when he was out and about doing his day-to-day tasks, removing it only when he was praying, or speaking God’s word to the people. Strange, isn’t it. To be able to continue with his daily life, he had to hide his light…for those who were just in the Forum conversation – he had to assimilate.

Radiance is one of the most common descriptions of God – so bright, it’s like looking at the sun. Surely we’ve all seen someone we describe as radiant – people filled with joy, unself-conscious, beaming. A mother holding her newborn baby. A teacher teaching a topic they’re particularly passionate about. A child filled with pride upon learning a new skill, coming alive in a new way. Old friends, laughing out loud together.

Dorothy Day wrote about riding a city bus: a mundane, necessary task but rarely pleasant experience. She remembers suddenly noticing that all of the other riders were shimmering with the light of transcendence, beautiful, precious and beloved children of God. She was filled with love for them, in their ordinary-ness, the mother with the squalling baby, the rowdy teenagers in their awkwardness, the weary workers heading home. Radiance can find us anywhere, if we have eyes to see it.

Today is transfiguration Sunday, the end of the season of Epiphany and turn toward the season of Lent. Today is when we remember the revelation of Christ on the mountaintop, the transformation of Moses, too, and ask – What are we to make of these strange scenes? What do they tell us about God? What do they reveal about us?

One truth these stories show us that the life of faith moves between the mountaintop and the valley. We are always moving between encounters with the radiance and transcendence of God and the hard work to which God calls us, between the broad perspective we get from being high up and the day-to-day work down in the weeds. Between the clarity of vision we have at 9000 feet and the veiled memory of that vision that carries us through each day. Between the certainty of faith and the reality of doubt. It’s a cycle – up, then down, again and again.

In some ways, and maybe for some of us more than others, weekly worship reflects this cycle – we come, seeking God’s presence. Some weeks, in prayer and silence and scripture and song, we find it. Then, we step outside, back to the street…hopefully fortified, refreshed, and ready for the week ahead, confident of who and whose we are, clear about what God is calling us to do. We come back again, to be reminded.

We learn something of God in these passages – Moses’s second trip up Sinai finds God frustrated with the people for their disobedience, but willing to forgive…it’s where we find the language, God is patient and kind, slow to anger and abounding with steadfast love. Through Moses, God gives the Israelites law to live by, to guide them through the wilderness, to govern daily life. And it changes Moses to encounter God’s love and forgiveness, and to then share that with his people.

And so it is for us – when we encounter and experience the love and forgiveness and goodness of God, our hearts, our lives, are transformed, too.

Last night, as I tucked my girls into bed, I couldn’t help but think of Ukrainians huddled in subways and other shelters to sleep, seeking shelter from the Russian missiles that are bombarding their cities. The reality of war has gripped their country, as Putin grasps for power like a madman. I heard a story last week where mothers were stitching labels into their children’s clothing before sending them to school, labels with their child’s name and blood type in case they were to be injured in an attack. Unfathomable. And for what? Control of a piece of land? Access to natural resources? Bragging rights?

I’m reminded of the image of earth taken by the Voyager spacecraft before it left radio contact with us. Before it hurtled out to parts unknown, father than any other man-made object ever, it turned around to take a picture. Earth is just like a speck of dust in a sunbeam, suspended in space. Carl Sagan, the astrophysicist who worked on the project, says, look at that dot:

That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. … Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.  …To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known. (Carl Sagan, The Blue Dot, 1990)

My prayer for us this week is that we remember the perspective granted to us from our mountaintop experiences. That we are called to be peacemakers, to love one another as God has loved us, to resist the powers of evil and violence that threaten to undo us. It begins with us, with the transformation of our hearts, such that we shine with love, and can notice the shimmer of transcendence wherever we go.

Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore, MD
February 20, 2022

Radical Reciprocity
Luke 6:27-38

On Friday, February 11, there was a women’s lacrosse game in Clinton, South Carolina. The Howard University Bison were up against the Blue Hose of Presbyterian College – that’s H-o-s-e, for the blue stockings their sportsmen used to wear, a nod to PC’s Scottish heritage. This was the first game of Howard’s season and the women were excited – it was their first time to play under the leadership of their new coach.

Now you might not follow women’s collegiate lacrosse, but if you’re connected to Howard or to PC, you may have heard about this particular game – because in the hours before the teams took to the field…before the players put on their safety glasses and helmets, before the girls from Howard, butterflies in their stomachs, nervously slipped on their gloves, grabbed their sticks, and ran out onto the field hoping to impress their new coach…Before all that, as the young women from Howard got off their bus, loaded down with gear, bundled against the brisk February air, and walked across the short green turf, some other young people, presumably students at Presbyterian College, heckled them, shouting hateful, misogynistic, and racist slurs at them – taunting and provoking the athletes, young women they’d never even met.

Howard Athletic Director Kery Davis said, “I am deeply troubled that some of our student-athletes were subjected to slurs and abusive language before the women’s lacrosse match on Friday.” [1]  Yeah, me too.

The school is investigating the incident – which, hopefully, will lead to consequences for the perpetrators, and will include an examination of the campus culture that gave rise to this incident, a culture in which some students thought that such behavior was acceptable in the first place.

But this morning I keep thinking about those young women who had to take the field with racist taunts ringing in their ears. I’m sure they were angry. Did they feel unsafe? Vulnerable? Insulted? Like something precious had been violated, robbing them of the excitement and energy of the first game of the season? Maybe they took the field as an act of defiance – forget those hateful people, we’re going to play anyway.

I’m going to show you a few pictures and I want you to pay attention to how you feel when you see them. How does your body react?  \What do the images evoke in you, or remind you of?

These guys are the Greenville 4: Ezell Blair Jr., David Richmond, Franklin McCain and Joseph McNeil. They started the lunch counter sit-in protests at Woolworths lunch counter in Greenville, South Carolina in February of 1960. The day they began their protest, they tried to buy lunch, but the staff refused to serve them. The police were called, but didn’t take action because the students were just sitting there. As you know, the movement grew from there – here’s a picture of another sit in, that grew a bit more heated.

Here is one that’s more recent – and a little confusing, if you remember the story that swirled around this viral video – a teenager from Kentucky in a MAGA hat grins at a Native American elder at a protest in Washington, DC.

Here is Dr. William Barber, and Jesse Jackson being arrested during a poor people’s campaign protest in DC.

This is from the Dakota Access Pipeline protest at Standing Rock.

Here’s Capitol Police officer Eugene Goodman on January 6.

And here is an image of a Black Lives Matter protestor in Baton Rouge, Louisiana – in 2018.

Many (but not all) of these photos show civil disobedience, nonviolent direct action that seeks to create change by drawing attention to a problem, or to protest something that is wrong. These actions often bring people into conflict with others who oppose them, or with police who have been charged with to keep peace or protect property. These images are often what comes to mind for me when I hear Jesus call us to love and turn the other cheek.

The power of nonviolent resistance has transformed our world. It brought the British colonial empire to its knees in India. It ended Jim Crow segregation in the South. It stopped the pipeline. It’s drawn attention to police brutality and systemic racism.

Its power comes from collective action to form a movement – from many people acting as one to say together – there is a better way. But even movements come down to individual choices – one person committing to love instead of hate. One person and then another, and another choosing to work for restoration instead of seeking retribution. One person, in the face of violence, in the grip of fear or the red flash of anger, standing firm, sitting calmly, breathing peace, and turning the other cheek.

Our passage this morning may be Jesus’ most famous teaching. It may be one of his hardest teachings, too. So hard, many find it impossible. Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you…turn the other cheek…Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

This passage is the continuation of the blessings and woes we heard last week, the sermon on the plain from the Gospel of Luke. Christ is teaching his disciples, and many more who would like to be – a big crowd of folks who’ve gathered seeking healing, and power.

