The Things We Can't Control : Reflection from Emily Rutledge

In less than 3 days I will be in a van full of teenagers on the road to Kentucky for our annual high school mission trip.  While it is always my favorite activity of the year it is also my most tedious.  My to-do list has looked like this the past week:

• Buy car snacks with Juniors
• Check in with chaperones
• Make van assignments
• Make group assignments
• Have other eyes look at assignments to see if I missed anything
• Confirm vans
• Confirm direction
• Find gluten-free food options near site
• EZ Passes, do we need them (and with the answer being yes)
• Find 5 EZ passes

Each to-do brings with it's own list of other to-dos that spawn from it and the web gets more and more tangled... along with my brain.  I am an alarmist which means my preparations go far beyond what any reasonable human would prepare for.  I have a first aid kit that could assist with the birth of a child and enough extra toothbrushes that an entire team could forget theirs and be covered.  

Let's just say there are lots of rubber totes that join us on our journey.

And, with all of that preparation, this year began to feel more like a burden than a blessing. Something I never wanted my ministry to feel like.  I'm not a minister because of my organizational talents or ability to color-code anything (although I find this comes in handy often), I am a minister because I believe in this whole crazy Jesus thing and I am called to share the ways that each of us are beloved, accepted, and affirmed in God's love.  

As much as I know that to be my truth... I forget it... often.

I get stuck in the details of things.  I get laser focused on what I can control so that I don't think about all the things I can't control:

• Will students have a meaningful interaction with the Living God on this trip?
• Will that one student who feels alone find a friend?
• Will my chaperones feel this was worth giving up a week of work and family for?
• Will someone get sick?
• Will we come back better than we left?

Sitting in the unknown and honoring it is much more humbling and difficult than dealing with all the little things we can control.  When we allow ourselves time and space to feel all the things we need to feel and pray all the things we need to pray we quickly recognize our own powerlessness and vulnerability.  Those two things: powerlessness and vulnerability are what we are conditioned to avoid as humans.  It's how we survived as a species.  It is also the place that God often finds space to reveal Herself to us.  

The to-do lists, the phones, the activities, the endless stream of GO that we create for ourselves allows us to shut out the very questions and answers that make for a fulfilling life.

• Am I loving like I should?
• What is the next step for our family?
• Will I survive this illness?
• What college will make me my best self and not just look good on a sweatshirt?
• Why are my children acting out?
• What is God calling me to?

I've duped myself into believing that completed to-do lists and a full schedule make for a fulfilling life.  The reality is that it makes for a FULL life that can be anything but fulfilling.  

So where do we find fulfillment?  I'm not sure (super helpful, right?!).  For each of us that is going to be different.  I do know this one thing: having 15 extra toothbrushes is not making for a more meaningful mission trip.  An empty inbox isn't making a fulfilling job.  A clean house isn't making a happy family.  Straight A's are not making a well-adjusted young adult.

There is something more.  I call it God, this something more.  It's the Holy that finds it's way into our lives even when we try to edge it out.  It's in the relationships and the questions and the conversations and the ah-has and the birth and the death.  It's in the space between the tasks. 

As I embark on a trip with 26 other beautiful people I pray that I can find space to BE instead of DO, that my own agenda does not usurp the things God has in store for me.  I basically need to get out of my own way.

May you do the same things week.  

The Other Side of Perfect: Reflection from Emily Rutledge

Six years ago I was very pregnant and very organized.  I was finishing up my second year of ministry at Church of Our Saviour and expecting our first child.  I had lists and plans and lots and lots of expectations.

I had begun the work of setting everything up for my maternity leave so that the transition would be smooth. I had an entire folder on my desk labeled ‘BABY PLAN’.  I had systems in place.  I had safety nets hung.  Sometime right before I had this over-planned for baby I met with Fr. David, my boss and mentor, and he asked me how I was.

My response was a long monologue regarding all the things I had done.  The plan. My well thought out map of how I would keep all the balls in the air.

He is a patient man, he listened, knowing better than to interrupt a very pregnant person, and when I took a breath he asked again, how ARE you?

I answered; prepared (insert laughter of parents everywhere) but anxious about my return to work.  I didn’t think I would be able to do all the things I had done before.  I went to gazillions of games and performances and was available for everyone at a moment’s notice. I thought I would let everyone down. With a baby I didn’t see how my ministry would be possible.  I was anxious that I wouldn’t be the minister I had been.  

David assured me I wouldn’t be.  

Here is where my heart drops and my stomach hurts…

I had hung my hat on being that minister.  I had found validation and worth through my work and as the looming birth of my little girl drew closer I felt my ability to be all the things to all the people slip away.  The ability to be close to perfect was deteriorating.  My whole life I had striven for perfection and I wasn’t sure who I was if I couldn’t get close to that goal.

