Uplift Life

This is the best worst day of the year.
Holy Saturday.
It’s the day after the worst thing happened.
It’s the day after everything fell apart.
But it’s quiet.
There’s no celebrations yet.
No empty tomb.
No risen Jesus to sing about.
It’s just quiet.
This day is so real life to me.
The day you wake up and everything is bad and dark and sad.
It’s a day we’d rather rush through in order to get to Easter quickly.
We don’t like to sit in the dark, sad, places.
But this day is important.
Because we will feel this way again.
The day after someone we love dies.
The day after a diagnosis.
The day after the worst day.
The day before the resurrection.
The in-between day.
It’s not as hard as yesterday.
It does not contain even a teeny bit of tomorrow’s joy.
But here we are.
So be in this day.
Trust that the worst thing is not the last thing.

Lastly – I want to share a poem from Jan Richardson.
She didn’t write it for this day, this strange in between day.
But I think it’s perfect…

Blessing for a Broken Vessel – by Jan Richardson

Do not despair.
You hold the memory of what it was to be whole.

It lives deep in your bones.
It abides in your heart that has been torn and mended a hundred times.
It persists in your lungs that know the mystery of what it means
to be full,
to be empty,
to be full again.

I am not asking you to give up your grip on the shards you clasp so close to you
but to wonder what it would be like for those jagged edges to meet each other
in some new pattern that you have never imagined,
that you have never dared to dream.

There’s a phrase that people often say when they have gone or are going through something difficult:
“new normal.”
As in, “I’m just trying to figure out life in this new normal”
“We are taking it day by day in our new normal”
Raise your hand if you’ve ever said this yourself or to someone else.
(HAND UP)
Yeah.
It’s kind of a thing we all say in those moments when everything has changed, and yet you can’t make it change back so we are just trying to figure life out.
A new normal is what we say when we mean this is the way it is now and so we just have to adjust to the new way things are.
A new normal.

But here’s the thing.
I think all that crap that changes everything isn’t normal.
Cancer? Not normal.
Losing a spouse or child or friend? Not normal.
I mean it happens, but that doesn’t mean it SHOULD happen, or that it was supposed to happen or even that we are supposed to decide the life we have afterwards is the normal one and the way it was before is the way it wasn’t supposed to be.
This is the problem with bullshitty theology like “Everything happens for a reason” because what could the reason possibly be for cancer or heart attacks or losing loved ones? So we suffer? So we know how good it used to be?
So we meet someone else?
Um NO. All those options suck actually.
So I’d like us to all declare, together, a moratorium to the phrase “A New Normal”
It’s crap.

Let’s call it a new abnormal.
Things aren’t the way we thought they would go.
It’s not “normal.”
Nothing about life is “normal.”
There is no normal.
It’s all abnormal, really.
It’s just that sometimes our abnormal changes.
The only constant is change, so let’s stop pretending that all the crappy crap that happens is the way it’s supposed to go and call it what it is.
Abnormal.

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday.
A day that brings up memories of incense, candles, and quiet, echo-y sanctuaries.
After the celebrations of Fat Tuesday (or Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, whichever you celebrate) we move into Lent.
(though let me make a quick plug here for Shrove Tuesday because what the world needs is a day to just eat pancakes, am I right?)
This season in the church is one that we don’t always know what to do with.
It’s quiet.
It’s contemplative.
It’s filled with reflection and self-examination.
All things that we don’t do very well these days.
See often we think of Lent as this run-up to Easter.
Like a countdown to the good stuff.
Or we think of Lent as this time to show everyone what a good Christian we are by giving something up and then telling everyone about it.
But what if we had gotten it wrong?
What if Lent wasn’t about giving stuff up or trying to be like Jesus in the wilderness for these 40 days?
What if Lent was about getting our focus and energy back on God?
We have strayed.
We have lost our focus.
Lent is time set apart for us to be honest about the things that take us away from God.
We can’t really rise on Easter Sunday unless we understand the things that are killing us.
And then we need to let them die.
Lent is hard.
But man do we need it.

And it all starts with Ash Wednesday.
Tomorrow.
This day where we go to church and someone looks at us and says:
“You are dust, and to dust you shall return”
It’s not fun.
I know, there are a lot of cool, trendy taglines to try to get you to come to church on this day.
“Get your ash in church.”
“Ashes-to-go.”
I was at a conference not too long ago and someone said that they found the act of receiving ashes to be a comfort, and that it made them feel warm and feel good.
Um… NO.
Not me.
If that’s how you feel about receiving ashes and being told you’re going to be dust, then good on you,
but I find it difficult and uncomfortable and unsettling.
It’s a day I’d rather skip, if I’m being honest.
Who really wants to be reminded of their impending death?
Who wants to be reminded of the fragility of their life?
Not. Me.