The path of discipleship is not an easy one. Discipleship led Christ into conflict with the authorities, to Jerusalem and Golgotha, to crucifixion and death. With this teaching, I believe Jesus is preparing his followers to navigate the difficult road ahead, where they will encounter conflict, opposition, even hatred. But not only that. He’s helping us find our way into heaven, here and now – the reign of God present in the world around us. He’s teaching us how to liberate ourselves from the burdens of hate, bile and bitterness. Let it go, he says. Give freely to others without expecting anything in return. Forgive, as you have been forgiven. Love, as you have been loved – as God has given to you, forgiven you, and loved you without expecting anything in return. This is radical reciprocity, rooted in and stemming not from other people but from the goodness and mercy and love of God.

You know, the Golden Rule is found in every major world religion, in some form or another. And so there is wisdom we can draw from other religions to help us put Christ’s call to love and forgiveness into action. Buddhist scholars Robert Thurman and Sharon Salzburg wrote a book called Love your Enemy. In conversation with Krista Tippett of NPR’s On Being, they explain that loving your enemy isn’t the weak choice. It’s not choosing to be a doormat or pushover. Loving your enemies is a way to show powerful compassion for yourself. In Krista’s words, loving your enemies “is actually the most rational and pragmatic move, an antidote to a consuming culture of anger that is not a way most of us want to live.”[2] It takes so much energy, so much negative energy to be angry! It makes us feel terrible. Sure, anger, and hatred can motivate us, they can drive us to take action. But at what cost? Anger and hatred allow others to control how we feel – they can eat us up inside, send our thoughts racing in the same harmful loops, recounting the same litany of failures over and over again. That’s no way to live.

In living with the text this week, I realized that so often I think of this call in a big picture way, envisioning THE ENEMY out there – a Big “E” enemy, the looming faceless other: Russia amassing troops on the border of Ukraine, or the white supremacist nationalists who stormed the US Capitol last year. But the enemy we confront far more often is smaller, closer, more intimate than that. A small “e” enemy – the neighbor that annoys, the sibling who disappoints, the friend who borrows and doesn’t repay. This enemy is sometimes even within us – my own shortcomings, my impatience and anger with my children, my husband, those I know and love best. Finding a way to show compassion – for ourselves, and for others despite our many faults – is a pathway to healing, wholeness, and reconciliation. If Christ is to be believed, it’s how we find our way back to God.

In that conversation with Krista Tippett, Thurman observes that Jesus only had four years to teach before he was killed, whereas the Buddha had 46 years after his enlightenment, which means he had a lot more time to help his students find methodologies to adopt and practice his teachings! Buddhism offers two ways to practice this. One way we can cultivate love of our enemies big and small is through mindfulness – a Buddhist would do this through meditation practice – to build an awareness and presence of mind to disrupt patterns of thinking and waves of emotion. To be aware of our bodies, how we are feeling and to recognize that our emotions pass. Just because our hearts beat faster, our faces flush, and our bodies tense with the heat of anger doesn’t mean we have to let it dictate our actions. We can notice it, and change the channel, let it go.

Another way we can cultivate love of our enemies is through a specific kind of meditation called Loving-kindness practice. I actually did this as part of a psychological study when I was in seminary at Boston University. It’s a practice where you take a few minutes each day to think of someone who irks you. Notice how thinking of that person makes you feel. And then actively try to disrupt that feeling, and to not jump to loving them immediately, but at least to feel neutrally toward them. Then, as time goes on, move toward loving them – which is to say, to wish for them to be happy. And notice how that makes you feel, what comes up in you when you try to do that. Over time, your ability to re-route your anger, and your capacity for love will grow. And that is the path to healing. The path to forgiveness, the path to wholeness. The path, ultimately, that will save us all.