Suddenly here I was.  The one thing I knew I was good at was going to change and the one thing I had no idea about (parenthood) was knocking on the door.  I saw them as enemies in competition for my achievement.

To be a good mom I would be a bad minister.

To be a good minister I would be a bad mom.

So here we are… six years later.  I am out of the forest of having small babies.  I’m the mom of two awesome humans, ages five and three, and I’m a full time minister to the youth and families of our middle and high school students. And David was right… I am NOT the minister I was.  Were you hoping for a different outcome? Were you hoping I could do it all?  Did you think I had the secret to parenthood and working full-time and not losing your mind and failing all the time?  Sorry… not my truth!

Perfect has moved so far out of my vocabulary my phone auto-corrects it to pizza.  I don’t see nearly as many games and performances as I want to and I miss more bedtimes and baths with my little people than I ever thought I would.  My phone goes silent at 10 pm and texts go unanswered until morning.  My children sometimes spend sick days in my office when there are meetings I can’t miss.

And… not one person is worse off for it.  Not my students or their parents or my own children.  Isn’t that just the worst?

See, apparently the whole world does not begin and end with my ability to do it all.  I don’t, in fact, improve the life of my family and my parish by being perfect.  It seems, in reality, that God is still God in spite of me.  It seems that perfection is not a requirement for doing a good job.  It turns out healthy boundaries, self-care, and trusting that others are as good at (or even better!) at some tasks than we are makes for a fuller life.  

For much of my existence I felt that striving for perfection was a holy act.  I thought that ringing out every ounce of my gifts and time for others meant I was serving God to the best of my ability.  I believed that anything less was selfish and lazy.  I didn’t accept that I couldn’t work for God’s grace or earn a spot as God’s beloved.  I also didn’t like that God could do plenty without me.

This parenthood thing has taught me lots but above all it has taught me that perfection does not equal success and weakness does not equal failure.  

Parenthood has made it so my plate can no longer hold all my things.  

Things fall off.

I put things on other people’s plates.

Things get traded.

Things get left to the side for too long.

It gets messy.  

One of the joys of my job is the simple act of presence.  Where many things have taken a backseat in my ministry presence holds a strong spot on my plate.  Being present in the lives of teenagers is a daily reminder that the bar of perfection is crushing.  It’s also moving.  When we continue to strive for perfect we not only get duped into believing there is such a thing but we find ourselves thinking others have achieved it and we have not. We buy into the lie the world sells that perfection brings fulfillment and joy.

The day that my boss informed me that after having a baby I would not be the minister I was before... I thought it was a death sentence.  Instead, when it came to fruition, it was an emancipation from perfection.  

I was free to not even try to do it all.  Be it all.  Achieve it all.  When perfection was no longer on the table I was free to do what we are told in Micah are the only things God requires of us, “do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.”  

In invite you to join me on the other side of perfect… I kind of like it here.  

Skewed Judgement: A Reflection from Emily Rutledge

A few weeks ago my husband, Jay, was invited to judge a chili and beer competition in Scottsville.
Free food and beer… his immediate answer was YES.

We decided to make a day of it and thanks to bad weather and cancelled soccer practices the kids and I headed down to Hatton Ferry a little after Jay.  We were thrown back into the Dark Ages since there was no cell service and we could only use cash.  Our kids immediately learned an important lesson: figure out your family call and respond to it (also: it never hurts to carry a twenty in your wallet).  Our family has a whistle that we use in large groups to find each other.  We are basically pack animals just trying to make it in this world.  As we stood lost at the front gate we heard a familiar whistle from the hillside and found Jay, sequestered, with the other judges.  Since Jay is not a professional chili judge he had no clue that judging would mean he would not be able to enter the festival and walk around because his judgement may be skewed by booths and interactions and the such.  

As tempting as it was to keep a 3 and 5 year old sitting still on a patio we choose to enter the world of booths and people and skewed judgement.  We walked from booth to booth meeting people, trying chili, getting lots of fun swag (pink firefighter hats for the win!), and jumping in puddles.  I picked my favorite chili immediately. It tasted good but I LOVED the women making it and the ways they loved on my kids even more.  

My judgement was totally skewed.

After his high profile judging gig was done Jay and I reunited for a loop around the booths and some James River rock skipping.  We talked about the chili, which we liked most, and which he thought had won.  Then we talked about the fact that two of the judges had wives in the competition but they had no idea which chili they had made in an attempt to stay impartial.

