Ministry of Interruptions

by Rev. Eric Folkerth

“Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.”
— John Lennon

“Humans plan. God laughs.”
— Yiddish saying

What if, for many years now, we’ve all been too driven by the clock, instead of being driven by life?

I’ve been pondering that this week as we look forward to the scripture for Sunday. The Gospel lesson tells the story of Jesus getting interrupted by one ministry crisis while he was in the midst of another.

And one of the meta-messages of the passage is that much ministry of beauty and power is born of simply being present.

Jesus doesn’t plan his time, so much as he he simply responds to what life gives him to do. 

Don’t get me wrong, we *need* plans if we are going to ultimately get to any destination. But sometimes in modern life we fail to realize that the crooked journey toward our goals is also filled with moments of blessing and importance; things that are unplanned and yet holy.

For example, this week we had our first in-person committee meeting at the Church in fifteen months. It was an unusually long meeting, but it felt like much of that was because most of the folks in the room were just happy to sit with other people!

And as we went through our agenda for the night, we also could hear the laughter from our KPUMC Alcoholics Anonymous group next door.

I don’t know what they were laughing about. It really doesn’t matter. The point is that I stopped long enough to hear the laughter of that group, muffled by the wall. 

I was with a group of humans.
That could hear *another* group of humans, laughing.

It was a small, beautiful grace and moment.
And I was grateful not to miss it.

So, as the world opens back up and we dip our toes back into being out in the world, by all means, “plan” your days. But remember that many of us learned how over-scheduled we had become. Maybe there is a gift in not jumping back in to being over-scheduled.

And remember: there is much beauty in the “ministry of interruptions.” 

Sometimes, the place we need to be is the place where interruptions happen, and plans we’ve made are transformed by the grace of a present moment.

Meditating on a Pandemic

by Rev. Eric Folkerth

“Please, let it be over…”

Now and then, on my bike rides around White Rock Lake, I have these cathartic moments that wash over me when I least expect them.

I’ve always thought that it’s because those rides function quite similarly to meditation. While on the bike, I must quiet my mind and focus on my body and breathing. I must concentrate on being present.

As with meditation and prayer, what happens is that the exterior stresses and the daily “to do” lists fall away, and I can often deeply feel things that are sometimes surprising.

That happened this week on what I call my first “hot, sweaty ride” of the year.

It was super humid and hot. I was having to work hard on the bike. (BTW, I LOVE these kinds of rides…I tolerate the entire rest of the year of riding, just waiting for these glorious months…). There is something about feeling physically spent and having to work hard that tends to break open my heart; and sometimes —in moments that are quite surprising— I find myself crying at the emotions underneath.

That’s what happened. 

All of the sudden, I was rhythmically pedaling, crying, and praying to God:

“Please, let it be over…”
“Please, let it be over…”
“Please, let it be over…”

I was praying about the pandemic. But I was thinking back over the past few weeks, and just how “normal” they have seemed. I was thinking of all the “normal” things I’ve done these past few weeks:

Worship with you all at Kessler.
Hospital visits.
Invocation at a luncheon at Fair Park.
Family graduation party with 50 Garcia/Puente relatives.
Walking Bishop Arts and eating lunches and dinners.
Hosting a community meeting at Kessler for our City Council District.
Going to buy a phone with my Mom at a store.
Visiting face-to-face with some neighbors in our neighborhood association.

These are the kinds of “ordinary” activities that I used to do, regularly.

That list? That might have been an average week fourteen months ago. But for the past 420 days of this global pandemic, many of these activities simply haven’t happened. They haven’t been possible.

But after months of false starts at “opening up,” it really is the case now that things are “opening up.”

And I was overwhelmed at the pure joy of normal things. I was overwhelmed by being able to do all those things in one week. But simultaneously, the grief and loss of the past year welled up too.

As I thought of all these beautiful, normal things, I also remembered all the things that didn’t happen.

Fourteen months of metaphorically, and literally, holding our breath.

Maybe it was a ptsd-like moment of my own fear welling up, but all of the sudden, I was mumbling this prayer to God, as fast as each breath could come:

“Please, let it be over…”
“Please, let it be over…”
“Please, let it be over…”
“Please, let it be over…”

Over and over, I prayed this and I cried.

It was cathartic.

You will, no doubt, have a similar moment, as you meditate and pray on the lists of things lost this year. Some of your losses are far more serious. Some of you lost family members to COVID and you are still deeply grieving those losses.

What I’m here to urge you to do, as your Pastor, is to allow those waves of grief to come over you when they will.

Don’t push them down.
The way through grief is….through grief. 

Grief comes on us like waves in the ocean. It’s like you’re standing in the water, up to mid-shin level. You’re enjoying your life. You think you’re “moving on.”

Maybe you’re just enjoying a lunch on the patio with a friend, or some other “normal” thing you haven’t done for a while…

When, out of nowhere, some big wave of grief will come and slap you in the chest.