I charge you to try one of these practices this week. Maybe just commit to being a bit more present. Or maybe you can try to cultivate love toward yourself, toward a small-e enemy. Maybe you can practice loving-kindness toward someone who is a big-E Enemy; someone who has harmed you or threatened you in some way. See if it loosens something inside of you, opens up a space for love. I believe Christ knew that the only way to change everything was to first transform ourselves. So that when it comes time to hit the field, we can step out with courage, and compassion, and play with joy no matter what they throw at us. May it be so.

[1] Bonesteel, Matt, “Howard Women’s Lacrosse Team Subject to Racist Incident Before Game at Presbyterian,” The Washington Post, 2/14/22, https://www.washingtonpost.com/sports/2022/02/14/howard-womens-lacrosse-presbyterian/

[2] Tippett, Krista, with Sharon Salzberg and Robert Thurman, “Love Your Enemies?  (Really)” On Being with Krista Tippett, NPR, 10/31/13, aired again 2/17/22, https://onbeing.org/programs/sharon-salzberg-robert-thurman-love-your-enemies-really/#transcript

Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore, MD
February 13, 2022

Blessed?
Luke 6:17-26

In my house, we love to read.

Reading has always been one of my hobbies – I can remember sitting sideways in a wingback chair in my living room as a child, curled in the sun like a cat, getting lost for hours in a book. I have less time for deep reading like that these days, and I miss it. It was a great relief and delight to see Maddie become a proficient reader over the past couple of years – for her to begin to carry books to the breakfast table, unable to tear herself away.

Books transport us; they ignite our imaginations, enable us to see the world and our place in it differently. During the pandemic, books provided the perfect escape – allowing us to encounter and explore other cultures and travel to far-off places from the comfort of our living rooms. Reading has taken me to Nigeria and South Africa and Italy, to 16^th century England, even to Mars! Through books, we understand first-hand what it might be like to live through plague, poverty, war, a zombie apocalypse. Books helped open my eyes to the experiences of first and second generation immigrants, the struggles and triumphs of people whose lives are very different than my own.

And reading isn’t just an enjoyable pastime. Research has proven that reading makes us better people – more compassionate, more empathetic, and altruistic. Readers are better able to put themselves in someone else’s shoes, to imagine how other people might be feeling, what others are thinking, and act accordingly. Readers understand others and themselves better – reading builds emotional intelligence and intuition.

And this truth about reading makes me think about how we read scripture, and how it changes us for the better. Are you an observer, on the outside looking in, or do you try to find yourself in the story? I wonder where you found yourself in this passage from Luke, as Jesus shares these blessings.

It’s a bit of a puzzling passage, isn’t it? Troubling, even. Because it doesn’t sound so good for folks who are comfortable, who are content and pleased with their lives and in good standing with their communities. I don’t know about you, but more often than not, that’s where I find myself. With the ones he says “woe” to. Not whoa… woe, as in woe is you. Woe you who are rich, who are full, who laugh.

In this passage, Jesus turns our understanding of blessing upside down.

Because the people he says God blesses, well, they’re not the ones we expect! Blessed are the poor, the hungry, grieving, the reviled.

This is particularly challenging for us as North American Christians, because we probably hear people talk about blessing with some frequency. People claim to be blessed all the time. But a quick search on social media of the #Blessed will show you that our culture does not see blessings the way that Christ does. #blessed reveals photos of smiling families, beautiful homes, designer sneakers, exotic beaches. #blessed reveals the extent to which a lot of American Christian have bought into the prosperity gospel – the idea that abundance, good health, wealth, and power are a sign of God’s favor and blessing.