We love an impartial judge.  We need an impartial judge.  It’s crucial in many arenas: traffic court, the Olympics, and school science fairs just to name a few.  Yet, when it comes to our ultimate judgement, I am grateful for a very partial God.

We are seeped in a world of condemnation where the rest of the world loves to act as authority on the choices in our lives.

If my child did drugs I would kick them out of the house.

If my spouse cheated on me there would be no second chances.

I will NEVER be caught dead choosing soccer over church.

There is no way yoga pants can be worn as real pants.  

My family would never eat those kinds of processed sugars.

I can’t imagine my child going to private school, we are supporters of public education.

We are surrounded by people who think they know but really have no idea.  We are also surrounded by a God who knows.  She knows the intricacies of our lives, our hearts, our decisions.  She knows the pain and the hope and the depth of love that resides in each of us.  Our God does not sit on a patio sequestered making judgments about our lives to be handed down over a loudspeaker. Our God stands in the mud with us, sees the struggle, knows our hearts and intentions.  Our God sees our capacity for change and redemption.  In Matthew’s Gospel he tells us to, “go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ for I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” (Matthew 9:13). Our God IS mercy.

As agents of Christ’s love in the world we are called to mercy.  Mercy is much harder, more intimate, and heart-wrenching than sacrifice.  

Mercy is personal.  

Mercy is messy.  

It’s easier for us to sacrifice each other.

I would never…

I can’t believe they…

How could you…

When we are being Christ in this world we are being radical forgivers.  We are being fearlessly hopeful.  We are partial to the stories, the struggles, the belovedness of each and every person we encounter.  We turn from sacrifice to mercy.  From judgement to understanding.  From separation to unity.  When there is space and understanding for the complexity of our lives, our decisions, and our mistakes, there also becomes space for more love, abundance, and connection.  

Praying this week we are each brave enough to choose mercy.  

We All Deserve a Trophy: Reflection from Emily Rutledge

A common phrase I am finding myself using is ‘I deserve a trophy’.

For example:  my kids have been on a long streak of getting up in the middle of the night for no particular reason (they have reasons like ‘my blanket is not sitting right’ and ‘I had a bad dream about the library’ but I don’t consider those valid reasons to wake up at 1am).  Each night I have been getting up and helping them back into bed without losing my mind or screaming.  I deserve a trophy.   

A sweet friend of mine had surgery on her hip almost two months ago.  The recovery has been THE WORST and this week she went down from two crutches to one.  She’s done a million hours of PT and had to totally reorient her life to do all the things she still had to do while also being debilitated by pain and immobility.  She deserves a trophy.

At pick up a daycare this week one of the amazing teachers hurriedly walked into the classroom as I entered with a girl bleeding profusely from her nose (apparently this is a regular occurrence for this girl) and without one ounce of panic, frustration, or fear, dealt with a 3 year old gushing blood all over her.  She deserves a trophy.

At Dairy Queen on Monday I watched as two teenage boys spilled an entire orange soda and while they could have easily just walked away they spent ten minutes cleaning up every last drop.  Even the splatters.  Even the puddles under the table where it’s hard to reach.  Those boys deserve a trophy. 

Each of us gets out of bed each day, puts on clothes, and decides to live another day in this world where really really big things and really really small things are going to break our hearts and hurt our feelings and set us back.  We all deserve a dang trophy for getting out of bed.

But as you and I know:  no one is handing out these trophies! 

Where are the stinking judges who are supposed to tell us we are doing a really good job and give us a prize?  Why do we keep doing this hard stuff when often it seems like there is no actual reward. 

When I was young I thought that God was going to be that person.  That when I did something really stinking awesome or hard or ethical there would be some magical reward for me like I’d find a $20 on the sidewalk or win a radio contest or get into my reach school or have a really good hair day coincide with a really good outfit day (obviously the reward would be proportionate to the action). 

Let me share a hard truth I had to learn about that strong-held belief:  God is not a game-show host.  This life has no scorecard and on our worst days that is really comforting and on our best days that really annoying. 

When Christ came to be with us he gave us the reality check that the real prize; eternal life, community, and life-altering love was not handed out to a few winners but given to EVERYONE. There was nothing we could do to earn it… it was already ours.   Our life is just a reaction to that gift and no matter how we choose to react (with grace and kindness or with cruelty and hate) no one can take it away. 

This ultimate prize we all already have doesn’t make the day to day of existing any easier.  Life is still hard.  Daily we are surrounded by difficult situations that call for humble and grace-filled responses.  All of us are working really hard to do our best with what we’ve got.  I’m not yelling at my kids in the middle of the night, my friend is pushing through on one crutch, our son’s teacher is covered in blood and loving on toddlers, those boys are cleaning up soda with 1,000 napkins without complaining, and you got out of bed this morning even though you had no idea what today had in store for you. 