When I was three years old, my family went to Ash Wednesday mass and as we received the ashes on our foreheads, as that priest leaned forward and told me to remember I was dust and to dust I shall return,
I shouted out (in the middle of the very quiet church):
BUT I DON’T WANNA BE DUST!!!!
Truth, out loud.
That little girl is still in there.
I STILL feel that way.  Don’t you?
I don’t like this moment.
At all.
It’s so humbling to hear that I am mortal.
I don’t want the reminder of the reality of my own coming death.
Who does?
But I need it.
WE need it.
It connects us to our humanity.
But it also connects us to our salvation.
It brings our life and death together for one moment – and it is in that moment that we are humiliated and resurrected at the same time.
As Lutheran Pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber preached, “If our lives were a long piece of fabric with our baptism on one end and our funeral on another, and we don’t know the distance between the two, then Ash Wednesday is a time when that fabric is pinched in the middle and the ends are held up so that our baptism in the past and our funeral in the future meet.” 
The cross on my head with the water of my baptism meets the cross with the dirt of my funeral
and for just a second I can truly understand what it is to have these promises of God written on my very person.
I am God’s.
Always.
Yesterday, today, tomorrow.
Not even the inevitability of my own death can erase the promise of this God who loves me and has claimed me as his own.
This reminder matters.
Death matters.
Because new life cannot exist without it.
Resurrection follows death.

So even though that little three-year-old Natalia still has her moment of not wanting to be dust,
I will show up,
I will bow my head,
and I will be reminded that I am dust.
It matters.
Maybe now more than ever.

So find a service.
(it doesn’t have to be mine, but you are always welcome)
Come to church.
Hear the words.
Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
It matters.

I have a rant that has been building for awhile, and it’s time for it to come out…
There’s a poem written in 1650 by Thomas Fuller and in it he writes: “It is always darkest just before the day dawneth.”
That’s the first record of this proverb that has now been used and said an untold but vast number of times.
A simple Google image search provides thousands of images behind these lines.

Tomorrow is the winter solstice.
In MN, this is when it is the darkest for the longest.
And so in honor of the longest darkest night, I’m making a plea to stop telling people that it’s always darkest before the dawn.

Now I get it, this phrase is used with good intentions.
Often to give people hope when they are in their “darkest times.”
But you guys, it’s crap.
Total and utter crap.
Do you know when the darkest part of night is?
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAMN NIGHT THAT’S WHEN.
And it’s not my opinion, it’s science.
The moment right before dawn is actually pretty light.
Have you ever watched the sun rise?
It isn’t dark dark dark BOOM light.
No, it’s a slow and gradual lightening of the sky until it’s day.
It’s not the darkest but actually the lightest part of night that is before the dawn.

So when someone is in the literal middle of the darkest dark in their lives,
when the shit has hit the fan and they cannot find any light –
telling them it’s darkest before it’s light feels like the lie it is.
Have you ever been in this kind of darkness?
It’s really dark. I mean really.
It’s scary, and isolating, and so hard.
And when you’re in it,
you KNOW,
without a doubt,
that dawn is NOT, in fact, around the corner.

So what do we say?
We have to say something right?
When a friend is in the dark? We can’t just be quiet.

Um. Yes.
Yes you can.
You don’t have to say the right thing or send them the perfect quote on the perfect background you found on pinterest…
You know what you can do?
You can bring a candle and sit in the dark with them.

I KNOW – we don’t like the dark at all.
In fact, we often would rather sort of toss a flashlight in the general direction of someone who is in the dark, and hope they know how to use it.
We say things like “let me know if I can do anything”
or “I’m here if you need me”
I say “we” because I am absolutely guilty of this as well.
I’m a fixer. I want people to be happy and healthy and shiny.
But that’s not real life.
So tomorrow, on the shortest day, on the darkest longest night,
go be the light.
Because if you know someone in the dark,
in the darkest dark,
in the middle of the darkest night,
know that it’s probably not almost dawn,
it’s not likely to be light for a little while yet,
and they might need some company,
and someone to bring the light for them for awhile.

Lastly – if you are in the dark, if this is you… know that while it might still be dark for a little while,
the light DOES and will come.
Maybe not quickly, but it will come,
a tiny bit lighter, day by day, little by little.
Gradually, and then it’ll be light again.
I promise.