Kate Bowler is a Professor at Duke Divinity School, who studies the prosperity gospel and is living with cancer. Shortly after she learned she has stage four colon cancer, she wrote an op-ed in the NYTimes connecting her research to her life, grappling with her diagnosis in light of the prosperity gospel. She writes: “The prosperity gospel popularized a Christian explanation for why some people make it and some do not. They revolutionized prayer as an instrument for getting God always to say ‘yes.’ It offers people a guarantee: Follow these rules, and God will reward you, heal you, restore you.”[1]

But we know this is not how God operates. Good people, faithful people get sick. Faith does not prevent suffering. It doesn’t guarantee long life. Bowler says friends, family, and colleagues struggled to make sense of her devastating diagnosis. “There has to be a reason,” she writes, “because without one we are left as helpless and possibly as unlucky as everyone else…The most I can say about why I have cancer, medically speaking, is that bodies are delicate and prone to error. As a Christian, I can say that the Kingdom of God is not yet fully here, and so we get sick and die…”[2]

In our reading this morning, we hear Jesus preaching to a crowd of people, and a lot of them were sick. Scripture tells us the crowds that followed him were people seeking healing, trying to touch him to receive the power that emanated from his being. In the midst of this crowd of hurting people, he offers a promise of blessing. Blessing to the poor, the hungry, grieving, the reviled. I take this to mean that precisely when we feel most isolated, troubled, and alone; when grief sucks the color from life or pain threatens to split us in two, God is most present to, and most concerned for us…in and through the care of our community.

Rick Ufford-Chase, peace activist and former co-moderator of the PCUSA, says he struggled with this passage until he realized that “blessed” can also be translated as “greatly honored.”[3]  God honors those who suffer, are poor, and marginalized, and we who seek to follow Christ must do the same.

We see this in the life and work of Jesus, who came to serve and teach and heal the poor people of Galilee, far from the halls of power. He walked with peasants and prostitutes, people struggling to get by in an occupied land. And everywhere he went, crowds of sick and suffering people followed him, seeking his presence and power. With these blessings and woes, Rick says, “Jesus was making it clear that his notion of community was a total re-orientation – a conscious move to bring those on the margins into the center of community life.”

In our Bible study this week, and in trying to find ourselves in this passage, we realized that the states of being Jesus describes aren’t permanent. We could be blessed one day and woe-begone the next! Grief gives way to joy, and then reemerges. Our hearts are big enough to hold both hope and pain at once. Wealth can be lost, and with inflation these days it feels like is quickly eroded by rising prices. So he might also be helping us see the impermanence and fragility of our existence, even as he calls us to center those who are most in need in our communities of faith and practice. With these blessings and woes, Jesus is building our empathy, our compassion for one another.

Yesterday morning, a group of us gathered in the fellowship hall. Jack Nesbitt has been hard at work, building cedar stands for a story walk that will be installed on our property. A Story Walk is a path that displays a book, page by page, for people to read as they walk. You can find one at the Ivy Bookshop, and at Lake Roland, and many other places if you’re not sure what I’m talking about. For our work day yesterday, Jack and Pat set up wood stain and sealant, paintbrushes and dropcloths. And folks came to pitch in: to sand, stain, and seal the posts and stands. Bill Curtis, Maddie, and I mapped out the walk, driving stakes into the ground where we hope the kiosks will go. It’s exciting, because it feels like our dream is so much closer to becoming reality.

The idea grew out of our concern for learning loss during the pandemic, kids falling behind in reading and literacy during the year of virtual school. One-on-one tutoring through our partner school wasn’t possible last year, but we felt if we could provide an engaging way for students and their families to read – by donating books, offering a little free library, and soon a story walk – with seasonal and other beloved books displayed page by page around the property – it would be a good thing. Good for Faith, and good for our neighbors – after all, reading’s not just an essential skill for academic success. We know it builds compassion, empathy, and altruism. It makes us better humans. And if that isn’t a blessing, I don’t know what is. Thanks be to God.

[1] Bowler, Kate, “Death, the Prosperity Gospel, and Me,” The New York Times, 2/13/16, https://www.nytimes.com/2016/02/14/opinion/sunday/death-the-prosperity-gospel-and-me.html

[2] Ibid.

[3] Ufford-Chase, Rick, qtd. In a facebook post from the Center and Library for the Bible and Social Justice, 2/8/21,