Two thousand years ago Jesus was literally walking around telling people he loved them and giving them hope.  We don’t get the Messiah.  Sorry… we were born too late.  What we do have is each other.  That means it’s our job to open our mouths and say the things.  It’s our responsibility to give the trophies.  At the core of each of us is a profound need to be seen and recognized. When we see the kind gesture or hard choice or extra effort of another and recognize it we open ourselves up to a deeper connection to each other and to the Holy.  When we allow ourselves to be instruments of encouragement and light for each other we give a gift better than that of a good hair day that coincides with a good outfit day… we are validated as worthy humans doing hard things.  A reminder we need to sustain us through the daily work of being human.   

Eggs in the Cemetery: Weekly Reflection from Emily Rutledge

When I first began my ministry at Church of Our Saviour the fact that the Easter egg hunt occurred mostly in the cemetery was uncomfortable for me. 

a.  I had grown up where most people were cremated and scattered in the ocean so spending time in a cemetery was new to me. 

b.  I was 24 years old and terrified of death. 

Flash forward eight years to yesterday when I spent about an hour and a half walking around the church property hiding eggs for the ultra-competitive teenage egg hunt we have the first Wednesday after Easter.  Death is different for me now.  I find comfort and peace in that cemetery.  I hid eggs at the tombstones of dear friends and beloved mentors.  Eggs are hidden by the graves of children taken too soon and spouses gone long before their partners.  Where the cemetery situated next to my office used to be a bunch of people I didn’t know who had experienced my greatest fear it is now the place people that I love are buried and where I see resurrection come to life.

Before the teenagers went out to hunt for eggs a few newer kids commented on the ‘weirdness’ of hunting for eggs in a cemetery.  An older student reminded them that we have a pretty healthy relationship with death in this youth community, mostly because we have to. 

Her mother is buried that cemetery.

Most of the adolescents in our parish have sat through services, stood witness, and held space as two of our families have buried a parent.  One, a high school youth formation leader, the other, our associate rector.  Not only have they experienced death they have experienced the treacherous path of terminal illness... twice.  

There is a tendency in our society to push away death.  We do everything we possibly can to live as long as we can and when someone does die we like to put that away in a nice box, in a cemetery, in a hidden place in our mind, and not think about it. 

We have made death the worst thing.

Death is not the worst thing.

A few years ago my friend Jenn, the associate rector here at the time, died of ALS.  I was privileged to be with her as her time got small.  Death had not become the worst thing for her… life had.  Before and through her illness she had done a bunch of amazing things, the best of which was raising her two children.  When Jenn knew her time on earth was coming to an end we had many conversations about a million things, mostly her children, but also about the ‘after’.  After she was gone.  She asked that I always hide eggs near her grave.  She knew she would be buried in the cemetery and loved that tradition.   

Jenn dying was crap.  Losing a parent or a child or a partner too soon is crap.  The missing them and the way that life isn’t fair or easy or predictable is crap.  We don’t believe in a God that makes horrible things happen but we live in a world where they do.  We believe in a God that says even after death… there is more.  

As followers of Christ we are given hope and comfort in the resurrection.  The empty tomb on Easter morning is our reminder that what seems like the end isn’t.   The resurrection is not a happy clappy response to the painful reality of death.  It isn’t a cure for the agony and emptiness that comes with the million little deaths we experience in our lives (relationships, careers, hopes, expectations) or how we experience actual physical death.  The resurrection is the fact that even when it all seems over, that we can’t go on, that there is not an ounce of life ahead… there is.  What happens when we physically die is still out of reach for me.  I’m not sure what ‘heaven’ is.  I don’t know what happens to our spirits.  What I do know is what resurrection looks like on this side of the grave. 

Resurrection is a marriage that comes back from the pits of hell and not only survives, but flourishes. 

Resurrection is the parent of a deceased child getting out of bed everyday and finding good in an unfair world. 

Resurrection is the addict who takes life one day, one hour, sometimes one minute at a time and is able to not take that drink or hit or pill.   

Resurrection is the person who bravely lives their true gender identity when it was assigned differently at birth.

Resurrection is the child whose mother died from a cruel and unfair disease that would make anyone question the goodness of God showing up to church each week and being able to take cute pictures with her bestie at mom’s grave while searching for Easter eggs. 

Resurrection is the way a loving God redeems all the really crappy things that happen.  It’s unpredictable, surprising, and covered in grace and mystery. 

Resurrection is why we hunt for Easter Eggs in a cemetery.  