Phew you guys.
Today feels like the culmination of a year (or more) of anger and divisive rhetoric all boiled into one 12 hour period.
The energy of this day is palpable.
And I’ve got to be honest, not all the energy feels positive.

If nothing else, this election cycle has ramped up the idea that differences between each other are somehow bad, and the only people we can talk to or show kindness to are the ones who believe the same things we do.

I’m as guilty of this as the next person.
As I stood in line to vote this morning and watched people exit the polling room, I had a moment where I looked at each one and wondered if they had voted against me or not.
Yeah.  That’s really what went through my mind.
I’m not proud of it.  But it’s the truth.

It took a few minutes, but I got myself out of that place.
It wasn’t easy.
And I knew, KNEW, at that moment I had a choice.
I could put myself on one side of a line and some on the other.
I could be angry and bitter and frustrated and spiteful and hateful.
OR
I could be an Uplifter.
See folks, this is where the rubber meets the road.
Because being uplifters is especially hard when the world around us is asking us to sink to the lowest common denominator.
Asking us to call each other criminals or bigots.
Asking us to choose sides and hunker down.
Well guess what?
We don’t have to do what the world tells us to do.
We are uplifters.
And we get to choose something different.
We get to choose hope.
We get to choose kindness.
We get to choose understanding.
We get to choose.

This morning, as I stood there silently judging those walking past me,
I made a choice.
A conscious choice.
In fact, it was an intentional and not easy choice to look around at people who were likely not all voting the same way I was and think of them as brothers and sisters.
As people exercising their right to vote same as me.
As people who were making a choice for something they believe in, same as me.
As people worthy of love and kindness, same as me – and more importantly, even if they don’t return the sentiment.

So today is our choice fellow Uplifters.
We get to choose to be different.
We get to choose to be a part of #teamuplift
And even though there aren’t thousands or millions of us, there are hundreds.
And we, though small, can make a difference.
We can flood the interwebs with positivity instead of negativity.
We can listen to those who disagree instead of shouting over what they believe.
I promise, we can do it.
We can Be Uplifters and be countercultural today.
Join the movement.
Be an Uplifter.
#teamuplift

PS.
Did you know if you make “Be an Uplifter” into a hashtag it looks like this: #BeanUplifter
Bean Uplifter? What is that?
Yeah. Found that one out the hard way.
#teamuplift for the win!

I was listening to a podcast last weekend, featuring on of my favorites, Sarah Bessey, and in it, she asked the question, “what are you for?”
KABOOM.
Mind. Blown.

I think she figured out something huge and true and powerful.
We are constantly in the world, seeing what is around us and deciding and declaring what we are NOT.
And I actually think that’s important.
Because knowing what we aren’t helps us figure out what we are.
But we’ve stopped at the first part.
We just keep naming all the things we’re against.
We say we’re “anti” this and “non” that.
Yikes.
We have somehow decided that making sure we aren’t lumped in with the “wrong people” is priority number one.
Knowing what we’re against has become more important than knowing what we are for.

It’s killing us.
Really.
Literally.

I woke up this morning and read the news and saw more unjustified killing of unarmed black men and riots and protesters and police both hurt and my heart just breaks.
Because I know that when I go onto twitter or facebook my feed is going to be full of anti-this and against-that.
And I can’t do it anymore.
I just can’t.

But I can start to ask a different question.
What am I for?

Many years ago, in my first go-around through seminary, I took what might be the best course I’ve ever taken.  It was an ethics course, on Martin Luther King Jr.
So I know, I KNOW, that it bothers some people when a white middle class girl from Minnesota quotes MLKJr, but I don’t do it because I searched pinterest inspiring quotes but because I studied his life and words and sermons and know that very few people had the courage to say the things he did, the way he did, when everyone else was advocating a different kind of response.
In 1968, MLKJr preached a sermon called “The Drum Major Instinct.”
It’s my favorite thing he’s ever said or written.
(If you want to listen and read it, go here)
He talked about our need to lead, to be in front, and said it’s not wrong, this instinct, but we’ve misused it.

But instead of fighting the instinct we all have, we need to ask what KIND of drum major do you want to be?
Sound familiar?
What are you for?

When you lead – what kind of leader are you going to be?
When you fight – what are you going to fight for?
When you speak – what are your words going to convey?
When you act – what will your actions say about your heart?

What kind of drum major will YOU be?
What are you for?

Today.
Every darn day in this contentious election cycle.
Every time a black or brown life is unjustly and needlessly cut short.
Every time another life is reduced to a candy metaphor.
Every time your heart breaks at a news story.
Ask yourself – what are you for?

We can do this.