And you’ll say, “Where did *that* come from?”

That’s just how grief works, friends. And the only way through is…through.

A part of what we are supposed to do as a Church —a part of WHY we gather for worship each week— is to do the very same thing that happens on those bikes rides…or in quiet, personal meditation.

We center ourselves down.
We “breathe in and breathe out,” so that we can discover what’s underneath…inside…deep within our souls.

Sometimes, that “something” below is joy, compassion, love, and peace.
Sometimes, that’s grief, anger, confusion, hurt.

A part of being “Church” together is allowing each other the space for these complex emotions, and taking the time to pray to God about all of them; trusting that it is through God’s abiding presence with us in it all that makes healing possible.

Friends, you are doing well gathering for worship. We will continue to do so. In another part of our newsletter this week, I’m going to write a few gentle reminders to you all about what we’re doing in worship. These are meant to be things that assure that this prayer of mine —this prayer of yours— will come true.

“Please, let it be over…” can now be more than a wish, friends.

It can be a reality.

But let us continue forward as a compassionate community that cares for each other, respects each other, as we take this journey to our “new normal.”

Grace and Peace,

Eric Folkerth

Unlocking the Doors

by Rev. Eric Folkerth

As our church continues to “open,” it’s clear to me that we will have to relearn basic things that should be obvious.

Such as: “Remember to unlock the doors.”

I know. This seems *beyond* obvious. But believe it or not, two Sundays ago —on Confirmation Sunday— we forgot to do just that. 

The Confirmands and their parents were coming early to Church, to run through the worship…so they could all be comfortable with their parts. We had just finished setting up in the sanctuary, as we’ve done every week for over a year, and I was taking a pit stop in the little boys room.

I was walking by the North (parking lot side) doors, when I saw a face peering in at me and gently knocking on the window. It was Cindy McSpadden. She looked a little sheepish. She couldn’t get in because the doors were locked. 

I knew in an instant what was wrong, and my first thought in my head was “Oh yeah…we’ve got to unlock the doors again.”

I know.
As I already said, that should be self-obvious. Of *course* we have to unlock the doors.

But you have to understand that for fourteen months, we did NOT unlock the doors on Sunday mornings; or, really, any other time of the week. In fact, we settled into a very familiar Sunday routine.

We knew *exactly* who was going to be present with us on Sundays. Our staff. Brett Shipp. Maybe a soloist, now and then. And that was it. So, of course we didn’t unlock the doors. For many months, it was literally not safe.

But now, we are “open” again. Our committees are talking about when or where they will be meeting “in person,” as are our support groups like Alcoholics Anonymous. The staff is slowly returning to more office availability. There will be fits and starts to how this works. 

But I am meditating deeply on the metaphor of what it means to “unlock the doors.”

As I wrote to you last week, the nature of the contemporary Church was changing even before a year-long pandemic. Going forward, every church must be far more intentional and thoughtful about how they welcome new folks.

Far too many young people —of all races, sexual orientations, and economic circumstances— believe “The Church” is LOCKED to them and that they are *not* welcome.

For example, during this “Pride Month” we recall all too well the sometimes painful stories of how LGBTQ persons have been literally locked-out of God’s Church in far too many places.

So, as I said on Sunday, we must be intentional with our “signaling” to the greater community. Some folks crassly called this “virtue signaling” suggesting that it’s a kind of Pharisaic “Look at how righteous I am!” mentality.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

We “signal” to the LGBTQ community —through our “Reconciling Ministries” sign, and Pride Flag— precisely because we humbly understand that so many folks in that community believe ALL churches are closed to them. We grieve this, and so we make special effort to remind them that they are loved and welcomed.

We “signal” to People of Color —through things like the “Say Their Names” memorial— because far too many of them still have to wonder if a predominately White congregation will welcome them. 

It’s always easy to think “But, shouldn’t everyone know that by now?”

And that gets me back to unlocking the door.

Time and time again, we have to re-learn the basics of what it means to be faithful to God. Even basics like unlocking the doors.

This is not *just* a lesson the pandemic has taught us. It was a lesson for us, even pre-pandemic. As I say, time and again, we can’t “assume” anything. But the pandemic brings it front and center again.

The culture around us knows less and less about Christianity as a whole and what they do know tends to be what they see on television of a fundamentalists faith that many of you would reject. So, our “signaling” must be clear. We must continue to clearly say: “Our doors are unlocked to you.”

We’ve all lost some “muscle memory” over the past year. Maybe a part of your muscle memory loss has been being able to get up and out the door on Sunday morning. 

Trust me, I get it. After that moment of forgetting the most basic of things (unlocking the door) I have great sympathy for us all as we journey toward a “new normal.

We’d love to see you on a Sunday soon, and we understand the complexities of getting out the door on Sundays.

But as we journey back toward a “new normal,” let’s commit to relearning the basics.

Let’s continue to be a church whose doors are unlocked to all God’s children.

Grace and Peace,

Eric