It was a woman: Weekly Reflection from Emily Rutledge

It’s difficult for me not to read the Bible as a feminist manifesto.  I am often bewildered by those who take the Word of God and use bits and pieces of it to oppress women when through my reading and study I see it as a love letter about the power of the female spirit.  Strong, powerful, humble, open women who allow love, redemption, and grace to flow through them and magnify the love of God fill up the Old and New Testament.

Full disclosure:  I’m a woman so I wear a certain lens. 

The life and ministry of Christ is marked by the presence of women.  

Mary… the mother of God.

Samaritan woman at the well… evangelist extraordinaire.

The hemorrhaging woman who touches Jesus’ robe… audaciously courageous and healed.

Mary Magdalene… apostle to the apostles.

Martha… bold friend and sister.

Mary… the anointer. 

During Holy Week I am always keenly aware of the ways that women show up when men turn away.  Before Jesus’ magnificent entry into Jerusalem Mary, Lazarus’ sister, pours out an entire jar of expensive perfume anointing Jesus.  While the men at the table criticize her for not selling it and giving the money to the poor Jesus tells them what’s what and informs his followers that she is preparing him for burial (disciples: insert foot in mouth) and in both Matthew 26 and Mark 14 Jesus says that wherever the Gospel is preached, what this woman has done shall be spoken of in memory of her.  It is a woman who anoints Christ before his death.

When his disciples turn on him, abandon him, and hide, it is the women who stand at the foot of the cross.  His own mother stands witness to his suffering and watches as he dies a horrible death. Each Gospel gives a different combination of women in addition to Mary the Mother of Jesus in their account but all say the same thing: it is the women who stand at the cross, it is the women who witness him dying. 

It is Mary Magdalene who goes out early on Sunday morning to do the unpleasant and blessed work of caring for Jesus’ body when she discovers the resurrected Christ.   It is a woman who discovers and then proclaims the news that the scriptures have been fulfilled and that Christ is risen. 

When Jesus came to radically change the social constructs of this world he did it in every way and on every axis imaginable.  Christ’s message of hope for the sinner and care for the outcast proclaimed inclusion for all people; across cultures, religions, races, and circumstances. The ministry of Jesus flipped the universal understanding and acceptance of women as second class citizens on its head.  While it has been fun to place the blame of the fall of society on Eve and thus all women (#adamateittoo) through the metaphorical story of the Garden of Eden it is in Christ’s actual birth, life, and death that a radical re-evaluation of the role of women unfolds.  The first to proclaim the news of the resurrected Lord is a woman. **If that’s not case for women in ministry… I’m not sure what is**   The bold and brave steps that the women surrounding Christ took during his life and at his death are examples to each of us of how we can be transformative and powerful vessels of love even when no one wants us to, expects us to, or thinks we are capable.  Through His death and resurrection, “Jesus radically affirmed the full dignity of women and the vital value of their witness.” (Justin Taylor, Gospel Coalition). 

Each of us has something that allows the world to view us as less than: gender, socioeconomic status, ethnicity, sexual orientation, political stance, age, race, disability, weight, and the list goes on… as we approach this Holy Week I invite you to be like the women surrounding Christ: be boldly untethered to the expectations society has placed on you and harness your full dignity and your vital value.  Where are you called to anoint?  Where are you called to hold space in suffering?  Where are you called to proclaim the hope of resurrection?  Christ wants you there.  

Daffodils that didn't bloom. A Weekly Reflection from Emily Rutledge

A year and a half ago I planted tulip and daffodil bulbs in my front flower bed.  I was dang proud of myself.  It had taken me almost a year to get the energy and organization to take on the task… planting things two season before you want them to bloom really messed with my mind.  I am intrinsically lazy while also a perfectionist so I dug the holes at equal distances and had my children and their friends place the bulbs and cover them up.

We waited. 

Things grew.

It was beautiful.

I was proud of myself (and the kids… but mostly myself for getting my act together).

And as it goes; the spring came and went and as summer arrived and my flowers began to die I promptly cut the flowers below the soil so that the dying leaves and buds did not make the front of my house look disheveled.  I did this without any research or thought.  Then I found out that it was exactly NOT how to deal with this gardening situation and that I needed to let the blooms die and dry and then cut them.  

Go figure.

So here we are, a year later, my daffodils and tulips have sprung forth from the ground and while everywhere I look there are daffodils blooming my blooms are nowhere to be seen.  Green stalks, no flowers.  I have a sinking feeling my desire for my flowerbed to look perfect has killed the new growth that I wanted.

Those flowers needed the mess, the death, the drying out to live again.

My desire for perfect killed my hope for renewal.

