Dear Friends,

I can see it in your faces. That was my thought as I greeted people both on Tuesday evening for our pancakes and on Wednesday for our Ash Wednesday services. I could see it in your faces – the weariness, the frustration, even the bewilderment of dealing with all of the snow and all of the cold. It was so clear to me that none of us has been immune to the challenges that the weather has presented. And unlike a quick and large storm that comes and goes, this winter has not really given us a chance to react, respond, and “mop up” after the worst of the destruction.

We are all in this together. Each one of us has been affected in any number of ways. And that makes it a bit easier – we trade stories, we listen with understanding about ice dams, leaks, and too much shoveling to do, and we find ways to support one another as we journey through the winter together.

How like the journey of Lent. On  Ash Wednesday, those who were here for the services had a cross of ashes placed on their foreheads. And one could have said, “I can see it on your faces.” I can see that which we all have in common – an awareness of our own mortality, and an awareness that all of us are imperfect and fallible human beings, subject to being sinful and to being harmed by the sins of others.

We are all in this together. Each one of us has been affected by the changes and circumstances of life. Here, in living our our lives as Christians with one another, we can trade stories of heartbreak and  healing, of fears and failings, of loves and labors. As we do we listen with understanding,  finding  ways to support one another as we journey through Lent.

We are all in this together. And for that, I thank God.

Faithfully,

Tom

Dear Friends,

This coming Sunday, our children will decorate “Alleluia” banners in preparation for one last resounding proclamation of that word of praise before we begin the season of Lent. At the end of the service, as we have done in the past few years, we’ll bury the Alleluias outside,  and refrain from uttering  that word until the joyful good news of Easter morning. While the ground is frozen solid, there is plenty of snow this year in which to bury those banners.

Burying the Alleluias for Lent 

Even if we were not about to enter into Lent, “Alleluia’ is certainly not the first word on many people’s lips as they hear the next forecast. Given the weather this winter, we may already feel like we have entered into a wilderness time of sorts – one not defined by desert and dryness, but rather by insurmountable snowbanks and more moisture yet to come.

Even if the weather has not brought us to such a place, Lent is a season of taking ourselves quite intentionally to uncomfortable places: examining our lives, letting go of habits and practices that diminish us or others, hearing the call to repentance and turning, as we hear on Sunday, both heart and mind toward God.  It is not so much about burying our joy, but about making room for the possibility of greater joy: the full life which Christ offers to us and to which the Spirit leads us.

I sometimes tell the children that when we bury the Alleluia, it is a little like holding our breath until we can shout it out again on Easter morning. That is true, but Lent is also about letting go, breathing more fully, and opening ourselves to all that God is doing in our lives.

So, come bury a word this Sunday. And then, on Ash Wednesday and beyond, open yourself to the life that God is creating in you, a life that will lead to Easter joy.

Faithfully,

Tom

Dear Friends,

The “historic” blizzard is behind us, and most of us are resuming our regular schedules, albeit with a few sore backs from shoveling.

Children delight in the accumulating piles of white, of course, but we all know that winter storms like this cause great inconvenience, threaten the safety and health of many, and can have a significant impact on countless businesses. Schedules are rearranged, appointments are cancelled, and we stock up on supplies in case the power goes out. Hardly circumstances that we welcome.

If a storm such as this causes disruption however, it also brings a reminder of how much we take for granted, and how easily we are tempted to believe that we are somehow in control of our lives. How many times, when the power has gone off, do you still instinctively reach for the light switch when entering a room, only to remember that there is no electricity there at your fingertips?

My first year out of college, when I was teaching school in Vermont, I lived in a house without indoor plumbing and heated only by two small and inefficient woodstoves. There was, at least, electricity. At the time it was an adventure and a bracing challenge, particularly as winter descended. But I confess that I grew weary in February of returning home in the late afternoon to a very cold house where the fires had long since died in the woodstoves. One afternoon, I even discovered a thin crust of ice forming in my cat’s water dish. The cat never complained.

Ultimately, it was a profoundly rewarding year. Water was not something to turn on and off whenever I wanted, but a precious commodity carried into the house daily from the spring outside, then carefully dispensed for washing and drinking. I had a much closer connection to the source of my heat, as filling the wood box and chopping wood for kindling became essential parts of the daily routine. For several years after that experience, I never turned up a thermostat or turned on a water faucet without reflecting on how much was required to bring those elements essential to my survival to my fingertips. That was years ago. And of course, now it is easy to let the faucet run too long. It is easier, when I am chilly, to turn up the thermostat rather than go upstairs to get a sweater. I forget.

Until a storm comes. And then I am reminded. I am reminded of how much I take for granted. I am reminded of how often I have easy and regular access to so much of what makes life not only possible, but also comfortable. I am reminded of the millions of persons for whom access to water, heat, or shelter, is a daily struggle, not a temporary inconvenience. I am reminded of all the ways I can act responsibly when the power is on and water is running. I am reminded of ways I can reorder my life, and of gifts I can give that will benefit those without the basic necessities of life. And finally, in the midst of the storm, I am grateful to God; grateful for all that I have, and even for the wind and the white snows that bring me to a place of remembering and renewed appreciation.

Faithfully,

Tom