When we look at the ways we present ourselves to the world, it’s easy to do the same.  Cut down the messy, the withering, the dead, so it can’t be seen.  Present the perfect picture to the world, to our friends, to our neighbors, and not let the brokenness, the pain, the falling apart, show.  And in turn, they will do the same.  They will hide their own pain and brokenness from us because the reciprocity of vulnerability, the safety of transparency, will not exist.  Each of us will cut off our ability to allow the Holy Spirit to do what She does best; use the brokenness in our lives to feed our souls and allow us to bloom again, a testimony to the power of resurrection.

Being a community in Christ does not mean showing up on Sundays with the perfectly dressed family and a picture perfect life.  Being a community in Christ means being honest and transparent about our lives, our brokenness, our failures.  It also means holding space and bearing witness as our neighbors do the same.  It means not judging the wilting flowers but reminding each other that there is beauty to come; that the brokenness brings the beauty, that Christ had to die for Easter to come.  Paul tells us in 2 Corinthians that, “if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come.  The old has gone, the new is here!”

When we allow ourselves to be honest with the world- to show our brokenness, our imperfections, our wilting flowers, we give others permission to do the same.  When we become a church where broken people show up without needing to hide any part of their journey we become a community alive.  There will be those spouting, blooming, drying out, and laying fallow for a new season, and together we become the living, breathing, body of the resurrected Christ.  When we drop our desire to look perfect we open the door to a life of resurrection where in each season we are surrounded and loved as we are.  Instead of being perfect and admired we are broken, transforming, and known.  

It's not your imagination: your high school senior is a jerk. A weekly reflection from Emily Rutledge

Each year during the spring my job takes on a seasonal ministry.  It’s for a very select and elite group of students and their parents… I call it ‘your-kid-doesn’t-hate-you-they-are-just-an-irrational-high-school-senior-trying-to-make-leaving-easier’. Some of you have lived through this very special (read: frustrating and exhausting) time and others may still believe… never my child.

Guess what?  Your child.

Eight years of ministry.  What feels like a million seniors (it’s probably around 55 but once they are seniors the energy the need from me is 100 fold) and each one.  Each stinking one of them: total and complete jerks to their parents during the spring of their graduating year.  The levels have varied and correlate to their normal demeanor.  The sweetest most non-confrontational child will fall a little lower on the spectrum of being an utter handful while the most spirited may go ahead and get a tattoo, drive their car into a ditch, or just stop doing all school work because they are ‘already accepted to college’ (all real life events). 

Without fail emails, texts, and phone calls start coming around March with questions like,

• Have you noticed a change?
• What have I done wrong?
• Will you talk to them?
• Please go ahead and adopt my child because I can no longer be in charge of their well-being --I cannot have one conversations with them.  Every time we talk it escalates into an argument.
• Does the priest do exorcisms because this feels like an appropriate situation for one?

The pain, the fights, the tears, the smart-aleck comments, they are REAL.  The root of them doesn’t really matter when it is your child talking to YOU because it hurts.  While you are mourning the baby you put your entire heart into raising leaving your nest your child is an adult size toddler with poor reasoning skills informing you that you’ve done it all wrong. 

And all of it… every last comment and rolled eye… it’s because they love you.  It’s because they are so dang sad to leave you and so scared of what is to come the safest thing to do is to hurt, alienate, and infuriate the people who loves them most so it’s easier to walk away in late August.  So basically, they are being total jerks because you did a great job. 

My kindergartner will tell me, “mommy, I can’t wait for us to go to college together” and while that makes me tear up a little bit now I am one hundred percent sure that when she is 17 I will need a reminder that she is a good person and that I am not a failure parent and that we will survive this season of life. 

As people of faith letting our children grow more fully into the gifted and independent souls they are ends up meaning that we are asked to do the hard work of staying steady when they begin to shake.  We are tasked with keeping our arms open to our children even when they lash out in fear and anxiety.  We are tasked to be a reflection of God to the nastiest most unappealing side of our own children.  In the rest of our lives there is usually some trophy for staying the course on a task this hard: you are recognized at work, your friend sends you a thank-you note for your unwavering support, you finish a marathon, you launch an amazing project.  In this instance… the trophy will most likely come MUCH later in the form of a child who recognizes the ways that your love and support carried them even when they were not asking for it.  *do not expect this anytime in the next three years, I don’t want you to set yourself up for disappointment

So, sweet parents, you are doing a really good job.  Your kid is not going to tell you that.  They may be telling you the opposite, or nothing, or just crying a lot… but stay the course.  This is normal. THEY are normal(ish... as normal as any of us can be).  They are still all the awesome things you know them to be it's just a little blurry right now.  They are still gifted and kind and smart.  They are still a kid to be proud of.  They are just really really hard to parent for this season. When you mirror the love of Christ to your children, a love that can withstand all the complaining and yelling and raging, they will know God even more fully through you. Don't feel even a little bit bad about venting to your friends, partner, or anyone with an ear to listen... you deserve a break and to be heard by someone (since your senior will definitely not be that person)!  I promise, come September... they will miss you and you may even like them again.  

Stand in the Muck. Weekly Reflection: Emily Rutledge

The past few months have been loud.  The past few weeks have been deafening.  I have read more blogs, listened to more podcasts, and digested more policy than this English & Education major ever imagined possible.  I feel full. 

I also feel enraged and heart-broken and sad.  Last Sunday David spoke from the pulpit about where we stand as a church.  We stand on the side of Jesus, on the side love, on the side of open borders and hearts, on the side of inviting.  In that place we also stand on the opposite side of fear.

 

Lately our country is ruled by fear.  Fear of the ‘other’.  Fear of invasion.  Fear of what is to come. 

I am not a theologian or a policy expert.  I spent the majority of my higher education reading old dead dude’s writing and learning about the inner workings of the middle school brain.  I have spent the entirety of my adult life watching too much reality TV, drinking lots of coffee, and online shopping.  The rest of my time has been spent with a bunch of ‘others’. I have sat in hospital rooms with rape survivors as they spoke to police officers and endured invasive evidence collection.  I have spent countless late nights on a survivor hotline talking to men and women living close to the pit of despair that looms near when you have survived trauma.  I have taught in classrooms with students who have no permanent home or guaranteed next meal.  I have ministered to gay and straight, trans and cis, rich and poor, white and brown students whose constant fear is failure (on a million different levels). 

All these experiences have taught me three things:

• We are all broken people with a ridiculous capacity for love and healing.
• What we long for above all else is to be seen.
• When you judge someone you can’t love them. 

As Believers we are all across the board right now.  We each know we are right and everyone else is wrong and somehow we are getting the lines between politics and Jesus really blurred.  Jesus has become the tool we use to justify instead of the ruler we use to measure. 

Beyond policy and politics there are people.  People that, no matter what God they do or do not worship, no matter their gender or orientation or race or education, have worth.   Just as you and I do. 

Hear their story. 

Jesus spent his entire ministry seeing and loving others and their stories.   Jesus’ ministry of presence challenges us to do the one thing that makes us most uncomfortable.  Show up.  Hold space.  See someone. 

Fear is so deeply intertwined with the unknown they can be hard to untangle.  There is only one clear way to untangle it all… to face it.  Speak with the recent immigrant and hear the stories of their escape and life in a war-torn country.  Have coffee with the Trans woman and understand the agony of being afraid, tormented, and alone in a body that doesn’t mirror her heart or mind.  Sit with your brown friends and hear what they must teach their children about how to remain safe in the country they built; how to leave a traffic stop alive and walk home without incident.  Be present with the nurse who offers an emergency contraceptive to the girl sexually assaulted by a family member. 

Jesus, our great teacher, taught us this power time and time again.  With a woman at a well.  With strangers in a synagogue.  With friends at a table.  With prostitutes and religious leaders and believers and doubters alike.  Jesus was never afraid to stand in the midst of the muck, listen to another’s story, and then proclaim the simple truth of LOVE.  Jesus showed us to love someone we must see and validate them.  It becomes very hard to hate and cast away and write off another human once you have shared space and story together.

It’s our job, as followers of Jesus, to do the hard work.  To hold the space.  To be witness to the ways God loves and works through all people.  At our baptism we committed to ‘seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves’ and to ‘strive for justice and peace among all people, respecting the dignity of every human being’.   We are called in this moment to do the things Jesus needs us to do for the people Jesus loves.  There are a million excuses and reasons we can shy away from this awkward hard work but now is when we move past being people who show up on Sundays to sit together in a pretty building to being a radical community of love that transforms the world.  

Two Jobs: A Mid-Week Reflection

EMILY RUTLEDGE, Youth Minister

Have you ever thought about how we see color?  That the way that you see green may be how I see pink but we were taught to call that color green so that is what it is to us.  We can each be looking at the world and be seeing something totally different but all agree that is the same because we have named it that.

I will never see green through your eyes and you will never see green through my eyes so we will never know what green looks like to anyone but ourselves.  This is one of those 'makes my head hurt' ideas if I think about it for too long.  Each of us is complex and unique.

As we trudge through this election season it is becoming clear how differently people can view the same thing.  The internet is full of articles and videos that are trying to change minds, inform voters, and belittle candidates.  We are classifying ourselves into groups and making judgments regarding the wrongness and rightness of people, ideas, and situations. 

Frankly, it's getting nasty out there.  As a country we are turning against each other in ways I have not seen in my (albeit short) lifetime.  

Our desire to be right is overtaking our desire to be kind.  

As people of faith we have two jobs:

1. Love God

2. Love each other

So simple.  So hard.  

We are citizens of this country but also citizens of the Kingdom of God.  Unfortunately.... so is everyone else.  This loving each other and loving God thing isn't determined by an election but it is challenged by it.  Amy Poehler has an amazing quote in her book Yes Please where she describes women's desires to judge and tear each other down and offers the advice that we should repeat the mantra, "Good for her!  Not for me."  We may need this mantra now, as we walk through the next few months.

We are fighting tooth and nail to make others see the world as we do and in the process we are ripping each other apart.  We are ripping apart the Body of Christ.  We must must must re-member. We must literally re-member; put back together, stay connected, support, the entire Body of Christ. Those we love and those we can't stand.  Those we agree with and those we don't.  We must accept that we can not make anyone see as we see.  What we can do is love.  And love does far more than being right ever will.   

Two Jobs: A Mid-Week Reflection

EMILY RUTLEDGE, Youth Minister

Have you ever thought about how we see color?  That the way that you see green may be how I see pink but we were taught to call that color green so that is what it is to us.  We can each be looking at the world and be seeing something totally different but all agree that is the same because we have named it that.

I will never see green through your eyes and you will never see green through my eyes so we will never know what green looks like to anyone but ourselves.  This is one of those 'makes my head hurt' ideas if I think about it for too long.  Each of us id complex and unique.

As we trudge through this election season it is becoming clear how differently people can view the same thing.  The internet is full of articles and videos that are trying to change minds, inform voters, and belittle candidates.  We are classifying ourselves into groups and making judgments regarding the wrongness and rightness of people, ideas, and situations. 

Frankly, it's getting nasty out there.  As a country we are turning against each other in ways I have not seen in my (albeit short) lifetime.  

Our desire to be right is overtaking our desire to be kind.  

As people of faith we have two jobs:

1. Love God

2. Love each other

So simple.  So hard.  

We are citizens of this country but also citizens of the Kingdom of God.  Unfortunately.... so is everyone else.  This loving each other and loving God thing isn't determined by an election but it is challenged by it.  Amy Poehler has an amazing quote in her book Yes Please where she describes women's desires to judge and tear each other down and offers the advice that we should repeat the mantra, "Good for her!  Not for me."  We may need this mantra now, as we walk through the next few months.

We are fighting tooth and nail to make others see the world as we do and in the process we are ripping each other apart.  We are ripping apart the Body of Christ.  We must must must re-member. We must literally re-member; put back together, stay connected, support, the entire Body of Christ. Those we love and those we can't stand.  Those we agree with and those we don't.  We must accept that we can not make anyone see as we see.  What we can do is love.  And love does far more than being right ever will.   

A Place at The Table: Mid-Week Reflection

EMILY RUTLEDGE, YOUTH MINISTER

You may have seen information about this app floating around the internet the past few days. Its call ‘Sit With Us’ and was created to be a connector for students who are in need of people to eat lunch with and those who want to welcome people to their lunch table.  It’s simple, and beautiful, and it was created by a current high school student who ate lunch alone for her entire 7^th grade year. 

The students who are inviting others to sit with them are called ‘ambassadors’.  The definition of an ambassador is, “an accredited diplomat sent by a country as its official representative to a foreign country”.

The foreign countries of our lives are vast and expansive.  We are alone as a parent.  We are alone as a caretaker.  We are alone as a widow.  We are alone as a transfer or an old-timer or a leader.  It is easy for us to access the emotion of the student eating alone in the lunch room because we have each been there and continue to be there in some aspect of our lives. 

And, as Christians, even when our lives cause us to feel alone, we are called to be the ambassador.  An ‘accredited diplomat’.  Your accreditation: you are God’s beloved child.  Your worth is beyond measure and your gifts uniquely given so that you can officially represent our loving and accepting God.  We are called to reach out and invite people to the Table.  We are to proclaim Christ’s love through inclusion, invitation, and acceptance. 

My heart breaks to think of that sweet girl eating lunch alone for a year.  It breaks my heart and is happening every day.  In our schools, in our churches, in our workplaces, and even in our homes.  We can be surrounded by people and be so utterly and impossibly alone this world seems nothing but cold and cruel.  We must be the light, the invitation, the warmth that reminds others that we are in this together.  That we are each worthy of a place at the table.